<I’m taking my break for the month! I’ll be back on the 9th! —pirateaba>

“Hey. You know, I never asked your name. Mine’s Erin. Erin Solstice.”

She watched his eyes widen, and he inhaled sharply. He half-slouched in his seat across from her, legs astray across the stone bench, not quite looking directly at her.

“…Mine’s Russell.”

No last name. He was cautious here, because he knew everything he said was true. But still, he told her his name. The smells of another world clung to him still. He probably thought they did not; his clothing was marked by grass and dirt, and he carried a hunter’s vest and the closest thing to this world’s belt pouches she had ever seen.

But the smell of bug repellant marked him, along with the faintest odor of oil, soot, metal, the pollutants that seemed so foreign after years here. The [Gunslinger] peered up, and she thought she saw him shiver.

“I know you. You’re on the list. The Spirited Generation. You were one of the first.”

She didn’t react to the knowledge a world was seeking her. Not one twitch. Her eyes focused on Russell, and whatever he believed, whatever he thought of her—the [Innkeeper]’s next words had gooseflesh rising on his body again.

“I dreamed of Earth when I died. I remember that.”

“So death’s just like a game, like Arnie’s been saying? You can come back from it?”

“No.”

“But you said—”

“You won’t come back. I got lucky.”

That annoyed him. His already-stubborn chin jutted out, and he brushed at his short, black hair, like a nest of black chickadees crammed under a camo-pattern cap, unused to regularly seeing sunlight. His voice was gravelly until he coughed, thumped at his chest, but it still rasped with a distinct challenge as he met her eyes at last.

“If one person made it, anyone could, right?”

She didn’t blink. After a moment, the [Gunslinger] glanced down at his lap. For a weapon he didn’t carry. Not here. Erin nodded, which surprised him.

“Anyone could, that’s true. But don’t count on it, Russell. It’s the chance of a lifetime, like winning the lottery. Don’t count on that.”

Russell’s head rose again, and she sat there, hands folded in her lap. After a second, he ducked his head once more.

“Right, that makes sense.”

Sorry. He didn’t quite get the word out. Not sure if he should say it, and then—the moment was gone. It lingered on his tongue, and then the real question floated in his mind.

How’d you die? How’d you come back? But he found it so hard to ask, so he studied her instead. Wariness, excitement, annoyance—he’d been flitting through emotions. And again, his perception of her changed. The hair he’d thought was dyed and annoying, like Honarai’s bright, stylish demeanor…

No, that wasn’t a dye. He saw more scars every time he looked up. Ear, neck, hands, ones he hadn’t even recognized as scars. A faded cut along one cheek, a gash up her arm, and those were the ones he could see.

Something was…off about some of her teeth. They looked sharper than usual. Everything she was made his heart beat faster in excitement and also—wariness. This was no dream. Not that he’d woken from it for…

“How long have you been here?”

“About a week and a half.”

“So short.”

“How long’ve you been here?”

He knew the answer. Ten years. Ten years—his skin was crawling, waiting for her to say—

“Two years and a bit, I think.”

He blinked and blurted out.

“Impossible. It’s been ten years! But you—”

He realized something.

“You look like your pictures. Well, sort of—you don’t look old enough.”

Not by far. And she took the news about how long it had been, barely blinked. Like a war vet, he thought. Took a blow on her chin and just stood up and kept going, all adrenaline. Her scars.

What the hell did they do to her? Erin Solstice blinked once, and that was it. As if she’d known time had passed and the rest was just mildly unpleasant. One more wound on the pile.

“Time’s different here, Russell. So it’s been ten years back home? Did they elect Jeb Bush as president?”

The first laugh of the conversation burst out of Russell, full of incredulity.

“…What? No, no—you thought he—how’d you know that? It was—”

Then he hesitated, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to get into politics with her. He’d already engaged with Chester once on that and regretted it. Never get to talking about politics with clients. Rule of his job from home. Just smile and agree to anything stupid she said. But Erin just tilted her head.

“I guess that was the lie in the dream. Nevermind.”

“When you were dead.”

“Yep. Sorry. I know this is all confusing, Russell. Just—let me tell you what’s important, in case we run out of time.”

She was yawning, and he sat forwards, hunching, wishing he had notes. There was a notepad on the chess board across from him, and a pencil. He blinked at it. That hadn’t been there—

When he glanced up, the hazel eyes caught him again, and she was smiling.

“I was told you’re a dangerous guy, Russell. Not a bad guy, but someone I should meet. I get why. You’re the only [Gunslinger] I’ve ever met. You might be one of the only Earthers armed. You’ve got the class—what level? Until you’re Level 30, you’ll be in danger, gun or not.”

One of the only Earthers with a gun? Really? He was skeptical about that—someone had to have been carrying. But it made him smile.

“Level 14.”

“So soon. In just a week and a half?”

“No, I got it when I landed.”

“You did?”

Another exchange, and he faltered.

“You didn’t get a class?”

“It didn’t work like that when I arrived or for anyone I know. The rules are changing. Good. Tell me—when you got your class, [Gunslinger], was it green?”

“Green? No…classes can be colors?”

She was staring past him.

“So there’s at least one other person. Green means ‘new’. Red’s bad. Gold is royalty, purple’s law or something—I don’t know all the rules.”

“Is there a book? A…manual? Like in a video game or something? I’ve never played ‘em, but we have an ‘expert’.”

His mouth wrinkled up at that, head swivelling for somewhere to spit, but this was all too grand and important to sully with that. Her lips quirked.

“No, no manual. And this is no game, Russell. So you are armed.”

“Yep.”

Did she want one of his weapons like the others? Or did she have some kind of plan? His guard went up again, but she kept undermining his suspicions. As if she could read him like an open book.

“Keep them hidden no matter what. If people see you have them or what they can do, they’ll take them from you.”

“No fear. None of them are leaving my side.”

She leaned forwards, and this time, he had to take her seriously. The pressure she exerted meant she wasn’t an idiot running her mouth, a know-it-all gazing down on him. The scars…he’d seen terrible hunting accident scars, wounds from accidental discharges. Even a man who’d been mauled by a bear. Never anything quite like that.

“They’ll take them from you, Russell. There are armies, [Assassins], [Thieves] who can steal the dreams from your sleep. Keep them hidden. There are things in this world you can’t shoot dead. Got it?”

A slower nod. Then her face wrinkled up as she yawned, and she became a person again.

“Wait. Did you just imply you’ve got guns plural?”

“Yep.”

He grinned. She eyed him.

“What kind?”

She didn’t seem to know firearms at all, so he said it in the simplest way she’d get.

“Revolver, shotgun, .308 bolt action.”

“That’s a lotta guns. What, do you collect them or something? How did you have three on you when you got here?”

His brows rose.

“I was on a hunting trip.”

She gave him a sharp look, then her lips quirked up. Russell had to ask.

“Who told you I was dangerous?”

“My Skill. You may well be the most well-armed Earther in the world, Russell. [Gunslinger] indeed. Now, tell me where you are. Which species have you been seeing?”

“…None? Just the others I arrived with. There’s four of ‘em and me.”

She frowned.

“Landmarks?”

“I don’t see much. Hills north of here. Maybe some mountains far, far off east, assuming the sun rises and sets like it does back home. The grass’s yellow. There was a tower we passed a few days ago, but it made my head ring. [Dangersense], I think.”

“Yellow grass…I don’t know that. Chandrar? Alright, then when you get to civilization, this is what I’d do. I’ll contact you as often as I can, but I might be busy or missing.”

She appeared sick. He nodded as he picked up the pencil and began to crib notes in an untidy scrawl.

“Wish my phone were working. Do I get to keep this?”

He waved the notepad at her and saw, for a second, her eyes light up with mischief and wonder. He eyed her and she grinned.

“Right. There’s so much I have to tell you. You can recharge your phone, but you’ll need a [Mage] for that…”

Then he was grinning too. She was everything he wanted this world to be.

The others…not so much. That had been a while ago. Before one of the moons cracked.

——

He had a feeling he was missing something. Well, a lot of things. Russell T. Morgan wished Erin Solstice would summon him to her mysterious gazebo-thing again, but she’d said she couldn’t check on him all the time.

Maybe she was busy as she said, or the moon cracking meant something big was happening. He didn’t like that.

Russell felt like he was behind, and he hadn’t even seen a single other person aside from his companions and Erin Solstice. But when you peered up and saw the moon crack like it was a piece of glass in the sky, well…

It made him pick up the pace until he heard complaints, and he sighed loudly. Then he turned his head, and the yellow grass he was trudging through, with yellow beetles, strange creatures bounding around, all the things he longed to go out and explore, was replaced by too-familiar ire.

Here he was in another world and he was doing his job again. Escorting idiots. Russell trudged back through the grass, his long boots and mud-green pants scattering midges and beetles, even a black lizard which went scurrying away. He stared at the orange, glowing bands on its side.

Most beautiful damn lizard I’ve seen in my life. He’d have caught it in a heartbeat and taken it to some scientist or the zoo back home, dropped everything to grab it because it was magic.

Here? It was one in a thousand, and he’d still have gone tearing after the lizard except that he was afraid his ‘team’ would wander off or get themselves hurt while he was gone.

Also—he was a bit weighed down. Russell had his long rifle on his back, shotgun in his hands, and revolver at his hip. A lotta metal, let alone the ammunition in the magazines in his vest, belt, and backpack.

He wished he were twice as heavy. If he was back home and known that he’d be here, tomorrow, he’d have bought up everything he could lay his hands on. And taken his pickup truck. And brought his .45 carbine. Which would have been complete and utter overkill for this trip, but in hindsight…

Well, the others didn’t have a single weapon between them, not even a knife, so Russell considered himself lucky enough. He hadn’t even put down his pack; he’d come with a tent, bedroll, and necessities all stuffed into the huge pack that he was having Chester carry.

Actually, again, not that fair; Honarai had a stun gun. But as ‘guns’ went, well…Russell would trust what he had before he relied on the others for anything. Especially because, and he wanted to ask Erin about this the next time they met—

Was there somewhere he could leave this lot? Or a way to get more directions? She’d told him to find civilization, but it seemed like they were really out in the boonies, even by his standards. Then again, no cars…and they were not marching fast.

“Hey, we’ve got to keep moving. What’s with the stop?”

He approached the four people sitting around in the tall grass. One of them was sitting on his pack—which made Russell’s eye twitch. The tallest among them, Chester, called over casually.

“Lenora’s got bugs in her sandals. They’re biting her.”

“Okay, but let’s keep moving, huh?”

Russell couldn’t argue with that, but he was impatient, and Chester gave him a smile.

“Give us one second, Russell, huh?”

Russell didn’t like Chester. Well, to be fair, he wasn’t sure he liked Honarai, Arnie, or Lenora either. They’d all appeared more or less together; he’d seen Honarai land within sight of him, and the rest had all heard him firing a shot and come this way.

Each one from a different part of America, even if Lenora wasn’t actually American. Which, he supposed, meant they were all on the same side, if it wasn’t all just Team Earth. Erin hadn’t said anything about a headquarters or something.

There had to be someone from the army, right? Even if it was only people around Erin’s age. Not that Russell was planning on necessarily joining the military if they were forming one here; good way to come back with too many war stories and looking like you’d been through hell. But any group from Earth could use an explorer, someone who was a good shot and knew bushcraft, right?

That was him. Russell felt, strongly, that he was useful. And he knew he was indispensable to the survival of this team—but he rather disliked being so vital right now.

Lenora was fiddling with her sandals again, and he got it, really. If he’d been in his house with nothing more than a digital pen that was all plastic and useless—not even her cellphone on her—then he’d be in trouble. The sandals weren’t even hers; they’d had to make some out of some of his camping gear (the hunting blind).

He knew it was dead weight, probably, but it still made him mad to have to cut it up and then abandon it because the rest of the group claimed it was too heavy. It was well used, and he’d gotten it for sixty dollars at Home Depot, but it was his.

Anyways, the sandals were terrible, just held together with some cord, and Lenora was shaking little ants out of them. She didn’t complain, which was good of her; she was Canadian. Visiting from Toronto when she’d gotten nabbed.

He’d never been. He’d heard there was good hunting in the U.P. of Michigan and had always been meaning to take a trip when he’d saved up. Maybe even move and work up there for a change. But she was utterly unlike him.

A [Digital Artist], who did…art. Colorful cartoon animations or something like that. Kid’s shows. Her class was not useful here. None of theirs were, except maybe Arnie’s, and he…Russell cleared his throat after it looked like she’d gotten the bugs out.

“We good? Let’s get moving. We have to keep going or we’ll never get out of here.”

“C’mon, Russell, let’s take a breaaaak. We’ve all got blisters. Everyone’s tired. You go scouting or hunting or something, okay?”

Honarai was of mixed ethnicities. Latino-Asian or something, and Russell only knew that because Chester had done the group circle thing the first night to introduce everyone. Her hair was dyed half-blonde, half blue, and she was stressed because the hair dye was fading; he did not care for her.

Los Angeles, California. Exactly as opposite as she could get from Russell, or maybe that was Chester—and the weirdest class of them all, even Arnie.

[Streamer]. Which meant she was used to having a camera on her at all times, even 24/7, and filming all her life to her audience—which she didn’t have because there was no internet, no electricity, and she was very unhappy.

Chester and Arnie were the two guys along with Russell. Arnie was from Idaho, and Chester was Washington.

Arnie was a video game designer and mangaka, which meant he was in the same line of work as Lenora, though he didn’t have her class, and Chester had been an intern with his eyes on bigger things. He was an aspiring politician and had been running for local office when he’d been grabbed.

So, [Candidate] and [Martial Artist]/[Transmigrator]—Arnie knew martial arts and apparently knew what was going on. Though he mostly seemed gassed for someone with such a powerful sounding class.

They were all sweating, including Russell, but he jerked his head.

“No time to rest. We’ve got to keep walking.”

“Why don’t we take five, Russell? Huh?”

Chester loved doing compromises. Russell glowered.

“We’re barely doing ten miles a day. If we’re as far from civilization as I think, we’re going to be in trouble soon.”

“What’s the problem? You can just keep hunting. Lenora’s the one who’s going to starve if we run out of your ration bars.”

That was Arnie. He was wiping his forehead with Russell’s hand towel—another moment of irritation from the [Gunslinger]. Lenora flinched, and glanced guiltily at Russell; Chester’s voice was soothing.

“Let’s not worry about that right now. What do you think, Russell? See anything worth checking out?”

Russell shot back, annoyed.

“I’m not hunting anything now. It’ll attract too many bugs and potentially something after the blood. Five minutes, then.”

He strode away from the group so he didn’t have to make any small talk. Honarai began chattering behind him.

“Right, so, I was thinking. Maybe if we were all teleported here, it’s like a game. Someone could be watching us, you know, Hunger Games style? What if we’re getting points?”

“No one told us if we were, Honarai.”

“Right, but is it weird if I start talking to the screen? There could be cameras…”

Russell walked until he was staring out across the grasslands. He wished he had binoculars. There were distant blotches on the land he suspected were forests or…something. He longed to keep moving.

I should be out there! He could have gone at least five miles further, even with his pack, but for this lot.

‘The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed.’ The first line of The Dark Tower by Stephen King, one of Russell’s favorite books. Or, when he turned his head and stared at those distant mountains, that Erin had thought might be the High Passes…

They had to be truly massive if he could see them this far away.

‘Far over the misty mountains, cold…’, The Hobbit. He really hadn’t liked those movies. The book was better, but that song had captured the feeling he wanted to follow.

Stories.

Russell might not know what was going on, nor was he familiar with being ‘isekaied’, a thing that Arnie assured him was what was going on with them—being taken to another world—but Russell did know stories.

Just not video games. Movies, books, sometimes television shows, but mostly the former two. He could get back and watch a movie on his beat-up sofa or take a book with him when working and read it before sleeping. He was used to having his phone die on him and needing to keep it off unless he had to call someone; he’d been meaning to buy a rechargeable power bank, but he had a system.

He was used to physical labor, too, unlike the others. Chester had just graduated and was going into politics, so he was campaigning. Lenora had a job even if she worked from home, and Arnie was a game designer, but he hadn’t finished any games—or mangas—and Honarai’s job was apparently playing video games or doing anything she wanted while people watched.

What it all meant was that none of them were ready for this but Russell, and so when they finally got up and began trudging along, he felt put upon.

By their suggestions as much as anything else.

——

“Holy crap, that’s a deer! Russell, Russell! Shoot it!”

Arnie pointed, and Russell eyed the deer with impressive antlers, grazing on the grass with evident delight. He grunted.

“Nope.”

“What? It’s meat for, like, a week!”

“More like weeks. We can’t haul it, and it’ll spoil without any way to preserve it.”

“Oh, but—”

“Stay away from it. It looks like an oversized buck or something. I don’t like those horns.”

That was for Honarai, who’d begun making a beeline for it. She protested.

“What? C’mon, it seems so friendly.”

Russell gave her an incredulous look.

“It’ll gore you. We don’t know what kind of species it is; it’s not like any deer I’ve ever seen.”

The horns were more complex and thicker than he was used to, and the animal was rather big. Well-fed. Honarai hesitated.

“There are deer in Japan that eat out of your hand, you know.”

“Right, and there are moose that will kill you the moment they see you.”

“Moose? Really?”

“Yep, in Alaska. Nothing scarier. I’d probably rather run into a bear than a moose.”

They laughed at that, like it was a joke. Which annoyed Russell because—moose killed people. They were famous for being dangerous and angry as shit. If he had his rifle ready to go and was in position and a moose walked up on him, he’d still shit bricks if he had to shoot it before it got him.

“C’mon. If it charges, I don’t know if I can take it down even if I hit it.”

Better switch to the Winchester just in case. Russell switched the hunting shotgun out for the longer rifle on his back and eyed the deer as it kept munching. If it did charge, fire once, drop the rifle, draw his revolver, and hope he killed it.

—Oh, right. And use his Skills. Did he have to shout them each time?

[Stabilize Aim], [Quick Swap Weapons (Guns)], [Reduced Recoil]—a bunch of ‘Skills’ for a gunslinger. Which he liked; he could change weapons very quickly, despite the cumbersome harness he’d rigged up to carry all three firearms, and he felt like he was on the top of his game with his shots.

Not that he’d done more than shoot eight rounds so far.

One from the Winchester, four from the hunting shotgun, three revolver rounds. He was counting. He’d been on a hunting trip when he’d been taken and been damn lucky to be holding everything while porting over to his camp, but that was still not a lot.

Not for this. Each time he fired, he was down one more. Each shot required thought and concentration. No wasting even a single bullet. No missing.

There’s not exactly a way to resupply my ammunition. He was stressing about that already. So, when Chester brought the suggestion up again, he got a snappy response.

“If you’re worried about getting attacked, what if you taught us how to use—”

“No.”

“Dude, you’ve got three guns. We need to protect ourselves!”

Arnie protested, and Russell took a breath.

“You don’t know how to use them. None of you have ever shot a gun before.”

“I have in self-defense training.”

“Do you know how to maintain a gun?”

Chester hesitated, and Russell just bet he’d sent a bunch of rounds downrange at a target. Maybe he had taken more than one or two lessons, but Russell wouldn’t trust Chester to have good firearms discipline.

“Just give us one and we’ll get the [Gunslinger] class. A bit of practice and we’ll back you up. I’ll take the revolver.”

You’ll take my revolver out of my cold, dead hands. Russell glared at Arnie.

“I don’t have ammunition for practice.”

“Well, what if one of us holds the gun and we are taught how to fire it, just in case? C’mon, let’s vote on it.”

“This isn’t a vote!”

“Pwease?”

Honarai made a face at him, and he blinked. For a moment, his resolve wavered, and he almost agreed before he realized—

“You’re using a Skill on me! Stop it!”

“Darn. That’s an ‘L’.”

She made a face, and Russell got madder. Chester raised his hands.

“Okay, no using Skills on anyone else. Which one was that, Honarai?”

“[Charming Appeal].”

“How many do you have?”

“Um…at least ten? I’m Level 18.”

And she was higher-level than he was. Russell growled and stomped on, but he felt like they had a point.

What if something jumps me and I need backup? 

——

At midday, he tried to teach them how to at least cover him. He unslung his shotgun.

“This one has a wide spread, so never, ever point it even in the direction of one of us, got it? I’m going to show you how to take the safety off.”

“I know how to use a gun.”

Arnie didn’t seem like he did, and he swung the gun around, nearly aimed it straight at Lenora and Chester, who both flinched, and that was that.

Russell grabbed the shotgun back instantly, palms sweaty.

“Alright, forget it.”

“What? C’mon—”

“You never point a gun at someone, ever!”

Russell shouted at Arnie, and the young man backed up, raising his hands. Russell holstered the shotgun and stormed off.

It only occurred to him, later, that Chester might have had a role in Russell even trying to teach the others how to use a gun—he also had Skills that apparently worked like that. Had he used them? Either way, Russell didn’t trust them. He stopped only once to fire the shotgun; at a large, winged swan with blue along its neck and a beautiful crest.

It was such a lovely bird he admired it through the scope for half a minute until he saw its head come up. Then he fired; its head vanished, and he heard a sound.

Lenora, from behind him. She was gazing the other way as he trudged over and bent down to check his kill. Enough, he hoped, for lunch and dinner.

Not for her, though.

She was vegetarian.

——

Food would be an issue for Lenora soon, but eating just meat wasn’t going to do anyone any favors either. At least they had a fire. If anything, not burning down the tall yellow grass was an issue; they had to find a clear spot of ground, then they made a grass fire with a huge mound of the grass, and Russell had to cook the goose—fast.

None of them were exactly good at cooking, either. Lenora munched on a rations bar with every sign of distaste as Russell ate the cooked meat, burning his fingers on it.

Damn it was good, even if there weren’t any seasonings! With some…with more utensils, since he only had one plate and utensils they traded turns using, he’d be eating like a king out here.

Then they continued. That night, Russell checked his shotgun, cleaning it with a little brush, and he resolved to clean the bore and re-oil it tomorrow. It had rained twice so far, and he was paranoid about that too. If need be, he’d disassemble both guns and store them in the pack to keep them from rusting.

“Hey, Russell. Do you think there’s anyone out here?”

“Erin said we’d run into civilization if those’re the High Passes. We’re just too far out from…Drake cities.”

Everyone listened hungrily to him, and Chester stretched out by their little fire. Honarai and Lenora were preparing to sleep in the tent; they got it for privacy.

“You haven’t had another visit? When you do—”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell her to contact all of you.”

Russell wished he could have another word with her, but what she’d told him about the world was fascinating. Arnie perked up; he’d been picking at his popped blisters.

“Drakes. Related to Dragons. So there’s an entire species of them—and Gnolls?”

“Yep.”

“I know them. And half-Elves. We should make contact with them as soon as possible. Then we can start trading our knowledge with them.”

“Yeah? And what do we have, aside from being able to hunt for meat?”

Unless he found more ammunition, that wasn’t a long-term, viable strategy. But Arnie gave Russell a look like he was crazy.

“We invent things from Earth, obviously. We can make tons of stuff. Bicycles, mayonnaise, hair conditioner—”

“You know how to make all that?”

Russell was impressed, and Arnie hesitated.

“It’s standard in stories. You use egg whites, I think. For both mayonnaise and hair conditioner.”

“…Wouldn’t they have figured that out?”

“Not in a fantasy story. And we’ll make more bullets for you as well. I know how to make gunpowder. It’s bat guano, charcoal, sulfur, and, uh…salt, I think.”

Russell opened his mouth and closed it. Arnie was chock full of knowledge, which was impressive, but Russell just frowned.

“That won’t work.”

“Really? Why not?”

Chester frowned at Russell, and the [Gunslinger] incredulously hefted his gun.

“Even if we made gunpowder, that’s not a bullet. This uses a .308 rifle cartridge. It needs primer, a casing—you’d need a factory.”

Or a home setup with tons of tools he didn’t have. Actually, Russell had been picking up the casings of each bullet he shot, even the shotgun cartridges, in hopes he could do something with them, but what would actual gunpowder get him?

Some kind of black powder cartridge that would either blow up my rifle or just be unpredictable as hell. He shuddered at the thought. Arnie hesitated.

“—Well, we’ll make a musket then.”

“A musket. Like, a civil-war era musket?”

“Why not? We can mass-produce them.”

Russell stretched out next to the fire and peered up at the sky.

“Good luck with that.”

Undeterred, Arnie began to talk about the other inventions they could make with Chester, like a windmill, printing press, soap—just ash and grease, apparently—crop rotation, and so on. Russell wondered how fantasy this world was.

——

“Is Arnie talking about things he’s gonna invent when we get to civilization again?”

In the tent, Lenora and Honarai were listening to the boys talk. Honarai was fiddling with her smartphone.

“Yep. Chat, he’s sort of cringe, right?”

She half-turned to a camera, and her face fell. It was genuinely a reflexive action, and Lenora shook her head.

“I don’t think making any of that is easy.”

Honarai rolled her eyes.

“Not what he’s going to make. Any real conditioner is going to have an emollient, preservative, emulsifier—if everyone doesn’t even have basic conditioner or shampoo, they’re going to be disgusting. You can probably make some with some shea butter, water, coconut oil—and an avocado and honey? But how do you emulsify it and rinse it out?”

She knew hair, it seemed, and distractedly fished for something.

“At least I’m not running out of makeup. Hair dye, yes. Do you think I’ll get a Skill for that?”

“You have a Skill for your makeup?”

“Sure. [Refill Makeup Kit]. It only worked once, though, so maybe it’s like a weekly thing?”

Lenora knew her Skills and class were not suited for this place, but she turned to Honarai.

“Do you think we need different classes, Hona? Russell’s the only one with a gun.”

“He’s a grump. Once we meet people, we’ll do better. All he does is complain.”

It was true that Russell wasn’t exactly friendly, but he’d been hunting to keep them all fed. Still, he did order them around and refused to let anyone so much as touch his guns or do more than carry his pack. They were talking outside, and the two young women left their tent a moment to sit by the fire.

“So what’ll you do once we find civilization or other people? I’m going to cultivate my inner energy as soon as I can find a manuscript.”

“…A manuscript on what, Arnie?”

Arnie paused.

“Cultivation. And I’m going to call myself another name, for this world. Something for people to know me by. Ala’bon.”

It—Lenora had to halt and turn her head, and Honarai bit her lip as they approached the fire. They saw Chester’s face go blank, but Russell didn’t bother with any of that. He just started laughing.

“That’s a stupid name!”

Arnie stood up abruptly and stalked away from the fire. Russell stopped laughing as Honrarai shot him a glance.

“Dude.”

“What? That’s the dumbest name I’ve heard.”

“There’s no need for you to be a dick about everything.”

Russell sat up and growled.

“Who’s being a dick? He’s not done anything—he doesn’t even haul the bag or set up the tent, and he just talks about cultivating his inner qi. I haven’t seen him use a single Skill! Even Chester has [Pitch In], and he can help!”

“Yeah, but you’re still being a dick about—”

Chester put out a hand, forestalling another argument.

“We’re all having a hard time. I think it’s difficult for Arnie to hear someone laugh at him, isn’t it, Russell? And it’s true he’s talking a lot, but we’re all far from home, so why don’t we just relax?”

The comment made Russell hesitate, and he sat back as Honarai nodded. Then both eyed Chester.

“Was that a Skill?”

“No. Just teamwork training.”

He appeared quite pleased with himself as Lenora changed the subject.

“Let’s say this is a fantasy world. That’s what you were told, right, Russell?”

Everyone listened again about this woman he’d met, and even Arnie stopped fussing with a sleeping bag and turned his head. Russell stared into the night.

“Yes. Magic weapons and swords and plate armor—nothing more advanced. Magic, though. Lots of magic.”

“I could be a [Mage]! Chat, that’s so—kek.”

Honarai sighed, and Chester sat forwards.

“Lots of species, though. Didn’t she tell you the north was all Humans and we might be distrusted for being in Drake lands?”

“Mhm. Sounds like there are sides. She didn’t say much except not to mention her name—sounds like she’s on someone’s bad side. It seemed like it.”

Russell’s hand moved towards his waist. He didn’t rest a hand on his revolver, just on his belt, but Lenora glanced at it.

“Are you going to fight?”

They all eyed him, and he blinked.

“Fight? I don’t even know if there are sides. We’re all on Earth’s side, right?”

Everyone but Arnie chorused agreement, and Russell went on.

“I’ve got as many rounds as I carried here. Wish I’d brought some open tips for my rifle. Heavier grain.”

“That’s…a different bullet?”

“Mhm. Open Tip Match—good if I was shooting at long range. I just have hunting ammunition.”

He hefted the rifle and let Lenora inspect it. It made her uneasy, and she handed it to Honarai, who nearly tried to peer down the barrel before hesitating.

“Is this unloaded?”

“Yep, but don’t do that in general.”

She did it anyways, frowning.

“Why’s there a spiral in the gun?”

“Rifling. So the bullet spins?”

Again, he gave them all that incredulous expression like they were idiots, and he didn’t seem to realize how obvious it was at times how little he respected them. But then again, they hadn’t done much. Lenora massaged her aching feet, and Chester frowned.

“So you’ve got a gun, which no one else in this world has—or only a few people. And that could change the course of a war. Like…a fantasy. Imagine being in—in Lord of the Rings and having a gun. Did you ever want to be that guy?”

Russell blinked at Chester.

“What? No. Just shoot my way though the Ringwraiths? I never dreamed of…”

He stared into the fire.

“I like old Westerns too. I usually buy DVDs on discount.”

“DVDs? Who doesn’t stream?”

“Someone who doesn’t have good internet and can’t afford a subscription.”

He retorted, and Honarai bit her lip. Lenora felt the conversation go dead again, and after a moment, Russell stared at the fire.

“…Besides, they had it in the books. The movies too.”

“What?”

“They had gunpowder in Lord of the Rings. Saruman invents it and uses it to blow a hole in Helms Deep. That’s the entire point of his armies. The Uruk-Hai are modern orcs with steel.”

Arnie had come back, and when Lenora turned to him for confirmation, he blinked. No one knew what to make of that book knowledge, but Russell just took his rifle back from Chester and began to check it for rust.

“I don’t want to be a soldier, anyways. There’s a big difference between shooting game and shooting a person.”

“But that was your job, right? Leading hunting parties in…where?”

“Virginia. There are swamps. It’s a decent living if you can work for tourists or people who want a guide.”

Honarai sat there as Russell stared into the distance.

“Hunting. Wow. How do you…I mean, do you, like, gut the animals on the spot or something? How do you get them anywhere?”

“We can skin and gut the animal, but usually you just load them up in a truck. There are people who process it.”

“So you just get a bunch of meat? Do you have to, like, salt it?”

Russell developed that too-patient tone of voice.

“No, the people who process it can do all the work. You’ll get a vacuum-sealed bag of all the good meat, Honarai. If you bag a single deer, that’s plenty of venison. There’s not much money in selling the meat, though. Sometimes, I just lead tourists who want to collect trophies.”

He grimaced.

“Anyways, I just do that for money. My turn. How big a streamer were you?”

“Um—you’ve never heard of me?”

Everyone else knew Honarai, and her face fell when Russell shook his head. She casually shrugged.

“I don’t know, I did okay. I had sixty thousand regular viewers on my streams.”

“…Is that a lot?”

“I was top five most-watched streamers in the world!”

“Huh. Does that pay well?”

Yes, absolutely. If Lenora was any judge, she bet Honarai was a millionaire. As for Chester—he had been winning a race to be one of the youngest members of his state’s House of Representatives. Lenora didn’t know if she had any big claims to her name—she had won an artist of the year award for her debut comic, but she hadn’t hit financial success.

And Arnie…Russell listened to Honarai talking about her metrics and collaborations with other streamers, and when she mentioned being in several commercials, it seemed to click. He kept inspecting his rifle until Chester interrupted.

“There’s a pattern in the Spirited Generation. Most people who get spirited tend to be good at something, even if they’re not the best. Like we’ve lost an Olympic rower, a tennis champion, an International Master at chess—”

“—the world’s best streamer—”

Russell rolled his eyes.

“And there are ordinary people too. I’m just a hunter.”

“You’re a pretty darn good shot. I’ve only seen you shoot once at your targets. I’m pretty sure that’s good, isn’t it?”

Lenora’s quiet observation made Russell pause and grin in satisfaction. He nodded after a moment.

“I’ve never competed or anything, but I guess I’m decent. I’ve been hunting since I was a kid. My dad taught me since I was…twelve?”

“You had a gun when you were twelve? Dude, that’s so irresponsible!”

Honarai exclaimed, and Lenora nudged her with a foot. Russell was glaring when Chester broke in.

“Do anything interesting on your hunts? Did you win an award?”

“No. I’m not famous or rich. I live in a trailer. I’m not—”

Russell glared again, then stared past them.

“Well, I did have to shoot a grizzly, once. It jumped us.”

“You shot a grizzly bear?”

The [Gunslinger] nodded, but he was staring into the long, dark grass around them. The wind was picking up, and the fire was going out; Chester began to stamp on it before the embers could blow.

“The last thing we need is a brushfire. How close was it?”

“Ten feet away. Snuck up on our blind. I had to shoot it dead with this.”

Russell murmured. Lenora felt her skin crawl. He had a hand on his revolver. He unholstered it, and Honarai blinked.

“Wait, like how many rounds?”

Russell didn’t reply. He sat there, then began to rise as Arnie walked over.

“I think I’ll try cultiv—aaaaaaaah!”

The creature leapt out of the grass and rushed at Honarai, both pairs of jaws open. It was long, running on all fours, and—

Lenora was screaming and grabbing for Honarai when the thunder deafened her. She flinched, and there was a jerk—the body hit the fire, and she heard another shot—then silence.

“—get back, get—”

Silence and darkness until Honarai’s stun gun flashed in the night, and then a light—a flashlight from Russell’s hand. He was aiming his smoking revolver around, then gazing down at—

Lenora stared at the beast with two mouths, both stacked vertically on top of each other. It had two tails, four eyes on each side of its head, and it resembled a long lion or something like that—its claws were very sharp, and it lay with two holes in its head and two more in its body. The last bullet had gone through its spine.

Russell stared down at the predator he’d shot and spoke into the ear-ringing silence.

“Five shots. Same as the bear.”

He sat down, took a huge breath, and then another, then stood.

“We should move the body. There might be more. C’mon. I’ll keep a lookout.”

Then they were moving. Honarai was shaking, and Lenora wondered how good a shot you had to be to fire five bullets and hit a target in the dark that fast.

The most dangerous Earther willing to listen to Erin Solstice kept staring down at the animal he’d shot. Excitement and fear combined into heart-pumping adrenaline was turning into sludge in his veins as it faded, but he stood there a second and shook his head in wonderment.

Clearly, he loved this world. But Lenora wasn’t sure the world was ready for him.

[Gunslinger Level 15!]

[Skill – Mitigate Hearing Damage Obtained!]

——

Aside from that one level in the encounter with the Two-Jawed Plains Hunter—Russell didn’t level once in their journeys.

Everyone else did, and that, more than anything, seemed to annoy him.

“Turns out that [Candidate] levels from keeping everyone together.”

Chester was a natural leader-type. Big smile, handshake you could use to anchor a boat with, handsome—and Honarai had exactly the opposite type of charisma.

“I can’t level [Streamer] until I get something to stream with—but I did get [Tech Girl]. See?”

She’d taken some of her own possessions, which were all devoted to streaming, and combined a selfie-stick as well as a bunch of cord and her stungun to create…a stungun spear. If she held the trigger down, it became a temporary spear she seemed willing to jab someone with. Her close-call with the monster had galvanized her.

Lenora, by contrast, was too afraid to do anything so violent, but she’d levelled twice as an [Artist]. Which amazed everyone because she didn’t even have a sketchpad.

“I’ve just been drawing with this. [Inkless Pen].”

She produced the digital pen and scribbled on her arm. Having no other canvas, she’d done a likeness of the monster that Russell had killed, and it was scarily good. If they’d been back home, she’d have made amazing art for Ala’bon’s story, The Hand of Destiny.

Not that he’d gotten it started yet, but Arnold de Grasse, Arnie, or Ala’bon as he had decided to call himself, just hadn’t found the right artist. He could have finished the scripts and made the best manga ever if he’d had someone like Lenora around.

The day after the monster attack, everyone was all over Russell, which…fair. He was even persuaded to show Chester how to aim the shotgun, but didn’t let him do more than undo the safety.

“If you need to reload it, we’re in trouble. Don’t fire it unless I tell you to, got it?”

Which meant they gave Arnie the pack. Which was damn heavy, but Arnie could manage the weight. In truth, he felt a bit…embarrassed.

Not because Russell had been the hero yesterday; he’d had a gun, obviously. But Arnie hadn’t had a chance to unveil his Skills.

He’d lied to them, you see. It was a classic move when you didn’t know if you could trust your allies. Arnie had told them he was a [Martial Artist] and he had taken classes, but the truth was, he wasn’t a [Transmigrator] either. He had every intention of learning cultivation and magic if they were available—that was just common sense. But he had been chosen, and when the moment came, he’d use his Skills.

After all, he was a [Hero]. He was low-level, only Level 6—for now—but he had [Increased Stat Gain] and [Hidden Potential]. He’d been Level 5 last night, but surviving that encounter had awarded him experience.

The weight of the pack was just…training. He marched under the sun, panting, as he steadied his emotions and began to refine his body. The first ten levels were set up. Another night of laboring like that?

[Hero Level 7!]

[Skill – Strength Enhancement (Gradual) Obtained!]

He slept well indeed.

That was how their journey went, day after day. With Russell to hunt for them, they were still doing well, even if they had no toothpaste and the rough travel was getting to them. Lenora was running out of ration bars and appeared quite hungry. Ala’bon resolved to seek out some wild vegetables or something to resolve her issues.

Once he hit Level 10, he thought a movement Skill or something would allow him to efficiently scout this area and get ahead. Then he could power-level to 20, and if they hadn’t stabbed him in the back, he’d take care of this group. Russell seemed useful, and Honarai could be a valuable relations expert, as could Chester. He just had to keep levelling.

[Hero Level 8]!

——

The monster attack was crazy. Honarai didn’t sleep well that night or the next one, which sucked when they were having to march all day in the endless grasslands. At first, everyone loved Russell.

He’d shot a giant lion-thing dead just like that! Pure action hero movie stuff. So you’d think they’d all love him and it was great after that, right?

Wrong. They started fighting—again—the next day after everyone stopped being happy, ‘Russell’s so awesome’.

It was about the guns. It was always about the guns.

They tried to convince Russell to let them carry his firearms, even Lenora. He refused.

“No. Not happening. None of you have practice. I showed you how to aim and shoot; if we see trouble, I’ll hand one to you. Otherwise, they stay on me.”

“Russell, come on, now you’re being unreasonable. After the monster attack? You walked me through how to aim and shoot them responsibly! I’ll carry one; that’ll help you as well. Let’s be reasonable now.”

Honarai listened to Chester trying to work on Russell. Even the charming [Candidate] was having a hard time with Fort Russell, which was Honarai’s nickname for him in her head.

He was just…stubborn. Nice guy, in a way. He was this country dude who had way less muscles than a gym-bro, but he just kept going when anyone else from home would have probably flopped onto a couch with a protein shake or something.

However—Honarai turned up the wireless earbuds to block out the argument as it got louder.

“Come on, Russell! It nearly ate me!”

That was Arnie. He went for a grab, and Russell yanked his shotgun back.

“Try to grab my gun again and I’ll deck you.”

Arnie retreated, hands up, but Chester stood there with Lenora, arguing.

“Russell, you’re being unreasonable. We need to defend ourselves. If something gets you, what happens then? If you give just one person your shotgun, we can stand watch. If two of those things came at us and we were armed—”

“You’d miss.”

Oh, that was it. Honarai bobbed her head to the tunes she was listening to. She didn’t like conflict, and she was using a Skill.

[Trickle Charge: Walking].

Skills were awesome, though this one was sort of lame—unless you were stranded without electricity. In which case? Awesome.

She was a [Tech Girl], which was sweet. She had a bunch of Skills. Blew her mind.

[Carefree Stroll]. Made her feet hurt less and stopped her getting horrible blisters even though her feet were tough after so long out here.

[Extra Nutrition: Meat]. That one kept her from, like, dying of scurvy, she assumed. So much meat made her feel ill, but you got what you got.

[Energetic Voice]—that was good for pepping people up. No one knew she had it.

She loved all her Skills, really. But none of it was, like, magic. Like her [Streamer] class. That had some Skills that sounded amaze.

Like, like, [Spectacular Presence] and [Don’t Miss A Moment] and [Interact: Viewership]! It sounded like everything she was. Something that’d make streaming even more awesome. But she didn’t have an internet connection, so…was she useless?

Honarai didn’t know. She saw Russell slap down Chester’s hand.

“Knowing how to aim and shoot doesn’t mean I’m giving you—you will miss. I don’t have the ammunition to waste!”

Got it, he was talking about his bullets. Honarai didn’t do guns. She knew they were necessary, and she sort of agreed they should use them, but she understood Russell’s point.

“I’m used to shooting. I’ve hunted before, I’ve competed in competitions, and I’ve practiced for thousands of hours. You’ve had fifteen minutes pointing. You won’t hit anything coming at you unless it’s slow. And what I’m worried about is you hitting someone else in a panic, or wasting shots.”

All about the ammo with Russell. Just like how Honarai checked the charge of all her devices on her phone and decided she had to take her earbuds out to recharge. She got that, but she still thought they deserved to be able to defend themselves.

Here was the thing: she and Chester had the same sort of…class. He was a [Candidate], and he was good at making everyone work together. You sort of looked up to Chester if you talked to him long enough.

Honarai got that because she was a [Streamer]. Game recognized game. Streaming was all about popularity, getting attention, and reading the room. Not like how Chester did it—he was way more professional and political. But she thought she was better at reading people than he was.

Honarai could tell…Russell would give them a gun when California froze over. He’d do it, but it’d be when he thought they needed it. Not before.

But Arnie and Chester really didn’t like that. Both of them wanted a gun. Arnie squared up.

“Hey, man, you’ve been giving us lots of orders, but we’re all a team here. Even if you got to talking with that weird [Innkeeper], you’d better share.”

“My firearms. Or what?”

“Or…there are four of us and one of you.”

“Is that a threat?”

Russell didn’t do that thing where he bared the revolver on his hip. He just glanced at Arnie as if he was considering belting the shorter guy across the face. Correction: Honarai could somehow tell he was thinking about just that.

[Check Vibes]. Not good. And she sensed Arnie…

He backed up behind Chester, fast.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

Russell glared around, and Lenora avoided his gaze, Chester began speaking, and Arnie glared. He turned to Honarai, and she…

“What was that? Hey, anyone want to borrow my iPhone? It’s charged up again.”

—Pretended she hadn’t heard. Russell stared at her and then snorted, but Arnie instantly went to borrow it. She gave her earpods and phone over to Lenora since it was her turn, and that worked.

Definitely. But Chester wanted to get her to pressure Russell, and she just blew him off as she walked ahead. She didn’t like Russell’s ‘I’m the best’ attitude. But she really didn’t like Chester suggesting she could flirt with Russell to get him to be more helpful.

She wanted to find someone else. She had to believe there were cameras or some way to stream, right? Or was her class thing just—Honarai stared at the grass.

Some days out here, it sucked. It really did.

——

And some days, they stared up at the sky and cried.

Lenora was crying. Honarai’s makeup, which somehow was still on her face after so many days, was running. Arnie was blinking tears away, and Chester was wiping his sleeves.

Even Russell just…cried. Scuffing at his eyes. And gazing up—

Up.

As they stood before the setting sun. It blazed across the sky, a ball of light unlike their world’s, some kind of…of different planet. And the stars.

Oh, the stars. Lenora had seen them on the first day, multicolored, and she’d sat there, speculating about whether they meant something different in astrological terms, but she hadn’t the understanding to grasp it.

The stars at night were beautiful, forming constellations she had filled her notebook with. And the [Digital Artist] liked to imagine, yes, she had a bit more insight into color, scene, and form than most.

But everyone, absolutely everyone—could just look up in this moment and weep.

The burning sun was fading across the horizon, leaving a trail across the vision, a bright star falling, but it was that perfect time of day when the night was also present. Two moons rising higher. Green and blue.

Stars in the daytime. On Earth, it would have been a common sight, if pretty. But oh.

“The sky.”

The sky. Some kind of—of storm or something must have been shifting the sky, Lenora thought. Or maybe this was normal? Because the blue sky, which gave way to orange and vibrant red, then dark night, which she termed almost purplish at times or a blue ochre close to midnight black—

It had changed completely. A lavender slash had divided the orange sunset, and waves of fire were bathing the horizon line as the sun sank, a falling disc which brought the deeper colors to life. High above, St. Patrick’s Blue swirled, yes, swirled like a nebula unfolding amidst the warm blackness and dancing stars.

Like an artist dipping their brush in colors to draw a heaven above. Lenora was crying. If she could have brought this image home, captured even half of it—she thought someone would look at this and believe there was a god, no matter what Russell said.

Because it was so beautiful. She gazed up, and the stars became a constellation in her eyes, placed with far more deliberateness than the ones of home. Humans of her world had read into the stars’ shapes like a belt, a kite, even shapes like centaurs in the abstract stars to give meaning.

These were shapes, she knew. She looked up and a lion stared down at her, a lion-man illuminated in burning stellar lights.

“Oh. So that’s why people stargaze.”

Honarai had her phone raised, snapping pictures, taking videos, and Lenora could not begrudge her that. How would she ever, ever explain to someone how it felt?

The wind blew her hair, the grass rustled, and when she turned her head to admire the ground, she could see the wind blowing. A long pattern of flowing grass moving a mile long, flexing like a snake made of wind across the endless yellow sea.

“I could die like this. If this is as far as we go, at least I saw this. If only I could capture it.”

She had her pen in hand and was trying to draw it. But she couldn’t. Lenora blinked the tears out of her eyes, and that broke the spell. Arnie turned away.

“It’s magic. See? We’re chosen.”

Chester sighed.

“Wait till they hear about this back home. Everyone has to see this.”

Honarai just kept recording for home, that might never exist, a [Streamer] with no audience. But it was Russell who turned to Lenora, and she supposed the two of them were the best friends, at least of the group. He met her eyes and wiped at his own, then hefted the killing weapons on his shoulder.

“We’ll make it. I promise, Lenora. There’s more to see.”

She studied him and smiled. She believed he would. But they had been out here so long…she sat as little beetles flew on her notebook, and fireflies danced under the wonder of another world’s heavens.

[Digital Artist Level 15!]

[Skill – Draw My Thundering Heart Obtained!]

Oh, strange world. Oh, voice which spoke to her as if it knew her. Oh, fate.

Why did it feel like the world wanted to reward her for being her? She loved it. She feared it. Lenora curled up in their tent. Rejoicing and despairing day by day.

——

Nailren woke up after a day of riding long and listened to his horse snorting contentedly in the morning. The animal—he didn’t name most of his horses—was a strawberry roan. No warhorse; they ate too much and were too temperamental. Just a good, rugged plains horse. One of the Wild Wastes’ breeds, he thought it was.

Despite all the riding—no, perhaps because of it—the horse was happy. Even with Nailren and a pack on its back all day, it was munching on grass as it lay on its belly with every sign of enjoyment.

“You and me both.”

They loved this land. Mood was an excellent component of travel; the miles melted away the more you were enjoying things. Be in a bad mood and every second weighed upon your shoulders.

It was the grass; it had to be. Nailren plucked a yellow tuft and eyed it.

“Just how good is this?”

The roan ate the piece of grass out of his paw, which told Nailren…well, he rolled out of his little tent that was the same color as the grass. He had [Camouflaged Position]; the more he stayed in one spot, the harder it was to see him or his surroundings.

Perfect for avoiding trouble. Nailren had scored some fish from the river yesterday, and he’d tucked the fried fish in a bag covered with de-scenting oil. It still worked so well he only got a whiff of the fish when the bag opened.

“Yup, that’s got to be eaten up.”

One night was all it could take before it would spoil. Smoking it, now, that’d buy more time. Oh no, fried fish for breakfast with some fresh bread from the Explorer’s Haven?

“So tragic. So horrible.”

Nailren munched on his breakfast and reckoned he’d have the energy to be on the road in minutes for another day of hard r—

He was fishing for his waterflask in his packs when he froze. Peered into the backpack, then raised his paw and shook it out.

“Not again. Spoony!”

He howled, and his paw was dripping with glowing, pale—

Ectoplasm. 

“It’s all over my damn pack! What were you doing?”

He cursed, and the inside of his pack was indeed aglow with the leavings of a ghost. Much like a snail, they left this weird goop everywhere. Apparently, only Nailren could see it.

It was only really noticeable if you got a lot on you. Then you’d have this vague, cold, slimy sensation on your body. It wasn’t even that sticky; it came off rather easily, but it adhered to everything. To Nailren, who liked a clean setup, it was the most annoying thing about his new companion.

“I told you, stop touching things when I sleep!”

He growled at the invisible specter following him about, and he felt a tug on one ear.

“Stop that. This isn’t a game!”

The problem was, what could he threaten Spoony, his ghost, with? Leave her behind? That was an excessive threat and probably wouldn’t work more than once or twice; and it’d ruin the relationship. He didn’t even know if she would stick around, but friendliness was vital.

The problem was that she clearly got bored in the night. Even as he watched, he saw his half-eaten plate of fish move. The spoon rattled around, and he saw ectoplasm appearing in splotches over—

“That’s my food.”

Disgusted, he swiped at her, then began snatching up all the ectoplasm he could and putting it the only place he could store it: a glass jar.

It seemed you could pack ectoplasm in, so he’d been filling this jar with the ghost-leavings on the hunch it could be useful. However…Nailren eyed the bright glow in the jar.

“Less of it this morning. It definitely vanishes. Hrr. I don’t have a container that’ll hold this. Great.”

So he had a rapidly-vanishing, if seemingly unlimited, resource. The [Clandestine Chieftain] rubbed at his forehead.

“I guess that’s on the list of things to do today. Ghost-things.”

He heard clapping behind him and jumped. His horse stopped eating and let out a panic poop. Then Nailren sighed. He was enjoying the New Lands and riding, damnit.

It seemed like his ghost-friend was getting bored.

——

Query: how did you talk to a ghost? Some might say you just went up and talked to them. Certainly, [Witches] were of the opinion most ghosts could understand you, but their legends also had summoning circles and seances.

Not all ghosts were the same was Nailren’s suspicion, and the many ‘experts’ he’d talked to had all had ideas that worked…but none perfectly.

In fact, the most correct opinions had come from none other than Joseph. Salt circles worked on ghosts, and so, despite his instincts, Nailren had procured an item that would help him communicate with the other side.

They were riding along after he’d torn down the camp, and he balanced a little, unfoldable board on his lap and produced a tiny little marker, an arrow with a hole in the center.

“Alright, Spoony. This is a ouija board. I was told this is the tool you can use to speak to me. Well…go for it. How are you feeling?”

He put the marker down and watched it judder as he tried to hold it in place. He knew Spoony was there; he felt an excited tug on his arm, then…the little marker moved.

“T.”

It moved again, after a delay.

“H.”

Another pause, eight seconds, then it went up and to the right.

“I. ‘This’? Or another word?”

A pause. There was a ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ option helpfully added to the alphabet as well as numbers on the board and a ‘goodbye’ at the bottom. After nineteen long seconds of nothing, Nailren saw the marker slide halfway towards the ‘yes’. Stop.

“Spoony?”

Nothing. He was trying to calculate how long it’d take her to write even a sentence at this rate. Nailren glanced around.

“You there? Was that a ‘yes’?” Hello?”

After two whole minutes, the marker finally moved to the ‘yes’, and Nailren frowned.

“Great. This is it. And…”

He and the horse exchanged a look in the dead silence as they rode along. Both eyed the board. It took six minutes before the little marker flipped off the top of the ouija board. Nailren caught it, put it back on the ‘yes’. That could have been the wind or something.

Spoony flipped it off again. He suspected…she was a bit mad.

——

After picking up the ouija arrow, Nailren did some speculating out loud. He didn’t feel cold or anything; she wasn’t pulling on his hair or pestering him like she did when he assumed she had energy and was bored. So he stroked his chin-hair and thought out loud.

“I have a notion. From how you were writing back there, it seemed like it took you more and more time per letter. Which, if I equate it to a body—which is all I understand—suggests you were tiring, yes? Tug my left ear for ‘no’, right ear for ‘yes’.”

He felt the faintest of tugs on his right ear and nodded.

“Interesting. I’ve seen you move things before, but it tires you greatly, even small objects. Even that marker, hmm?”

‘Yes’.

“Is it harder to move a big object or harder to move an object for long periods of time? Left for big object, right for long periods of time.”

A pause—then both his ears twitched. Nailren snorted.

“I suppose nothing’s easy. Hrm. But this is more efficient than the board.”

‘Yes’.

“But Joseph was convinced that was a useful tool.”

‘No. No.’

Evidently, she had already taken a great dislike to the ouija board, but Nailren was frowning.

“The concept makes sense. Perhaps the pointer is too heavy?”

It had been made well by a good [Carpenter], but he found a little piece of grass and shaped it into an arrow with his claws.

“Try this, Spoony.”

This time, she managed three letters, ‘IHA’, before having to pause. Nailren read.

“I-H-A-T-E-T—ah. You hate this. Hrm. But it lets you use words. And you know how to speak.”

He felt a tug on his right ear and winced.

“You didn’t seem that linguistic when you were haunting me.”

Silence. He scratched at his chin.

“Well…let’s try to talk. How about I ramble and you tug my ears. Let’s say ‘yes’ and ‘no’ for ears, and for fingers, we can, uh, say my left hand is for agreement or disagreement. Pinky is disagree, thumb is agree.”

He quite enjoyed making a logical system where she could use parts of his body to indicate how she was feeling. It worked for about thirty minutes; he began rambling about Barnethei’s inn, and she strongly agreed she liked it, then had low agreement that it’d do well. And then he talked about Goisedall and the Silver Swords and thought she didn’t care or didn’t get what was going on before he realized—again—she was tired.

How strange. Before, when he’d taken her camping supplies and she’d been after him, she’d grown strong enough to lift objects and constantly attack him, even materialize. Was rage a source of power for her?

“Spoony, get mad. Really mad.”

There was no reply, and he just imagined her going, ‘Okay, and how am I supposed to do that?’ Nailren hrmed.

“Well, and I want you to take this personally, you’re the ugliest Human I’ve ever met. And the weakest ghost.”

A tug at one ear, faint. ‘No’. He hesitated.

“—No? Not much ego about your looks. Well, I suppose it’s hard to hurt your feelings, anyways. You have nothing to lose. Except your life, of course. Which someone took from you. Did you even fight back? You let that family die. Husband, wife, brother.”

A pause, then the tug on his ear was harder.

‘No.’

“You did, though. Now you can’t avenge yourself. You were the one warrior there, and you let them down. Did you not even post a watch? They slit that man’s throat in his sleep. If you’d just paid attention, you might be alive instead of with m—”

The strawberry roan was eying the grass and bending for a quick mouthful on the trot when he felt his rider shift. The horse halted in alarm, heard a shout—and then Nailren was sliding, grabbing for the saddle.

The shove had nearly tossed him out of the saddle. He caught himself, flailing wildly, and shouted.

“It worked! Spoony, I wasn’t serious. Spoony, use that anger and the board and…Spoony?”

Silence. After a moment, Nailren slid off his saddle to readjust it as it had moved a bit from the shove. The horse gave him a peek, and Nailren crossed his arms.

“Look, it was an experiment. I had to say something that would hurt her feelings.”

He paused. Then put his head against the horse’s side.

“…Right.”

The horse ate some grass. It was great grass.

——

His ghost friend’s feelings remained hurt for quite some time after that. Which Nailren got, and he felt bad about—that had been personal.

Nor was it a viable strategy. Keeping someone genuinely mad—again, not a helpful tool.

“I’m very sorry, Spoony. How do I make it up to you?”

She was ignoring him. He was working on apologies, now, and thinking out loud.

“Okay. How to apologize to a ghost…”

In truth, it wasn’t that much of a mystery to him. Gnolls might not have a lot of active ghost-lore, but they did have a tradition around honoring the dead.

A thought occurred: did ghosts benefit from rituals of the same nature? Nailren thought so.

“Why do we bury corpses? Some Gnoll tribes practice natural burial, where they leave a corpse to be returned to nature. But most cultures have coffins or cremation. Why?”

He thought out loud.

“Well, firstly, to avoid the undead issue, yes. However, there is also a very important component of honoring the dead. We create elaborate sarcophagi for important dead. Erect statues. There are other means too. Placing food on one’s grave markers. Or burning incense. In Drake cultures, it is customary to leave a coin on a loved one’s grave.”

Drakes being Drakes, they were fake coins without denominational value and deliberately made dull to avoid someone with Hoarding Syndrome stealing them. Nailren went on.

“Gnolls make favorite foods on their death-days and tell stories. These could just be ways for the living to remember the dead, but what if these practices inform the dead in some way? I have no marker for you, though, Spoony, and your grave is far…but what about this?”

He stopped and produced a little plate, placing the spoon in front of it. Then, carefully, he selected some bread and added some Prelon jam he’d gotten from Plain’s Eye. He put it on the plate and clapped his paws together.

“I offer this to you as an apology, Spoony. May you accept it.”

Silence. The horse opened its mouth, eyed Nailren, and closed it. They waited, and the ghost…tugged Nailren’s ear.

‘Yes.’

Then a pause.

‘No.’

Nailren eyed the bread.

“…Do you accept my apology?”

‘Yes, yes.’

“…But the bread’s not your favorite.”

A pause. ‘No.’

“Oh, you do like the bread?”

‘Yes.’

“So…something’s wrong. It’s not working.”

‘Yes’.

“Hrm. I see.”

Nailren went pacing around the plate. He tried putting the spoon on the plate. Then he tried to make a marker by writing ‘Spoony’ on a piece of scrap wood, then realized she needed a name and tried to get her to use the ouija board to sound it out, but she was tired, and the bread was not really being offered to her in any way, apparently.

The horse decided the matter by eating the bread and jam.

——

A half day of trying to figure out optimal methods of talking to Spoony had Nailren mentally a bit tired by the time he stopped for lunch. Certainly, she seemed tired; she’d begun getting the system he’d tried to come up with confused. He wasn’t sure if that was her limited state of being, personality, or just this being too complex, but it wasn’t working.

“Sorry, Spoony. We might have to go back to simple means of talking.”

She wasn’t that happy. She was rattling his waterflask, which made a loud clacking sound as the metal hook rang against the flask, and he grimaced.

“Okay, you want to talk to me. Any ideas? I wish I’d talked more to Pekona after all…”

He watched, gloomily, as the ectoplasm got on his flask, then trailed across his pack—

“Hey. Hey. That’s my trail mix. Get out of there.”

He had to shoo her away from the pre-made balls he mixed up; they were a combination of ‘dry’ goods like oats, raisins, all glued together with flour, honey, or ‘wet’ travel rations. Pemmican, the Gnolls’ hated standby, with a coating of batter or with slivers of butter or sugar inside, anything to make the dense, calorific food more palatable.

Nailren groaned as he saw her ectoplasm his pack again. He began tossing items out for cleaning.

“Scat, scat! You’re worse than a damn cat! Spoony, I’m going to get mad. I’m serious, this is annoying.”

She had to be desperate for attention, but he was regretting this already. Most objects Spoony was touching barely vibrated; clearly, she didn’t have the energy for much. She rifled through his pack, then, as Nailren was preparing to yank out all his items and just clean and re-pack it all, a jar flew up, hit him so hard in the jaw he saw stars, and fell back in the pack.

“Argh!”

Nailren grabbed at his mouth; he’d bit his tongue! His horse peeked over.

You good, my friend? The cursing Gnoll rolled about, then jumped up.

“Was that for the insults earlier? That was uncalled for!”

That hurt. He felt a sudden, anxious tugging at his ear.

‘Nonononono—’

And then a tug on his jaw and his shoulder. Was she…apologizing? Nailren rubbed his jaw.

“That was way too hard for you to do without being angry! What was—wait a second.”

He saw the jar that had beaned him in the mouth in his pack. Nailren reached down slowly and then lifted the glowing jar of ectoplasm. He stared at it, and a little [Light] spell exploded in his head.

The strawberry roan really wondered what the Gnoll kept staring at that empty jar for.

——

What could a ghost touch? Things it connected to. Just like how they were weaker, unable to find him if he didn’t have something that belonged to them…

“Connection. Most connections between you and I are weak because we do not know each other, yes? In hindsight, I could have, I don’t know, dug up your bones and made something out of that? No, don’t freak out, that’s a hypothetical. And I’m no [Necromancer]. But perhaps an artificial connection can be made. Like…so!”

Nailren was working on something as he rode. He had the jar of ectoplasm and a hypothesis. If Spoony’s spoon necklace was his [Locus of Connection], then it made sense that had some spiritual strength.

But could another be made? The one thing of ghosts he had was ectoplasm. So, therefore, he was trying to add it to…the ouija board marker. A planchette, as it was known.

The little heart-shaped arrow didn’t want to soak up the ectoplasm, which is what he’d feared; the substance only seemed to linger on things, not be absorbed. However….you could condense ectoplasm, and he had a fairly dense glob of it.

“I could eat it, but I don’t think that’s wise. I could leave the planchette in here, but that feels like it wouldn’t absorb much. How does one add a substance that cannot be absorbed to something else? Well, you coat weapons in oil. And perhaps this stuff is not yet ‘real’ enough to interact with the wood. Compression.”

He effected compression via a simple means: he found a ball of cloth, wadded it up until it formed a rough seal, and then pushed the ectoplasm down. There was actually faint resistance as Nailren pushed down, and then—

When he lifted the cloth plunger, he swore it was glowing. Nailren eyed it.

“Wait a second. Disable [See Ectoplasm].”

There was still the faintest glow or odd vibrancy to the cloth when he deactivated his Skill. When he reactivated it—it was aglow with the compressed stuff! Nailren grinned—then panicked.

“Wait, this isn’t what I want. Argh!”

He ended up not being able to get the ectoplasm out of his clothing and finished with several stains on his clothing that water would not remove. However—there was just enough left in the jar to toss the planchette in. As he watched, it soaked up the vibrant ectoplasm, and when he took it out, the little marker had a glow to it.

“Alright, Spoony. Let’s give this a second try.”

He put it on the ouija board and held his breath. There was a pause—and then Nailren coiled as the planchette whipped to the first letter, then the second, and began to move as fast as someone putting their hand on the marker and moving it.

Maybe even faster.

‘H-E-L-L-O-N-A-I-L-R-E-N-S-O-R-R-Y.’

“Hello, Spoony. Or…I’m sorry. I don’t know your name. Can you tell it to me?”

The hair was standing up on Nailren’s neck, but he was grinning. There was a pause, and his friend wrote.

‘F-O-R-G-O-T-H-A-Z-Y.’

His eyes widened.

“You forgot? Interesting. But you can see and hear me, and you remember you were Human, yes?”

The planchette moved to ‘yes’. Nailren rubbed at his chin.

“What else can you see that I might not?”

‘D-E-A-D-P-E-O-P-L-E.’

“From Goisedall, yes.”

‘A-N-D-T-H-E-M.’

…Which then just implied that there had been more ghosts or dead people that Spoony had seen that he had not. Nailren felt the fur on his back rising more.

“Where? Who?”

This time, the marker slowed as she wrote, and he realized that even with this stronger connection, she was getting tired.

‘H-A-L-F-E-L-F.’

“The half-Elves? They had a dead ghost clinging to them?”

‘Yes.’

“Were they angry? Or was it someone in their expedition who died?”

‘D-O-N-T-K-N-O-W.’

Then the cursor moved.

‘T-I-R-D.’

Then it pointed down.

‘Goodbye.’

“I understand. This must be hard. But now you can communicate with me…I’ll begin saving ectoplasm. Gross. You should touch, uh…we’ll figure out a system.”

He wondered if he could mount the ouija board so she could write. And he needed a system so she could tell him something was up beyond tugging his ear. A bell, maybe. That was exciting, and by dinner time, she had worked up the energy to write another message.

‘H-O-R-S-E.’

“Yes? What about it?”

Nailren eyed the roan, who stopped chewing dinner, perhaps alarmed at the supernatural being’s interest in it. Was it related to the dead? Did it have something about it that Nailren didn’t know? Spoony wrote.

‘P-A-T.’

Nailren sat in silence. Then with a sigh, he got up and patted the horse on the head.

What are you doing, my friend?

The horse gave him the side-eye with both eyes, but Nailren had to pat the horse for a good fifteen minutes until Spoony was happy.

[Ghostspeaker Level 9!]

[Skill – Ectoplasm Handler Obtained!]

[Skill – Imbue Object: Ghosttouch Obtained!]

“…Gross.”

——

Ectoplasm was gross. However, by the time Nailren got to his next destination, he’d done a few things. Firstly—he’d given himself an ear piercing.

A sewing needle for repairs to his gear, a fire, and a poke and it was done. It hurt more than he’d care to admit, but he’d put a hole at the tip of both ears. And—a little loop of twine and bead of wood with a hole in it.

Both beads were naturally imbued with ghosttouch. Which seemed to be an enchantment that let ghosts, or Spoony, touch something with far less effort. Naturally, Nailren had added the effect to his planchette on the ouija board too.

This way, his ghost friend could talk to him or tug on his ears without issue. It was so subtle he doubted even other Gnolls would pick up on his ears twitching. More importantly, they’d developed a few other variants. A tug was yes or no, but if she pulled his ear down, he knew there was danger, and so on.

He’d actually alarmed her when he’d pierced his ears, and she’d kept writing ‘sorry’, as if she’d made him do it.

Pierced ears healed if he wanted them to. A little poke with a needle was a small price to pay for communication and an advantage. Spoony had been generating ectoplasm as well, day-by-day. He would let her play with an object and come back to find it covered in the goop. She really liked his bow and fiddling with his arrows. With all that ectoplasm, he’d had just enough to imbue two more objects; once the object reached ‘capacity’, you couldn’t imbue it with more ghost-stuff.

The first object Nailren had imbued was a little dried grape ball with a tiny pellet inside, an old standby from his past life. Once the pellet was crushed, it’d emit a faint, but malodorous stench any Gnoll with a decent nose or tracking Skill could pick up. It wouldn’t come off, not with a bunch of washes, and most people wouldn’t realize they had it on them.

After all, it’d be very handy to have a ghost able to lift and plant such an object.

“Shame we can’t do that with a speaking stone, but no magic. This will do. Remember, don’t show anyone you can lift these.”

Nailren had secured both in an unbuttoned pouch on his horse’s saddle. That way, she could lift them out of the pouches and move them through the air.

Not fast; her strength was weak, and she could only go ten feet before she had to halt, but he wondered if she might produce more energy if needed. Either way, the little scent-ball was one.

The second was a caltrop. Nailren had sharpened each edge until it was so damn spikey it had cut him twice just touching it. Sharp as steel could get.

“If you can’t throw it at someone, get them to step on it.”

Spoony was very excited by her two new tools. He hoped the ghost would be responsible with them, but Nailren was already imagining other ways to get her to help him. She seemed happy when she could do things, and he? He liked the idea of an invisible, immortal being watching his back. Her judgement would be something he’d have to establish, but that was how he spent his journey.

Then, like so many others, he came to Woll’s Waystation.

——

It wasn’t a question of why you went to Woll’s Waystation. It was more a question of whether or not you could miss it.

You see…it stood out. As the rocky south of the New Lands with that volcanic gravel gave way to the yellow grasslands, and the coral lands bordering the giant ravine to the north also became grass—as you came over the river, this was the logical spot for it.

Low walls of dirt. Barely more than a bunch of rocks piled up around the dirt base—but it was the only thing you could see before you entered the grasslands proper. Beyond there, the Eternal Grasslands of Archmage Kishkeria stretched out for many, many miles, and here the waystation had been built.

The walls were just slopes of dirt, it was true, but the Drakes patrolling them walked along the little square keep like it was a Walled City’s battlements, spears and all.

The irony, of course, was that they had a lot to watch; when Nailren rode up, one of them snapped down at him.

“Form a line! Identification?”

“You must be joking. Let us in!”

A Human in front of Nailren shouted up, but the Drake just hammered his spear down on the ramparts; a few clods of dirt rolled down the hastily-compacted side.

“We’re doing this properly! Identify yourselves! And there’s a fee to enter the waystation! One copper per head!”

“…What?”

The man in front of Nailren was part of a group of [Riders]. He was alert, so he’d come into the New Lands faster than most and hadn’t been hit by the mana-drain. He counted his group of ten, and one hissed.

“Just pay the Drake a silver. It’s worth visiting to talk!”

“We’re not paying to enter a lump of dirt!”

The Drake heard them arguing and glowered before sighing.

“You can also pay with information. Have you seen anything useful? Seen any monsters? Any information from Goisedall? Anything new counts.”

The group conferred, and the man shot back.

“We just got here. We’re from Lycit.”

“Never heard of it. Got a passport?”

“No. It’s in the north. House Radivaek? Famous for dogs?”

“I don’t see any dogs with you.”

The man was grinding his teeth.

“Not everyone has dogs. Look, we saw the Plain’s Eye tribe moving in. How about that?”

“Hah, we heard that ages ago! Try again.”

“…There’s some damn ugly toads that lay eggs big enough to fit in your palm? Grey, fat—the toads just hop around and poop ‘em out nonstop.”

The guard on the waystation’s walls stared down at the man, and Nailren tilted his head. He hadn’t seen that. The Drake eyed the man.

“You serious?”

“Yup. They don’t lay like normal frogs.”

“And it’s not poop?”

“We broke one open. Little tadpole inside.”

“How big are the frogs? Are they dangerous?”

“Oh, yay high. They didn’t have any teeth; they just ate the yellow beetles.”

The man gestured up to his knee. So big but not threatening. The Drake considered this.

“…Well, that’s probably good enough. Go on through.”

The party did, grumbling as they passed through the ‘gates’, which were really just a pair of wooden doors that could be opened or closed. Nailren, eying the sloped wall, bet you could just walk up the side. Maybe you’d have to scramble a bit, but unless someone with a pointy spear was atop the wall, it wouldn’t really stop anyone.

“Identification!”

“Labright. [Traveller]. Here to see what’s up. I heard this place existed, and I had to see. This the first place in the New Lands? I’m from Pallass, 7th Floor.”

Nailren put on a City Gnoll’s accent, and the Drake grinned down at him.

“From Pallass? We’re all from Hemshaw—got any info?”

To the Drake’s surprise, Nailren flipped a copper coin up. He caught it and nearly fell off the ramparts.

“Oh—you don’t have to—it’s more about information.”

“Nah, I’ve not seen much. Just stuck with the pack, me. Glad to pay it. Copper’s cheap, right?”

Nailren cast his eyes at the other wagons parked outside the Waystation, and the guard nodded, appearing a bit embarrassed. He motioned another Drake over.

“Go on in. There’s not much; the courtyard’s where people hang out, and the Waystation itself is where we’ve got stuff stored. You can’t go into the upper levels, but the downstairs has places to sleep and a table. The only damn one in the New Lands. Woll’s probably hanging out there. Oh, and don’t pee anywhere near the walls! We’ve got latrines that way!”

He pointed, and Nailren nodded. He ran through the gate with a friendly wave as Spoony tugged his left ear.

‘No, no, no…’

She was highly amused by his lies, it seemed. He tugged at one ear.

“Shh.”

He was listening. The Drake had walked over to his buddy.

“Right, the Gnoll’s from Pallass. Can you believe that? And those Humans are, uh…from some place up north with dogs. House Radivaek or something.”

“Adventurers?”

“They didn’t look like it, and they had a weird story about some gross frog…”

“Hold on, hold on. Let me get this in order. I wish we had parchment, damn it! Woll needs to get more.”

“Just remember it all; didn’t you get a Skill for that?”

“Only if I work at it! Okay, [Commit to Memory]. From the top.”

“Uh, the Humans are, uh…shoot, I’ve forgotten.”

Nailren rode into the keep, nodding to himself. It was easy to write the Drake guard off, but in truth, this wasn’t the worst operation.

Guards on the wall—pointless, of course. But they kept people from entering and leaving at random, and more importantly, the copper coin bit wasn’t real. What the Waystation wanted was information.

A piece per visitor, even if it might sometimes be made up, was valuable. This ‘Woll’ might be a sharper character than one expected.

And the Waystation had a lot of traffic. Given how flat the next area of the New Lands was, people were making this a stop to share information, trade, and Nailren suspected, try to figure out where the value and danger was.

A perfect place for gathering. The role of such establishments for ages.

An inn, in more primitive terms. There were cook fires, people of each species talking loudly, and the ‘keep’, a two-layer building of stones mortared in a hurry, had people tromping in and out. Nailren glanced around and had a thought.

My horse—

“Hey, I’ll take your horse for either a snack or two coppers.”

Someone called out, and Nailren turned. He eyed another Gnoll, and here was a real City Gnoll with a bunch of horses all waiting, tied down to stakes in the flattened-earth courtyard. There was a lot of manure, but it wasn’t filthy—yet.

“You’re just charging people to hold their horses. Two coppers? It was one to get in.”

The other Gnoll grinned; he had a spot of silver over one eye and black fur.

“Bah, no one pays that. Two coppers is cheap!”

“You’re not a [Handler] or [Hostler], are you?”

“Nope. [Apprentice Trader] Rilles, at your service. My caravan leader got this far, then turned around. [Tea Merchant] Tilfem’s caravan. Lasted one week to get here, and then he turned around and said he was done. They headed back to Goisedall, and if they’re not there already, they’ll disband the moment they reach Izril proper.”

Nailren winced, but then changed his mind.

“Wise of him. Had a lot of magic?”

“All of it gone, yep. I stayed.”

“Why?”

Rilles shoved his paws in his pockets and glanced around the Waystation.

“Well…there’s food enough here and plenty of people with too much to carry. They’re dumping or trading a lot of it here. Tilfem himself had to offload his tea, and he did it cheap. Good place to trade, huh?”

“It is indeed. But you’re taking horses?”

“Everyone who comes here needs a place to put ‘em.”

“How do I know you won’t take my horse and just ride off with it when my back is turned?”

Nailren knew the answer, but he liked Rilles’ attitude, and the Gnoll waved his paws around.

“Look at how many people there are! I’m holding most people’s horses; if they see me ride off, there’ll be a clamor like you won’t believe! Plus, the Drakes on the wall know me. Anyways, where would I ride to? Or sell the horses?”

Other caravans, but they’d have to be far enough away to want to take the risk. Nailren grinned as he fished out two coppers.

“Made a good income?”

Rilles’ grin was the answer Nailren needed. Two coppers wasn’t much, but if enough people came in and out and they mostly just grabbed their horses and went…

“It’s more’n I’d make working the Merchant’s Guild at my level, and I’ve levelled twice. The worst part is shovelling out the manure. I had to buy a shovel, and I have to take it far.”

Nailren’s brows rose.

“You’re not using it as fertilizer?”

“Me? No. Woll says it stinks too bad, so he’s having me put it in one spot. I might have to invest in a wheelbarrow. I’ve been using a hemp bag, but, uh…after one day, I think I need something I can clean.”

Which was making a compost dump. Possibly a place to plant in a few months if it kept adding up. He nodded to the enterprising Rilles.

If you had the will, you could find opportunity here. Quite a lot of it. Nailren kept an eye on his horse; he didn’t have many valuable items in his saddlebags, but one could argue they were all valuable. However, Rilles seemed to know his business relied on no one getting stolen from, so as he called out to new people coming in or watched them pick up their horse, he had his eye on the animals.

Nailren? He headed inside the Waystation. There he met Woll.

——

Woll was a character. At first, when you saw him striding around with scales a lime green, all loud voice as he had four conversations at once in the cramped keep with one table, a rickety set of stairs leading up to a huge storeroom, you thought that he was a short, hyperactive Drake.

He was, after all, only 5’2. Then you saw the huge, four-inch boots he was wearing and you realized—

He was a very short, hyperactive Drake. Though in fairness, the hyperactive part might have been the tea.

“Hey, hey, a newcomer! Come on in, tea’s free! You’ll have to either provide your own cup or wait until one’s washed. Or sell us your cups! I’ll do a special deal on those. What’s your flavor? We’ve got Earl Grey, Baron Black, Chandrarian Sand Tea, Drathian Flower tea…I’ll be right over. Where was I, and who was I?”

He spun, and a Human man appeared quite taken aback as he took a step back. Woll pointed at him.

“Merchant Kileth, right. Quartermaster. Well, I reckon I can take…how much?”

“Er, quite a lot of dry seed, heavier items we cannot carry due to our Chests of Holding, such as a grandfather clock, excess supplies—”

The man was trying to be quiet, but Woll was loud and took another gulp from the teacup he was carrying as he wrote, balancing a clipboard on one arm. Ink was smudged all over his scales and his bright red uniform that reminded Nailren of a [Receptionist], but higher-scale.

“Can do! That’ll be…one gold coin per square foot filled. Per week. You don’t pay, you forfeit your goods. Either collect on the day or we claim it.”

“A gold coin per square foot? Are you mad?”

Everyone around him recoiled, and Woll went on smoothly.

“Space is at a premium, and we don’t have any! You see that keep? Our second floor? We don’t have anything else! Gold coin per square foot, or—I’ll charge you a silver with one condition.”

Everyone stopped arguing, and Woll brushed at his scales as he glanced at Nailren.

“It’s a silver per square foot, again, and you buy time. A week, two weeks, a month. I’ll go as high as two months. But if you don’t send someone back to say you’re alive and that you’re still coming back for your goods, after that period elapses, I’ll take it.”

It was a bet. Kileth recoiled uncertainly, but Nailren saw the same trick Rilles was pulling on a far, far larger scale.

Not everyone was going to make it. Woll went on casually.

“We set up a passcode only your group and I know. If anyone makes it back, they can pay and renew the lease. Otherwise, it’s mine. I’m hoping to get a way to preserve or expand my storage, but until then, it’s at a premium. You can send riders back once you establish your camps. Dump it here and circle back. Or sell it; the folks outside will take anything you have to offer. Or I will, at a price. Tea?”

Someone had a teapot and a cup that might have been cleaned; he held it around, and a Gnoll took it. Woll gulped more down, and Kileth murmured.

“I think I’d take the second option…yes, let’s talk space. As for tea—”

“I’ll give it to you cheap. A bag—a full bag could mean tea for a month. Good for morale, energy; one gold coin for this Chandrarian Sand Tea. Eugh, kicks like one of their camels does, I bet, but it keeps me going.”

“One gold coin?”

“If you sell me something I like. Heck, sell me some paper, ink, cups or a chair, and I’ll throw two bags in, free! I’ll let you sit on it, Merchant. Now, you, who was I? Right…innkeeper. Sleeping within view of the Waystation’s free of charge. But inside or in sight of the walls costs.”

“You don’t own what’s outside of the walls.”

Woll patiently talked to the Gnoll who seemed like an adventurer of some kind.

“No, sir, I do not. But my guards have to know what’s out there, and if they don’t recognize you…that’s not me making reasons to charge you, that’s practicality. We’ve had [Bandits], [Thieves], and we’re not perfect, but this is how the Waystation keeps itself safe. You want to just camp out there? Be my guest, and because you’ve paid, you can haul water from the well. Tastes brackish, but it’s decent. You know what goes well with that? Tea? Tea? Tea.”

He was more obliging than you thought, especially for a Drake. And efficient; he actually cleared the people wanting to talk to him, and someone, the Drake with the tea kettle, went with the [Merchant] so she could calculate how much space he needed. Then Woll strode over.

“Hello, friend. Tea?”

“Thank you, though I’m not able to do business. It’s just me.”

Woll shook Nailren’s hand, then paced around the keep. Then he headed outside.

“Oblige me. If I have any free time…”

There were stones on the ground outside the keep, and a few Drakes and Gnolls and even two Humans were working. They were pasting mortar—crude, not nearly as good as proper cement—onto the stones and fitting them into the ground. Crude foundation laying; Woll began pasting stones with more mortar with clear inexperience, but a will. Nailren squatted down and obligingly tossed stones down so they could be filled in.

“The tea’s good. High-quality stuff. From Merchant Tilfem…yes?”

He put on the same Pallass accent, affecting the ‘yes’, and was rewarded by Woll glancing over.

“That’s right. Poor man had to offload it, and I got it for enough food to see him back without his people eating him alive. Knock-down prices.”

Now he was giving it away—and it’d still probably be a tidy profit. As if reading Nailren’s mind, Woll added.

“It’ll go bad with all this rain; the Waystation’s not drip-free, and it’s better to make friends than hold onto it. So, you’re from Pallass?”

He’d already heard or written it down. He was glancing at his clipboard now balanced nearly-impossibly on one arm. Nailren raised his brows.

“You have to be from a Walled City yourself. I should guess—Zeres? That’s closest, or Manus, but you don’t seem military.”

“Hah! Catch me going to either city. Er, unless you like them. I’m Salazsarian! City of Gems and all that!”

Woll pounded his chest, then went on without missing a beat.

“I came here the moment I saw the New Lands rise. Like the Waystation?”

“It’s incredible.”

“It’s shit, and we all know it. But it’s the only thing we could throw up. I wish I’d taken a recipe for Salazsarian concrete, but, well, we had concrete mix. Lost it all when our Chest of Holding blew. Two hundred feet of carnage in the rain.”

So he’d been hit by the magic issues? Woll was cheerful enough, and Nailren had to ask.

“What’s your class, if you don’t mind me asking? And how does a Drake like you come to be here?”

“You mean how does someone like me end up in the New Lands when I have zero survival Skills? Fair enough. The answer’s easy: I used to work for the greatest Drake in Salazsar. Ever heard of Salii the Secretary? Salii the Serpent? Salii the…damn, we really should have come up with better names for her.”

Ah, of course. Nailren grinned slightly; he saw a tired-looking Drake come out of the keep. The one with the teapot.

“Woll? Merchant so-and-so’s asking about a contract.”

“We don’t have one. Get him to start putting things in and do the spiel about how we’re not going anywhere and he can always hunt us down.”

She sighed and trudged off, and Woll glanced at Nailren.

“Know her?”

“I’ve heard of her, yes. Highest-levelled [Secretary] in the Walled Cities.”

Woll sighed and stared at the mortar for all of 0.2 seconds before continuing to plop it in with the stones.

“I was her understudy. Ancestors, what a Demon. Tongue like an ox stepping on cacti. But the adventures we got up to. I’d be getting ahold of a mining sector, really optimizing layouts, and she’d walk into her office and say, ‘Woll, we’re quitting the company, we’re going to bail out Remarbo Mining Limited.’ And we’d pack up, walk into a first-floor office filled with roaches, and start cleaning house. The levels. We could have been running Salazsar like one of Pallass’ machines by now if the Walled Families had listened to her.”

“Why’d she leave? I heard about that.”

Woll shook his head, despairing.

“She wanted them to let her take a risk. Open an entirely new vein, give her—and companies of course—the chance to mine outside of Salazsar. Deep mines, super risky for monsters, expeditions for more rare things we never dig up—even [Miners] who’d unearth dungeons! All super-experimental, super difficult stuff. They said it was too expensive, too risky, too unnecessary. And she said: of course it is! That’s the point! They level, we level. A city lives on its levels, even Salazsar. But they shot her down, and she left. She was thinking Rhir, Manus, for the third Antinium War, or the Grand Queen of the Antinium…then she went to Pomle. The rest’s history.”

Woll gulped down more tea and scribbled a note in his clipboard, which remained glued to his arm even when he stretched his limb straight up. Nailren eyed him.

“You didn’t go with her?”

“She said Pomle only needed one Drake. Plus, I get seasick. But the New Lands…when I saw that, I quit my job that day. We rushed to get this place done.”

“Why the Waystation?”

“Because it’s needed. Because it’s here. That’s the biggest lesson Salii taught me: be essential. I could be cute and say it was something else, but no. Be needed. People need a place to stop. They need a place to sell things and buy things. They need this, and being here matters more than a ceiling without holes in it. When you come back, it won’t be that much better, but I’ll be here. Woll. You tell anyone you see, and if I hear you sent them, I’ll have something waiting for you.”

Woll jerked a thumb at his chest and stood, and Nailren rose.

“Well, that fits in with why I’m here. I was making a map, actually…”

When Woll saw the beginnings of the map, he dashed inside and handed Nailren a bag of tea.

“Take it. So the Haven’s out there, eh? Good trading routes. I’m sending back riders for supplies. Paper. I want as much paper as you can get!”

He was telling a harassed Gnoll woman, who growled at him.

“It’s all expensive as shit, Woll.”

“Well, buy what you can and get back here. I’ve underlined how much you can pay for everything. Stick to the list.”

“But what if I see—”

“Stick to the list, Merri. The list doesn’t lie. What do we remember?”

“Everyone lies but the list.”

The Gnoll rolled her eyes, but she mounted a horse and set out with two other riders. Woll turned to Nailren.

“I’ll take a copy of that map. You’d think we’d get fliers doing the job.”

“Actually, I was surprised no one had beaten me to this. I’ve only got basic Skills…”

Woll snorted.

“The real [Cartographers] are either old men and women who use other people’s maps and never go outside or explorers who knew exactly how much they needed to prep. They’re out there, probably, but few of them are riding around like you. Not a popular class. As for fliers…well, the Oldblood Drakes say their wings hurt trying to get more’n twenty feet off the ground. Mana drain gets them too. And the Garuda I’ve seen aren’t going high. Something’s spooked them.”

Nailren eyed the skies.

“Predators? I heard rumors of some nasty ones.”

Woll nodded, jerking his thumb west.

“Write this on your map: the area we’re in front of is the first major zone in my mind. I call it Kishkeria’s Grasslands. It’s wide, flat, and not entirely empty. I’ve heard two groups claiming there might be submerged areas you can’t see. But there are monsters.”

“Really. Standard or New Lands? The Landsharks are all east of here.”

“Both. A few Landshark packs, but we’ve heard everything from Corusdeer to slimes. Even Gold-rank threats. A Wyvern rider from Salazsar landed here two days ago. Said his entire wing was scouting and got chewed up by rival Wyverns.”

So the air might be more risky than land…Nailren supposed it made sense. You couldn’t hide in the air, except in clouds. He shook Woll’s hand again as he rose.

“What’s the fee for a night?”

“Five copper. Well’s free for anyone who pays for the night; the rains kept us topped up. At some point, I’ll get more dug or start charging, but everything else here is a service. If you’re lucky, someone has drinks to sell, and remember, no one here is guarding your horse. Someone offers to do that for you…”

Woll waited a beat, then grinned.

“Hah! Your face! We know that Gnoll kid. Bright fellow. Come on in, later, and we’ll be swapping stories. I’m still asking anyone who knows what went down in Liscor to talk. No gambling, though; too many fights.”

“I’ll join in. I might stay the night, at least, to find out where I want to head next.”

Nailren nodded, and Woll leapt up.

“Splendid! Anyone in the Waystation? Hello! Who am I and what am I doing?”

He charged off, and Nailren shook his head. He liked this place already. He did feel a tug on his right ear as well.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

Spoony liked Woll too. Nailren put his hands in his pockets.

“Keep an eye on my horse for me, though, Spoony. And if you see any ghosts or anything, two tugs left, one tug right.”

He began to stroll around, introducing himself to other travellers.

——

There were windows without shutters in the waystation, and the smell of manure was strong. Woll reminded himself to get the kid, Rilles, to shovel more often. No, wait, he couldn’t do that while he was standing there.

“Fetta? Get someone with a shovel to run down and get that manure out, would you? See if anyone’s got a wheelbarrow for sale.”

“We’ve got one.”

“That’s for our mortar and stones. Like hell we’re giving it to Rilles. Or just a spare hemp bag. His reeks. Oh, and what’s that contact in Salazsar you have? The one in the Assassin’s Guild?”

Fetta, the Drake with the teapot, paused in making more. She leaned on the counter.

“Couldro. Why?”

“[Memo: Couldro]. Would like an information lookup on ‘Labright’: fur color brown, solo, armed with a bow, earrings both ears…”

Woll calmly threw the [Memo] out and thanked Salii for insisting he learn a Skill that was encrypted compared to most [Messages] and didn’t require mana. Level 30+ [Secretaries] or higher only. Fetta gave him a sharp look as she checked her sides.

“Should I watch him?”

“No need for that. No need. It’s just that he knew Salii’s name.”

“So? You can’t shut up about her.”

Woll leaned against the rough window casually.

“No one normal knows Salii the Secretary. She’s only a hero to those of us in her class, or who have seen her work. You have to cultivate an appreciation of fine things to be able to worship Salii’s high heels. He might just be a smart, educated fellow from Pallass. Accent sounds right. Or he’s an Eye or…I’ll just add him to the list.”

Plenty of interesting people passed by Woll’s Waystation. Woll didn’t do more than take note. He wasn’t here to make enemies. He was going to survive by not making enemies, but damn, he was curious. Keeping the Waystation stocked and afloat in gold was just a side hustle. Someone was going to find something valuable here, and when they did, Woll wasn’t going to be second or third to cash in on it.

He’d settle for eighteenth.

——

Woll’s Waystation was indeed a magnet. You came there because you saw it.

“Hey…is that a building?”

“It’s either a building or a ruin. We have to go.”

“I swear I see people moving.”

“Could be a dungeon, let’s—”

“It’s a building. Looks like a fort. Drakes on the walls.”

Falene Skystrall spoke flatly, and the excited babble of voices hushed. Dawil gave her a reproachful glance.

“Pointy, you take all the fun out of life.”

“Aye, she does, but it’s good to have a [Mage] about!”

Evor shouted, and Falene smiled at him as she shot Dawil a triumphant glance. The Silver Swords and Cenidau warriors adjusted their course, and Ylawes called out.

“Are they friendly, Falene?”

She squinted again with her enhanced vision spell.

“I can see a tremendous amount of traffic in and out, Ylawes. I’d wager they are.”

“What’re the odds they have a working [Message] spell and the Merchant’s Guild has their ear?”

Anith was worried, but Falene snorted.

“Even if they have a [Mage] like me, they won’t get much more than the basics. I can punch through the mana drain to do an update with my contacts in Gaiil-Drome or Wistram, but it’s just a download of basic information. Unless we’re considered regional dangers, we won’t be on that list.”

Thus reassured, the Silver Swords began to march towards the keep with a will. Small or not, Drake or not, civilization was a kind of magnet, a lure, a beautiful thing this far out.

“I can’t believe anyone’s settled here already. How do they deal with the food shortages? The lack of mana?”

Ylawes was bewildered, but Anith just shrugged.

“There’s a power in being a trading post, Captain. And where there’s a will…I’ve seen Lizardfolk clear out thick jungle and have a village up within a month. And that’s terrain I’d swear to you was impossible to walk through. Do we have anything we want to trade for? To do?”

“Well, we’re searching for work. Evor? What are your people looking for?”

The [Hearthguard Leader] tugged on his beard, thoughtful.

“We’re looking around, but work would be good for us too. We fight for pay, or we could guard just as you do, Silver Swords. From there, I think we will split up again. We need to follow the rivers to make carrying this longboat worth it.”

That made Ylawes’ smile slip slightly.

“Are you sure? It’s been a fine time in your company. Should we, ah, bet another Mithril blade?”

He was rather tactless at times, and Falene, Anith, and Pekona all winced along with the northfolk at the blatant question. But Evor just chuckled.

“Pleasant as it is, there is such a thing as too pleasant. Your group is bigger than ours, and we must not rely on your team either.”

Especially if they were reinventing themselves, the [Shield Maids] included. Ylawes nodded reluctantly.

“Then we’ll have to have one last night behind actual walls.”

“Aye, now you have it! Remember, strength! If anyone should shout it as friends of northfolk, it’s you! Shout it, and other warriors will know you met us! We’ll meet again as friends, my axe upon it.”

So, the Silver Swords joined the other parties flowing towards Woll’s Waystation. They were one of many groups; a huge caravan around the walls from a [Merchant] that made Ylawes advise his team to put hoods over their heads to be less noticeable—and had everyone telling him to take off his silver armor, then—a party of Humans riding westwards, and a few groups coming back.

A single [Rider] with a bag of silver pieces trying to renew their lease at the waystation, five Humans running towards the waystation, though only one of them wasn’t winded—

Everyone coming to Woll’s.

Including trouble.

The dinging in Ylawes’ head he had put down to a piece of spare armor until it grew into a louder clanging sound, and he slowed.

“Wait. [Dangersense]. Something’s…”

His head swivelled as the marching group slowed, and Larr pointed and swore.

“Captain, one o’clock! Look! Monsters!”

They came bounding along the ground, faster than horses, if not larger. Long, bounding shapes with dark hides that were reddish or matted almost black, but hairless, with big-big teeth—a full pack of twenty. And leading them—Ylawes took one glance and swore.

“Cericel! That’s a Maven!”

“Giant’s blood, what is that?”

Thker swore as he raised an axe, but they were thousands of paces away; it was just that the oversized Maven leading the rest of her brood was probably eleven feet tall and racing along as fast as the others.

Fast as a horse. Faster, in fact. The reason this mattered was because the group that had set out from Woll’s Waystation were returning—and the Cericel were going to catch them.

“Larr! Rasktooth! Cover those riders! Silver Swords, with me! Everyone else, get back! The Cericel are a Gold-rank threat when led by a Maven!”

Ylawes was running full-tilt, wishing he were on horseback, and Falene was shouting.

“Ylawes, you can’t solo it! Come back!”

He knew this was true and that without enchanted armor it might rip through even steel with its claws, but the Gold-rank adventurer was operating on instinct.

They can jump regular city walls. They’ll butcher those ten Humans then leap the keep walls, and they get faster when they drink blood. He activated a Skill, knowing he was too far.

[The Knight Charged With Wings of Steel].

His leap took him maybe forty feet, and Dawil shouted as Ylawes advanced, but the running [Knight] still felt like he was in slow water. The Cericel were bounding at the Humans, and the firefight was quick.

Off-their-guard or not, the Humans from House Lycit were armed. Two turned and fired crossbows. A Cericel closing on them staggered; it didn’t fall. And the Drakes…

The Drakes had closed the gates. The [Riders] saw that and screamed, swerving around the walls, but the Drakes were firing arrows and bracing with spears.

The…right call for other monsters. Not Cericel. But there were people on the walls taking shots at the monsters. Unfortunately, Cericel were so fast—Ylawes saw one twist and guessed it had dodged an arrow. They were headed for the Humans, who had changed directions and were heading for the caravan; the wagons were turning, forming a circle, and more arrows were flying as [Guards] rushed to fill the gaps. Another smart move—again, against an enemy that wouldn’t just—

“They’re going to jump! Watch your backs!”

The voice that cracked from behind Ylawes was loud and familiar. Falene! She’d used what magic she could to warn the waystation and caravan. Ylawes saw real panic amongst both sides now, and he realized she’d thrown the last of her magic at the only other person who could help.

Dawil was charging after Ylawes, enhanced with [Speed]. Almost on his heels—

“Pekona, get back!”

She was sprinting after them, blade unsheathed, and Ylawes motioned her back, then gave up and kept running. Three of them versus two dozen Cericel—

No, wait, a bit less. Three were down. The arrows being shot at them were hitting the ones who stumbled. Even as Ylawes watched, another twisted midleap, then fell, and he heard a thin, high-pitched scream before its body began to jerk.

“They’re hitting it! Must be some [Archer] on the walls!”

Indeed, a fifth Cericel went down, a visible wound in the leg, before they hit the wagons. Ylawes could only run and watch.

It was bloody. The Cericel bounded into the wagons, slashing, then backed up and jumped the wagons. They landed on the other side, and Ylawes heard screams—then half of them were leaping over the wagons.

Half dead? Or just fighting—he saw two more crawling over the wagon’s sides, blood on their talons. The Maven was shrieking.

Cericel were tactical. They could tell when they were outnumbered, and she was after easy game. Such as…she spun around, and Ylawes saw a rocking wagon headed away from the Waystation. Someone had panicked and was turning around—easy game just out of range of anyone.

Ylawes tried to run faster. The Maven was bounding around in a circle, out of the Waystation’s range, and he was shouting.

“[Challenge of the Knight]! This way! This—”

The Maven was too far or just ignored his challenge. The wagon was racing eastwards, as if there was anything to take cover that way. He saw everyone else was either ducking down, trying to avoid the Cericel’s attention, or grouped together to fight. Which was naïve; the monsters smelled blood.

Cericel. One of House Byres’ old foes, or so the old stories went. Not quite Vampires; they’d popped up after Vampires, but they had so many weaknesses that were the same.

Including an aversion to silver. His breastplate would make them recoil, but the Gravesword, ironically, wouldn’t be the best weapon here. Ylawes’ lungs were burning as he saw the Maven turn and race past a group of Humans, who’d frozen. Five of them—he was ready to break towards them if the Cericel split, but the Maven wanted the screaming horses. More blood.

The five civilians were frozen, unarmored, with hands over their mouths or pointing, all except for one. One of them, wearing odd clothing, was kneeling, bracing something long in his hands against one shoulder. An odd tube…

Ylawes saw the Maven beginning to bound away when he heard a sharp, loud crack and saw the other four Humans recoil. The tube flashed, and he heard it for the first time ever.

Crack. 

Pause. 

Crack. 

Pause. 

Crack.

——

Nailren’s bow was drawn, but he couldn’t hit the Cericel. He could slide down the ramparts of the Waystation, but if they turned on him, he was dead.

That wagon was dead. However, he could see someone in armor running at them, and he swore he’d heard Falene’s voice.

If that’s the Silver Swords, I’ll go over the edge when they engage. Nailren snapped at Woll.

“Who here can fight? That’s a Gold-rank team out there. We have to back them up!”

“No one’s high-enough level. Not our visitors today—Fetta, can you back Labright up?”

Woll was ice-cold, watching through a spyglass. The Drake by his side hesitated, and Nailren eyed her.

[Assassin]. He hoped she was quick. He was about to ask if the Waystation would consider opening its doors to sally out if the Maven were taken out when he heard it.

Crack.

He flinched, and so did every Gnoll on the walls.

“What the hell was that?”

It was loud, hurt Nailren’s sensitive ears, and he saw the Maven, mid-leap, falter. She screamed, spun, and there was maybe a half-second’s delay before—

Crack. There it was again! The Maven visibly flinched and clawed at her chest. She reared up, casting around, left, right—

Crack. The third shot made Woll whistle and Nailren blink. He swore he saw the Maven’s mouth open before tiny flecks sprayed out of the back of her throat and head.

Did something just go through—? She was clawing at her throat when she slowly, ponderously, collapsed. The Cericel around her were shrieking, bounding around the downed Maven and nudging her. They couldn’t believe she was dead.

Nailren couldn’t believe it either. He stared, waiting for the giant, Gold-rank threat—on her own, she was considered a threat for a Gold-rank team—

And she didn’t move. She twitched, and then Nailren was leaping the walls, ignoring Woll’s shouts and running, because he had to see. Something—he saw the [Knight] shouting as the Cericel turned and drew an arrow to his bow.

But the strange sound didn’t come again.

——

It was a monster like nothing he had ever seen before. Not even a polar bear came close to that thing’s height. And it was so…foul.

Ragged, loose skin, long fangs, blood on its long claws—the very image of a horror. It had almost made Russell freeze, but he’d dropped to one knee and lined up his shot.

Hesitated. He had hesitated given how far away it was, until it hit the caravans. Then he’d seen the creature bounding out and realized it was now or never.

So he fired the Winchester and hit her in the chest. Her? The second round had struck the same spot before he’d aimed for the open mouth, between the teeth.

He’d never shot so smoothly before. His Skills—that had to be it.

[Stabilized Aim], [Reduced Recoil], [Smooth Reload]—no fumbling the rifle rounds as he cranked the bolt-action back and slotted another in. He was fast. Three shots, and on the third, he remembered the Skill that he had, the only one that fit under ‘active’ Skills according to Erin.

[Hollow-Point Shot].

Had it actually changed that final rifle round to act like that kind of ammunition? If so, it had been a kill-shot. Russell had a fourth round chambered, ready to fire, but he never did.

“Russell, there’s more of ‘em! Shoot!”

Chester was shouting, but Russell saw a man running into the fight with a sword and shield next to a Dwarf, and he was so entranced he said and did nothing. Just watched as the first of the jumping horrors leapt on the man and ran right into his sword. The Human kicked the writhing thing off his blade, turned, hit the second biting creature with his shield, and swung around.

“Silver Swords—on me!”

Then Russell met the fantasy. And he never took his eyes away from the [Knight] who fought back-to-back with the Dwarf. He wasn’t certain, seeing the shorter man—until he saw a running woman with a glowing staff throwing a shining spear at one of the screaming monsters. Then he whispered.

“‘Aye, I could do that.’”

“Is that…no way. Chat, are you seeing this right now?”

Honarai turned around to peek at nothing at all, and Chester rubbed at his eyes.

“Is that an Elf?”

“And others.”

There was a dog-man that looked Egyptian, another Dwarf, a running bug-person that made Russell start and remember Erin’s words, a lizard-man, and even a little, screeching…

“Goblin.”

It didn’t look like the ones he imagined, but there they were, and last of all he saw a running, tall archer with a bow, which—

“Wookie.”

Arnie was pointing, dazed, and Russell frowned at him.

“Gnoll.”

They didn’t really look like that. But he just lowered his rifle, watching as the Silver Swords cleaned up the rest of the screaming things. Only when it seemed like the last ones were running did Russell start, cycled the bolt, and began dismantling his rifle.

“Russell, what are you doing?”

Lenora saw him grab the pack Arnie had dropped, and Russell snapped at her.

“Hiding this. Help me. Chester, the shotgun, the shotgun!”

He snatched it when Chester stared at him; Russell remembered Erin’s first warning for him. He tore out items to hide the gun pieces, then wrapped them in the tent and shoved it all back inside. He nearly did the same for his revolver, but then left it at his side.

Just in case. He dithered, then grabbed some cord, yanked off his holster from his chest, and took his shirt off.

“What’re you—”

They stared at him, but Lenora got it. She hesitated, then grabbed a loop of cord and helped him; he tied the revolver around his stomach, hiding it against his shirt. It was not comfy, and he taped the hammer down, but that was all he could do.

By the time he’d finished his furious packing, the monsters were gone, and there was cheering and shouting. Russell got up and saw Chester, Arnie, and Honarai were already waving at the people who’d fought the monsters off.

“Remember, everyone, be cool, be normal.”

Chester was calling out, and Lenora gave Russell a look.

“Did they see you firing?”

“Maybe.”

He wasn’t sure how visible it would have been in the chaos, and he’d been in the grass, so the muzzle flash was hidden, but they’d know something had killed that big monster. He turned to her.

“Don’t let anyone take my pack. I’m not letting go of it, but if I do for any reason, or someone’s messing with it—”

“I’ve got it. Is this…are we in Izril?”

He stared at the mix of species, then saw another lizard-person coming out of the dirt fort. He squinted, trying to tell which species was most predominant, then shrugged.

“Guess we’ll find out. Don’t say anything you don’t have to.”

They had to blend in. He wished he could tell the others that, especially Honarai and Chester…but then it was too late.

——

“—just like that. A damn Maven. I didn’t know we had Cericel around here. Lad, this isn’t good.”

“I know, I know. Larr, what killed it?”

The first thing Russell heard was the Dwarf’s voice. It was deep, concerned, but glorious. He was standing next to the corpse of the ‘Maven’, and Russell saw someone had beheaded it.

“Smart.”

That was his first, unguarded comment, and it got him a glance from one of the people standing around. The lizard-guy, who was short, had black scales, and two drawn daggers. He nodded at Russell.

“Standard practice for any monster. You Humans alright?”

He bared all his teeth, and Russell’s heart jumped, but Lenora thrust a hand out.

“Oh my goodness, thank you! We were so afraid when we saw them come out of nowhere. What did you call them?”

“Cericel. They’re not supposed to be here—I guess they moved to the New Lands too. Insill. You’re lucky we were here. Well, the Silver Swords, really. I barely got to stab anyone.”

The Drake held out a claw, and Lenora shook his hand after only a beat.

“Lenora. And this is Russell…”

She was doing pretty good, actually. Russell had been going to glare at her, but she’d even remembered that thing Erin had said.

Don’t say ‘oh my God’. Don’t use ‘God’ at all. They’re around. You don’t want to meet them.

Chills. Then Insill stuck out a clawed hand, and Russell—hesitated. He took the clawed hand gently, and Insill glanced at him. Russell saw that face, beyond the world’s most perfect costume, shift to one of slight concern.

“Don’t worry, I won’t scratch you.”

“I—sorry.”

“Never shook hands with someone with claws?”

“Uh, no.”

Rather than take offense, Insill bared his teeth again.

“You two must be Terandrian, then. You hurt? Did you see what hit that Maven? She just keeled over.”

“Us? No. What, uh, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, we’re just adventurers. The Silver Swords. I mean, my team’s Vuliel Drae, Silver-rankers, but we’re all one group right now. That’s Ylawes, our Captain.”

The very friendly, very helpful Drake jerked a thumb at Ylawes, and Russell had to ask.

“That guy there. He’s a Dwarf, right? And that’s an Elf?”

“…Half-Elf? Yeah, Falene and Dawil. Why? Do they all seem like Humans to you?”

Insill began chortling until someone jabbed him.

“Insill.”

A one-armed woman had come over and was cleaning her blade with a cloth. She’d been beheading the Cericel, and Insill whined.

“It’s just a joke! I was just—these two are Terandrians. They have trouble telling apart Humans too! What’s the difference between a short Human and a tall Dwarf?”

“It’s Dasha either way.”

The swordswoman murmured, and the two began laughing until said woman, who was less Dwarf-like and a bit taller—and who had a beard—stomped over.

“I heard that! Wait, who’re this lot?”

Lenora introduced them, and Dasha shook Russell’s hand with amazing grip strength. She had an axe, he realized. Just a real axe—

Surreal, head spinning, and he knew Lenora was probably just as overwhelmed, but she was thanking the embarrassed Silver-rankers. Russell turned to the others. Worried they’d be freaking out or—

Chester was shaking Ylawes’ hand, and he regarded the short Drake who’d come over.

“Chester Mackintosh. Thank you so much for your heroism, Captain Ylawes. We’re travellers, and when we saw the monsters—what did you call them?—appear, we were worried for our lives.”

“Not at all, sir. I’m only glad the Maven fell so easily. But what hit it? Was that your keep, sir?”

The Drake, Woll, blinked at the dead monstrosity.

“Not us. I thought it was you—is that a Goblin?”

He backed up, and everyone behind him reached for a weapon, then there was a shout.

“A-Antinium! Watch out!”

Russell saw a Drake draw two long, curved blades from sheaths on her back so fast he recoiled. His hand went for his revolver—which wasn’t there, but along his stomach—and the [Knight] threw out a hand.

“Wait, wait, they’re with us! They’re adventurers!”

All the attention was deflected away from Russell and the mysterious dead Maven as everyone, especially the Drakes, freaked out over the Goblin and ‘Antinium’. Russell edged around the group, staring. He heard a furious argument behind him.

“—killed on sight, I don’t care how—”

“We’re adventurers, and—”

“—something, Woll! We can’t stand for it, not with honest Drakes around!”

Then a cool, loud voice.

“You want to do that, strangers? Are we talking, trading, or dying then? Because you touch our friends and it’s the last option.”

Russell swivelled, and the arrival of honest-to-god Vikings…it wasn’t the final blow because his mind was already spinning, but he just stared at them and nodded.

Why not?

Vikings.

——

As the argument between the two sides raged, and a man came running out to check on his caravan and ask if anyone was a [Healer]—they had wounded—Russell saw Arnie and Honarai.

“E-excuse me, you’re—you’re—”

The Elf—no, half-Elf was panting, leaning on her staff, and grimacing as if hurt. She straightened though when Arnie stood in front of her, mouth open. She was…

It was the same thing all Earthers saw in half-Elves. The same thing anyone did the first time they met one. A painful realization of what immortality looked like.

This is exactly what they wrote of. Nothing less. Falene Skystrall smiled at the tongue-tied Earther.

“Yes? Falene Skystrall, Silver Swords. And you are?”

“Uh, Ala—Ala—Arnie.”

It seemed like he caved at the last second, and she held out a hand. He shook it, and she nodded.

“Hello. Are you with that group we passed?”

“Um—yeah. That was—you were casting magic.”

Falene’s brows rose as she eyed his clothing, and then she glanced at her staff.

“Oh, yes. Even with the mana drain, a high-level [Battlemage] can cast a few spells. I only regret I couldn’t do more. I’m rather exhausted at the moment.”

“Mana. [Battlemage].”

“Er…yes.”

Falene eyed Arnie’s open-mouthed expression and hesitated, clearly unsure of what to say next. She forced a smile.

“Are you hurt?”

He didn’t say anything, but Honarai pushed forwards.

“Hey, you are amazing. My name’s Honarai, but you can call me ‘Hona’—can I ask you everything? How’d you get your class? Can you teach me any spells? Your ears are amazing. Can I touch them? Or is that super rude? We’re new here—your fit is also incredible. Is this fantasy-core clothing?”

Falene didn’t know what to say as she tried to answer the young woman in order. She was glancing around when Russell stepped forwards just in time to grab Arnie.

“I’m a [H—”

“Thank you for saving us. We should get Chester and Lenora.”

He tried to yank Honarai back as well, and she complained.

“What? Come on! Russell!”

Falene stared at the three of them, but then was drawn back into the argument between the Drakes and Silver Swords. Russell hissed at them.

“You idiots! Don’t give away anything!”

“What? I’m just asking questions.”

Honarai protested and Arnie tapped her on the shoulder.

“She knows magic. We should get her to teach us some.”

Russell shook his head, incredulous.

“What? How? We don’t have money, we don’t have anything to trade—”

“—And she definitely has conditioner. No one has hair like that without shampoo and the works.”

Honarai added. Russell hissed at them.

“Just be normal!”

Chester had found Lenora and was listening to the debate without inserting himself, eyes flicking back and forth. The Earthers stood to the side, all of them trying to piece together the argument, which sounded like it was ending.

“No violence! Not at my Waystation! I’m not tempting the wrath of Cenidau or Gold-rankers—who just fought the Cericel off, I might add—and if anyone has a problem with the Goblin or Antinium, they can settle this. Ten miles away! No one fights here!”

A Human whirled to Woll, incredulously.

“You’re not going to bar them from the Waystation?”

Woll eyed Rasktooth and Infinitypear, then the Cenidau warriors. His eyes flickered.

“If I do, does that violate Cenidau hospitality?”

“It does.”

Evor shot back, and Woll beamed.

“Excellent. My claws are tied. I’m neutral. Who has a claim on those monster corpses, and are they edible? They don’t look like it, but if they are—I’ll make an offer. The lowest offer. Now, back to the Waystation! Tea’s on me!”

He marched off, and the others followed him or went off muttering, and the Silver Swords were talking amongst themselves.

“Right, let’s get in there.”

Russell nodded, and Chester agreed. They were just about to walk over with the crowd when someone spoke up.

“Are you alright?”

One of the tall…Gnolls was watching them. He stuck out a paw, and Russell blinked.

“Labright, [Traveller]. I saw you just missed the Cericel horde.”

“Er, Russell. [Traveller] too. We were lucky, yeah.”

Nailren sniffed the air as Russell shook the paw gingerly, and the Gnoll nodded.

“Did you just come into the Waystation? How far west were you?”

Russell squeezed his toes against his boots, not knowing what to say, but Honarai jumped instantly.

“Oh, we’ve been in the grassland for ages. And we were eating birds and stuff—and we dodged another horrific thing with lots of teeth—hello! Honarai.”

She shook his hand, beaming, and Nailren smiled at her without baring his teeth.

“Where are you from? I’m from Pallass—”

“Well, we’re from Terandria…”

“Oh, what kingdom?”

Honarai was drawing breath, but before she could speak—and she seemed so confident—someone shouted.

“Hey, Nailren! Is that you? Couldn’t get away from us?”

Insill bounded over, and Nailren whirled, then raised a paw.

“Insill. Ah, I’m glad you made it. Are those Cenidau warriors? I should say hello to Captain Ylawes. Please, excuse me.”

He turned, and Honarai waved.

“Thanks for saving us, Nailren! Love those earrings!”

When he had walked off to shake hands with the [Knight], whom he clearly knew, Honarai leaned over to Russell and whispered.

“Jeez, good thing that happened. Because I was just gonna say ‘Cenidau’ or something. Do you think this is Izril after—”

Russell grabbed her arm. She hesitated, and he drew her back and whispered.

“Not here.”

She opened her mouth, and he pointed. He’d been watching Nailren’s ears, and they were long and, well, furry-like. Like a wolf’s.

How good was his hearing? The other Earthers around Russell blinked, and then they were hurrying inside the Waystation. Chester was glancing around.

“I think we pretend we’ve been here or—there’s a one copper coin fee. Let’s not pay that. Hey, did that Gnoll say his name was ‘Nailren’?”

“That’s what they’re calling him—why?”

Russell blinked, and Chester glanced at the Gnoll.

“He said his name was Labright before.”

The [Gunslinger] peeked over his shoulder, and then he subtly checked on his pack. And he resolved to stay away from that Gnoll in particular. Fortunately, the chaos around the Cericel and the Goblin and Antinium were a distraction—as well as the last visitor to arrive at the Waystation.

——

“It’s Labright in the Waystation.”

Nailren wished Insill hadn’t been so friendly—some [Rogue]. However, the Silver Swords were not big on dissembling. He gave up as he saw Ylawes frown.

“I’ll just say it’s my last name. Listen, did you see what hit the Maven?”

Ylawes hesitated and glanced around.

“I swear I saw someone with a weird object, but I don’t know if it was that—it was powerful.”

“Three shots and the Maven was down. I swear I saw bits of it flying out the third time. What was that?”

Dawil glanced at the dead Maven, and Nailren kept his face blank. Larr was sneezing.

“It hurt my ears and there’s a damn stench in the air! You don’t smell it, Anith?”

The only other member of a species with a sensitive nose was rubbing at his.

“Yes, it’s acrid. Could it have been a spell?”

“No mana. Crossbow?”

“True, but who…?”

Nailren was conscious of the five Humans walking into the camp behind him. He was playing it cool, but Falene Skystrall was whispering to Dawil. At this, she glanced up.

“Ylawes, I think we need to confer. Captain Nailren, maybe we should share information? We have a mystery on our hands.”

“Perhaps.”

Nailren agreed calmly, and he eyed Dawil, whose brows were fully up. It was Rasktooth and Infinitypear who raised their hands.

“Uh, Captain, you know how you say to say important stuff even if we is not sure and this is bad time?”

“Yes, Rasktooth? Did you see what did that?”

The Cave Goblin shook his head, but he nudged Infinitypear, and the Antinium pointed.

“Those five Humans are Earthers, Captain.”

Everyone turned to the Antinium, and Nailren saw Falene rub at her temples. She might have wished to keep that secret; Evor and the Cenidau warriors twisted around, confused. Ylawes’ eyes widened.

“They are? How can you tell?”

Rasktooth glanced at Infinitypear, who counted on his fingers.

“They have odd clothing. They speak oddly. They stare at other species. And they have that weird stuff. The stuff only Earthers have. I saw the pretty Human with colored hair hide it. It not metal, and it not wood.”

“Ah. The stuff Kevin’s laptop is made of. I saw that too.”

Dawil murmured. Nailren’s ears perked up.

And here I stayed away from the inn because I really didn’t want to become a damned regular, doomed to always be sucked into Erin’s orbit. Ylawes was scratching at his head.

“I’ve never seen that.”

“It’s that thing Ryoka had, lad. You know that rectangle that lights up?”

“Oh, right…are you certain?”

“Only one thing to do. Keep an eye on ‘em, ask them where they’re from, and wait for one of them to do the finger guns or something. Shouldn’t take long. Pointy, you got mana for a [Message]? Assuming this area’s clear of mana drain.”

She was grimacing.

“I’m tapped. Anith?”

“Dead zone, I’m afraid. But Mrsha checks in regularly.”

Nailren let out a breath. More Earthers. Standard enough, none of his business, but…he hesitated and glanced at the dead Maven. Ylawes looked down too, and Larr finally found what he was searching for

“It’s all hacked up because someone sliced her head off, Pekona. But look at her chest.”

He’d found two small wounds that went deep. Nailren squatted down.

“Mind if I look?”

He sat there for a bit as people came out to inspect the bodies—the Silver Swords headed into the Waystation—and hmmed as he worked with his knife. Spoony wanted to go inside, but the ghost lingered until Nailren, who had a lot of gore on his paws, found what he wanted.

“Aha.”

He couldn’t find more than one; had the others fallen out or something? But he picked up the hard, foreign object and stared at it. A crumpled up piece of metal. Nailren pocketed it as he pretended to wash his paws off.

Not your ordinary Earthers at all. But the problem was—he was a Gnoll alone. No tribe, and he was out of his old work. Even so…

He was so damn curious.

——

There was something…familiar about Woll’s Waystation. Oh, it wasn’t great, even by the low standards of the Silver Swords. There was literally no roof anywhere except for the keep, and a brief rain popped up after the fight with the Cericel. Which revealed that yes, there were leaks in the fast-made building.

However, when Ylawes shook hands with the over-caffeinated Woll and caught his breath, yes…he knew this.

A building where people gathered in the middle of arguably-dangerous lands, fighting off monsters, with a quirky caretaker and adventurers and strange children from another planet?

It felt like home, in a perverse way, that not even House Byres felt like. Here, a Gold-rank adventurer thought, just for a moment, that he might find people who understood his brand of insanity.

If anything, Woll was the one unprepared for the Silver Swords. He’d finished peeing—again—and was introducing himself to the Cenidau warriors, who were distinctly unimpressed by the waystation. Styrvi dumped a roll of pelts down on the ground.

“We’ve hides to trade. Not much. The skin of some giant reptile we slew—how much is it worth?”

“Hmm. How much? Well, we don’t have a [Tanner] or anyone to appraise it. Tell you what, I’ll throw in a bag of tea, and…”

Falene was tilting her head as Ylawes glanced around for the possible-Earthers, but they’d vanished amidst the crowds, and everyone was staring at Rasktooth and Infinitypear. True to their nature, Poke Duo were going around shaking hands.

“Hello, I am Infinitypear and this is Rasktooth. We are not monsters.”

“I technically a monster because I’m in the monster bestiary. Goblins has eight whole pages, big record.”

There was something about the two that drew attention to them, the same as Anith, actually. The Jackal Beastkin was so unfamiliar every Gnoll had come over to say hello, and they’d drawn the others with them.

It left the Silver Swords free to investigate. Dawil instantly strode off.

“Latrines, then I’ll see about getting us work.”

“I’ll ask around too, Dawil.”

The Dwarf hesitated, about to do his customary slap on the back and needling comment to begin the competition, but he held up a finger.

“Just one thing, lad. Let’s not commit to anything this time, eh? We’re just getting offers and there’s no need to promise things on your honor or word, right? Remember the [Merchant]?”

Ylawes’ cheeks went red. He hesitated, but knew he deserved it and ducked his head.

“I do. No promises, Dawil.”

The Dwarf hesitated another moment, then forced a smile and tugged at his beard.

“Right, well then, we’ll see who gets the best offers. May the smartest Dwarf win!”

Ylawes folded his arms and glowered at the Dwarf in a rare show of actual pique, and Falene half-smiled.

“What’s the score?”

“I think it’s…16-23.”

Pekona turned to them. She was half-inclined to go with her team, but clearly didn’t want to be as social as Insill or Dasha. Even Larr was chatting with his people, but the Drathian [Sword Dancer] seemed like an outsider even in her team. She hesitated.

“What numbers are those?”

Ylawes hesitated, about to say it was silly, but he realized the Silver Swords’ little in-jokes probably meant it was hard to understand what they were doing, so he coughed, flushing slightly.

“How many times we’ve landed a good contract. When we’re seeking. Random offers don’t count, or missions of mercy. Dawil and I will go searching for work, and whomever gets the best offer…”

Pekona nodded until Falene put in.

“Ylawes is the ‘16’. Dawil has a pattern of finding better-paying jobs. One time, he actually secured a better offer—from the same client. Ylawes doesn’t negotiate.”

“I negotiate! I just—don’t press hard.”

Ylawes muttered as Pekona hid a smile with her hand. Falene directed her attention back to Woll.

“Fascinating. I’m going to investigate the economy of this place.”

That was a purely Falene-decision, and Ylawes was looking around for that [Merchant] who might need escorts after the Cericel attack. He walked off, but Pekona lingered.

“What kind of economy?”

Ylawes hesitated; he’d have liked her to come with him, but Falene seemed pleased by the question. She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.

“Well, how is Master Woll going to make a profit off those hides? They might have been skinned well enough, but quality control must be an issue. Moreover, a few hides is not worth much. Oh, in the New Lands, if you could process them, everyone needs gear. I don’t see any other infrastructure here. So either he must hold onto them, process the hides himself, or send them to Izril proper for payment, which incurs costs in transportation—and the goods are worth less in Izril. The hide of the animal—a crocodile, I believe—would be worth more for novelty. But the rest?”

Her lecture to Pekona made the [Sword Dancer] nod.

“So he should hire a [Tanner].”

“Yes…though building a tannery? Difficult; it’s a noxious place. And how much food does he have? Even with trade, will he have shortfalls? He seems to store goods, but security and [Thieves] must be an issue.”

Ylawes glanced at Pekona and Falene. Well…yes, when she put it like that, this was a big and risky undertaking. If he thought about it for two seconds, he’d have come to largely the same conclusions, if not as technical as Falene.

But because she’d pointed it out, he did linger long enough to see Woll buy the furs. Not for much, but he offered Evor a gold coin and some silver before striding over.

“Ah, Silver Swords, was it? My earholes are burning. Did I hear someone talking about trade? Even the [Merchants] seem more concerned with finding valuable goods than sending them…well, I do not have the funds to do more than develop this waystation at the moment, and as you can see, we had to make do. Our [Mason] developed some kind of sickness on the first night, and we had to rush him back to Goisedall.”

“Oh dear. What kind of sickness?”

Woll shook his head, grimacing.

“I don’t know, but it was a high fever, and the man was sick and constantly—well, let us just say he used the privy quite a lot. Terrible, terrible—it’s hit half the people I brought.”

Falene glanced at Ylawes, alarmed, and Woll hurried to clarify.

“That was before we set up the waystation! I rather suspect it was some off-meat or something. At any rate, I have an open request for more [Builders], anyone with useful Skills for this spot. In time, I’d like a road back to Goisedall. The first trade road through the New Lands. Now, what can I do for you all? Anything to trade? That is a fine hide from a—crocodile you said, Miss Falene? I do think it’d be worth something in Izril.”

Ylawes re-introduced himself and explained they were looking to be hired. Woll smiled.

“Well then, this might be a good place to linger a day or two. I don’t know if Merchant Kileth needs more hands—I’d say he’s in the market for some, but that might have rattled him, poor man. He may well turn around here.”

“Have you seen that happen?”

“Oh, quite often. This is where it occurs; caravans come in, peer across Kishkeria’s Grasslands, and count how much food they’ve got now that their magic’s out and farming’s bad. Then they turn around. Or they try the grasslands, run out of food, and come back here in a mess. Or just don’t come back at all.”

Falene’s brows had risen.

“Truly? But while the magic issue is dire, it’s not insurmountable—I can cast magic, if a limited amount per day. And if I eat more food or run into any good magic sources, I can [Harvest Mana].”

Ylawes blinked at her, and Woll nodded.

“True! We had some [Sorcerer] come through. The Amazing, Astonishing Leireit or some such. However, most caravans don’t have Level 30 [Mages], Miss Falene. And the farming…they could live without magic, but without food?”

He shook his head, and Falene tilted her head to one side.

“…But you can fix that too. The Archmage of Memory has created a ritual that allows one to purify the earth. Not much, but—”

“He’s what?”

Woll’s voice rose, and Ylawes realized—the man had no access to [Message] spells. In the next second, Woll was towing Falene over.

“Attention! We have a [Mage] with [Message] spells with critical information about the New Lands! Mage Falene—you, we need a billboard or something. A way to post messages!”

It was like Erin all over again; Woll ran and found some planks of wood and was cobbling together a billboard as Falene delivered her information.

“A ground-purification ritual? Do you know the spell?”

Everyone was astonished, and Falene hesitated.

“No…but I could learn it, I think. It’s complex to impart via [Message] spell, but I could pull it off, I think. Then you’d need at least four Level 10 [Mages] capable of linking.”

Woll came striding back over, followed by several interested people.

“I don’t know what that is, but we have magic-users.”

A Drake [Mage] leading her team gestured at her chest.

“So do we. I practice a bit of it myself. Miss Falene, can you teach someone? If you taught me or I got the instructions—I’ll pay you to teach it!”

The [Battlemage] glanced at Ylawes, uncertain, but he was thinking and nodded slowly.

“It’s a very important thing, Falene. Others might come with the knowledge, but if that came with somewhere to sleep, and food while Falene works? I have to ask Dawil, but I think it makes sense, don’t you, Falene?”

Woll nodded rapidly as she thought it over.

“Let’s do a deal, Captain. We can find room for your team!”

The Drake was beaming, as he produced his clipboard and prepared to write things up, but Ylawes leaned over as Falene began to get names of potential students.

“I’ve never had to teach linking—it’s advanced, and it’s usually an entire semester in Wistram—”

“We’ll learn it fast or die trying.”

If there was no other recourse for [Mages] but that—she took a breath, then glanced at Pekona.

“Pekona, my pack on the horses—I need my notes, please?”

Pekona dashed off as Ylawes nodded at his team.

“Obviously, we’ll take a fee from anyone who wants to learn. A very reasonable one.”

“Naturally, naturally, but I’ll compensate you for this, Captain. This knowledge benefits us all. Woll’s Waystation is a place I intend to be essential—and this is just the thing. Information as well as trade.”

Woll’s eyes were gleaming, and Ylawes coughed.

“To that end, Woll—I’d hire more guards. And build those walls higher.”

“Of course, Captain. The Cericel attack proves we need security, and it’s on the list as soon as I get some more [Builders]. As I said, my team—”

Ylawes went on as Woll chattered.

“I would also see if I could persuade some of the people passing through to work for you. You need a good staff. A good staff, thick walls—I’d make the Waystation as wide as you can, but twenty feet, at least. And…crossbows. An entry hallway, maybe. With traps. Somewhere to funnel attackers.”

Woll blinked at Ylawes.

“I…that seems a bit excessive, Captain. I’d like an open trading post, not some kind of military checkpoint back home. Drakes already have a stigma attached to them, and I’d like not to play into that.”

He grinned, but the [Knight] turned to Woll, and his face was so serious that the [Secretary] hesitated. Ylawes stared at an [Innkeeper] who was not that much taller than Woll and saw someone resting on a frozen bier. He put a hand on Woll’s shoulder.

“As someone who’s seen a place like this growing before, Woll, I’d insist it’s very important. If not the hallway—there will be trouble. When the troubles comes, we might not be there. Then it’ll just be you and only the people who you can count on. It could be a lot worse than the Cericel.”

Woll blinked at Ylawes, not sure what to say, until the man smiled.

“Forgive me, it may be unnecessary.”

“No. No, you’re right. Only a fool makes a mistake twice. Or fails to listen to the expert. I have been the fool and here is the expert. Salii would toss me off a tower if I didn’t—well, then. I’ll look into it. Quickly.”

The [Secretary] took Ylawes’ advice and switched from reluctance to acceptance so fast it threw Ylawes, but the [Knight] was relieved. He ducked his head.

“I apologize if I’m wrong, it’s just—yes, I do think it’s best. I’m no expert on security but I’d be happy to answer any questions you have. Ah, but on another topic, what did you have in mind for compensation?”

Only then did the Drake seem to think to ask where Ylawes had come from. But when the man said House Byres, that told Woll nothing.

After ten minutes, Dawil walked back into the waystation, wiping his hands on a handkerchief and grimacing.

“I really wish I had toilet paper. And somewhere to wash my hands instead of a damn bucket. At least we’ve got soap. Eugh, the things you see…so any progress on deals yet, Anith? Where’s Pointy and the lad?”

He turned, and the Jackal Beastkin pointed wordlessly at Falene and Ylawes. Dawil’s face screwed up.

“Aw. Every time, it’s just his damn luck. Every time, I swear…”

——

Russell’s mind was being blown every ten seconds in the waystation. It wasn’t that there was magic everywhere. On the contrary, the lack of it and the feeling that this really was some kind of ramshackle, border trading outpost in the middle of nowhere made it feel even realer to him.

Because it meant this wasn’t the best of what the world had to offer. With that said—

Everyone’s got steel or leather. He’d noted Ylawes wearing plate armor, but even aside from the Cenidau warriors, there were Drakes strutting around with leather and chainmail, sharp-looking weapons on hips.

“Everyone’s dressed like a—a fantasy story.”

Lenora breathed as she and Russell stood together. He nodded.

“Lots of metal.”

“Mhm. More than I’d draw. How many smithies do you have to run to produce enough for everyone? In the dark ages of Europe, this much steel would have been impossible for anyone but someone of the nobility to own, or a professional mercenary.”

Russell twisted around, surprised.

“You know history?”

“I mean…yes? A bit? I worked on other projects before. Fantasies. I had to research lore-accurate clothing and backgrounds when I was put in charge of those. This—this isn’t a dream, is it?”

She was biting on her thumbnail and staring at a Drake as he strolled down the walls, spear on his shoulder, and both watched his scales moving slightly with every step, the light catching each one, flashing orange as he yawned, revealing his teeth and…for a second, Russell understood Lenora’s anguished eyes.

“No one could animate or draw that. Not in such detail. I thought we might be in some sick virtual reality, you know, with artificial intelligence or…but no one can draw that.”

That was how she believed this was real. Russell had already believed the moment he had smelled another world and bent down to touch the grass.

The sight of the Cericel Maven had also proven it to him; no creature dreamt of in God’s creation on Earth could move like that thing.

Speaking of which, he wished he’d skinned the animals he’d shot, or got some meat, because this was clearly a place to trade, and they had no coins. Food, supplies, everything could be had here, and Russell tried to think of anything he could sell.

…Nothing. Everything I have is clearly not what they’re wearing. Even his clothing might be ‘cotton’, but he had a lot of polyester fabrics, good, lightweight gear that anyone would clock as unique a mile off.

How do we earn money? The answer seemed to be spending bullets—shoot one of the deer, skin it, take the meat and hide back for profit. But how many bullets could he spend?

Just don’t miss, and see what’s the most valuable here. He nodded to Lenora.

“You see the others? They keep wandering off. Let’s figure how to make money.”

“Sure.”

They saw Arnie walking around the small waystation keep; he was listening to the half-Elf, Falene, not really saying much. He seemed to be absorbing her talk about magic. Chester was nowhere to be seen, but Honarai…

“So you’re from Salazsar. City of Gems? I’ve never been!”

She was chatting to a Drake with a teapot as she sipped tea, and Russell groaned—but the [Streamer] was good at talking and, it seemed, savvier than he’d given her credit for. The female Drake shrugged.

“It’s not as rich as you’d imagine, Miss. No gemstones lining the streets, and the [Miners] might pull gold out of the ground, but they don’t keep it.”

“Aw. But how big are the gemstones? Also, your scales? Fabulous. How do you keep them in good shape out here? Also, do you know where to get supplies? We’re, like, out of money, and we’ve been stuck out here for ages.”

The Drake poured Honarai another cup, grimacing.

“Ouch. How’d you lose your money? Bag of holding explode?”

“Yes. Exactly. Russell’s the only one with a bag now!”

“Well…Woll might need hands, but food’s pretty dear. Tell you what, I’ll ask if we need help or something. But if you can hunt or you have enough food, just keep heading east. Goisedall’s only seven days on foot or less; depends on these rainstorms. The rivers are nasty but there are decent fording spots. And if you go straight east, there’ll be enough people coming this way that most monsters won’t be a problem. Where are you from, again?”

Honarai’s smile almost twinkled as she lifted a hand to her face.

“Tell you what, you guess which nation I’m from and I’ll tell you if you’re right. I bet it’s super obvious.”

“Well…I don’t know Terandrian kingdoms well—”

“Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Lenora whispered to Russell as they eyed Honarai.

“Oh, she’s good.”

He still wanted to say that she was taking too much of a risk. However, it proved that everyone here spoke English, like Erin had claimed, and they were…people.

To test this, he walked over to someone who he felt like he could talk to: a Gnoll that had a bloody tarp over something he kept swatting flies away from. They might be from different worlds, but the Gnoll sniffed at Russell, frowned a second, then nodded.

“Interested in buying? I’ve got half a Corusdeer here. Unsalted; I’m looking for eight gold pieces. Nothing less. It’s good, killed this morning, and unless anyone wants monster parts, it’s worth it in the New Lands.”

Russell put his hands in his pocket and didn’t smile, but shook his head amiably.

“I’m actually looking to hunt myself. Is eight gold a good price? And would you say that a Corusdeer’s the right thing to hunt? Sorry, but we just got here, and we’re low on money.”

He nodded to Lenora, who waved, and the Gnoll hesitated, then shrugged.

“It’s what I’m charging. I’d be lucky to get five gold for an entire deer with antlers back east, but here? Everyone needs meat. I just wish I had more salt. I’m thinking of smoking it—if I can get a source of wood. There’s some of those pink tree-things a ways east, but hauling it out here without a bag of holding…I just can’t carry it all. But hey, I leveled [Hunter]. Level 18. If I get some kind of hauling Skill, I’d be set.”

“Oh, nice. Was that a bow kill?”

Did they use spears? Crossbows? The Gnoll indicated a recurve bow on his back.

“Unenchanted. [Bleed Arrow]. Had to run it down for two miles, but better than them charging me. You a [Hunter]? Izrilian?”

“No…Terandrian.”

It seemed safe, and the Gnoll nodded.

“You hunt Corusdeer up there?”

“I haven’t before. I saw one yesterday, but I was worried about the horns.”

“Hrr. Might be a stray buck, yes? They can be loners. Most go in herds. Don’t shoot at them in a herd. I think that’s obvious, but sometimes an idiot tries it. Their horns? They ignite. If they charge you and hit you full-on, even with a healing potion you’re in trouble. Without one…?”

He shuddered and shook his head. Russell’s lips twitched.

Healing potion. The Gnoll stuck out a paw.

“My manners have left me with all this excitement. Oregg.”

“Russell.”

“[Hunter]?”

“No, uh…another class sort of like that.”

“You favor a crossbow? Wand? Or something crazy like a spear?”

Oregg checked out Russell, who clearly had no visible weapons on him, and the [Gunslinger] adapted fast.

“I’m—crossbows, yeah. I stow mine when I’m not using it. The rain’s going to rust it, and I don’t have much oil.”

That was the right thing to say. Oregg immediately began cursing the rain.

“It is, isn’t it? My bowstring’s already feeling like it’s fraying, and I wouldn’t want to have metal here—! And I paid for an enchantment that made my bowstrings last longer. That’s twenty gold I’ll not get back. Without magic, this is all so much harder. Still…at least we know how to survive, eh?”

He bared his teeth, and Russell copied him. They got to talking, and Oregg confirmed what Russell had suspected.

“Those fowl are tasty, but most creatures here are too small to be worth shooting if you miss your arrows. The Corusdeer are where I’m specialized.”

“With Skills…?”

“Sure. [Deer Hunter]’s my class. I have [Identify Stragglers], [Advanced Tracking]—nothing fancy. I’d love to take on bigger game, but again, I can’t carry it. Those Landsharks…”

He shuddered, and Russell felt his skin prickle.

“Worse than the Cericel?”

“I mean, worse, better, I’d be dead either way. Too many things that are actual predators out here. Were I you, I’d be careful how I camp. But a monster’s worth more than any animal, even a magic one like a Corusdeer. Damn, I wonder if those Cericel are worth something. Maybe we could harvest them if those adventurers are too busy.”

Oregg cast an eye towards the gates, but it seemed like a number of people had the same idea. The Gnoll, Larr, was loudly warning people off.

“We’re collecting their parts. Adventurer’s claim!”

“The meat and bones could be good bait for predators. But again, I’m not going to risk that.”

Russell glanced at Lenora.

“We ran into a—some kind of monster last night. It had two jaws, and it was fast. I wish I’d taken parts off it. What do you think would have sold?”

The Gnoll’s brows rose.

“I don’t know. I’m told there are valuable organs, but [Alchemists] get picky about those. Claws and teeth are good ones, or just skin it if your knife can even pierce its hide…what did it look like? Two jaws…”

Russell tried to describe it, but something with lots of teeth on all fours fit a lot of animals. The two jaws part got Oregg’s attention, though, and then Lenora raised a hand.

“Um—hey, would this help? It looked like this.”

She stuck out an arm, and the two hunters blinked. Russell recoiled as the same animal he’d had to shoot leapt out at him. Her skin! Right, she’d been drawing on…

“Drake’s Ancestors, what is that?”

Oregg’s exclamations drew a few other people over. They stared at Lenora’s drawing and began to confer.

“That’s no monster I’ve ever seen. Great, another threat to watch out for in the New Lands. Is this accurate, miss?”

“I’m an [Artist], and I drew it as close as I could, so…yes? It was about six feet long, I’d say four high?”

“Fantastic. How’d you kill it?”

“Lucky shot. It jumped us when we were sitting around the fire. I thought I sensed rustling, and it was moving in the grass.”

The others groaned, and then someone else put in with a familiar voice.

“That’s a new monster. I’ve never seen the like. Dawil! Have you ever seen this?”

The Gnoll, Labright, Nailren, or whatever his name was, had come over. His call brought the Dwarf, who stumped over, took one look at Lenora’s arm as the two Humans tried not to show how excited they were to get to talk to him, and shook his head.

“Nope. That’s a new monster. Wonderful. Why two jaws?”

“Maybe it’s just to bite things twice as fast?”

Nailren bared his teeth in a joke, but Dawil muttered.

“There’s always a reason. Doesn’t sound twice as smart if it jumped you lot, but maybe it can see in every direction or something? Those eyes…four of ‘em?”

“Yes, and they’re sort of green. It’s got a pale red-grey hide, like flesh, but it was filthy. And it had paws like a dog. Digitigrade.”

Lenora’s attention to visual detail was valuable, and Dawil’s eyes flickered to her.

“Paws like a dog…hold on. This is ringing a bell in my head. Maybe…what’s your name, Miss? Mine’s Dawil. Gold-rank adventurer with the Silver Swords.”

He held out a hand, and she shook it.

“I’m Lenora, this is Russell—”

“And I’m Honarai! You’re a Dwarf? Hello!”

She appeared as Dawil jumped. Honarai shook his hand excitedly, beating Russell to it. He eyed her hair and clothing.

“Where are you all from? Hey, Ylawes, get over here! Someone found another monster!”

He hollered, and Russell bit his lip, but Honarai answered for him.

“Oh, we’re all from different parts of Terandria. I’m from Pheislant, Lenora and Russell are from Ailendamus, Arnie’s from…well, actually I don’t know, and Chester’s Calanferian.”

“Quite the spread. I’m from Deríthal-Vel, myself. Have you ever been to Dwarfhome? You’ve never met my people abroad?”

“No, never! I hear it’s great, though. Big fan of Dwarves. I just, you know, never got out much.”

“I see. Well, Pheislant is on my list of places to go. Kingdom of Keys. Always wanted to visit.”

Dawil stroked his beard, and Honarai beamed at him.

“Hey, you come by and I’ll hand you one myself!”

It was Russell who noticed Oregg frown absently and a few of the other travellers blink. He felt like—no, the too-bland expression on Dawil’s face told him Honarai had just made a mistake. She realized it too and went on.

“Well…kingdoms, what do I know? I just live wherever. So what’s this about the monster that nearly ate us?”

Ylawes had walked over, and Dawil indicated Lenora’s arm. Actually, she’d found a piece of wood and, to everyone’s amazement, had already sketched the monster out so she didn’t have to keep holding her arm out.

“Amazing art.”

Nailren eyed the plank of wood—and Lenora’s pen—and Russell’s skin itched.

We have to get out of here. But…none of these people seemed hostile. It was just that they clearly understood Russell’s group was not who they said they were.

It was hard, actually, for Russell to look at the Dwarf, Human, and half-Elf and not hear the lines from that movie playing in his head, or to meet Ylawes Byres’ gaze as the man asked about the monster attack and think this fellow was a threat.

—Nailren Russell wasn’t sure about. However, Ylawes’ attention was drawn to the monster, and he disagreed with the others.

“That’s not a new monster. I think—I’m not positive, but I think that’s actually a Cericel.”

“What? Are you serious?”

Everyone was surprised by this, but Dawil nodded.

“The lad’s good with monsters, especially the ones his house hunts. That’s House Byres, by the way, one of the noble houses of Izril. The Five Families are the big ones; Terland, El, Reinhart, Veltras, Wellfar—you should know them and the six Walled Cities of the south, Miss. Important to get these details right when you’re in Izril.”

Now it sounded like he was giving Honarai advice. But Ylawes was muttering.

“I think…this is a Hound. There’s types of Cericel. What we killed was a ‘Maven’, which isn’t the same as a Scourgequeen. A Scourgequeen would be even deadlier, if not actually larger. There’s Fangbeasts…but they’re only in alpha-packs. I think this is a Hound, and if we killed a bunch of Stalkers, then it fits. It’s a small pack, and the Hound was scouting for prey last night.”

Russell’s skin crawled. So they’d missed the pack in the night. Oregg swore.

“Damn. How many packs might there be, Captain Ylawes?”

“Hard to say. Cericel spread fast, and they’re dangerous. I’d hope we killed the entire pack here, but…if you killed a Hound, sir, there’s a bounty on them. Only two silver, but Cericel are a public-menace monster, and you could swear on truth stones and be paid the bounty if we were at an Adventurer’s Guild.”

Ylawes addressed Russell, and the man smiled.

Truth spells. Great.

Dawil was nodding.

“Best if we all stay sharp. We staying here, lad? Might be good if everyone holds together. Are you heading east? It’s safer than the New Lands, especially if you lot just popped up.”

Honarai turned to Russell and Lenora.

“Oh, well, we’re exploring like everyone else. We might go back, but we don’t want to be quitters, right? Even if we’re out of gold.”

Ylawes and Dawil exchanged a look, and the Dwarf sighed.

“Well, if you need a hand, the lad here is going to insist…”

Russell had the feeling of the jaws of a trap closing, but he wasn’t sure if they were just being charitable. He hesitated, not sure what to say, and Honarai was doing the same when someone interrupted.

“Excuse me, actually, we have work. Russell! Hona, Lenora!”

Chester appeared with none other than Woll himself. He was smiling, and Russell turned as Dawil frowned.

“I’ve got a job for us for lodging for the night. And some food and coin.”

“Really?”

Russell was impressed right up until Woll nodded.

“This is your friend who can kill monsters?”

“Russell, yes. He can defend himself. Russell, Woll needs more people to stand watch. The rest of us get to lay stones.”

The [Candidate] seemed very pleased with himself, but Russell shot him an immediate glare. Stand watch with what? My rifle? But Woll was busy.

“I’d like more hands, yes, and anyone who can relieve pressure on my people while the Silver Swords are camped—go see the Drake up there, Rillemet. He’ll have you working.”

“Oh, yay. Laying bricks. Woo.”

Honarai pumped a fist into the air, but she didn’t seem that upset. Russell pulled Chester to the side.

“What the hell are you thinking?”

“I found us work. Russell, we need income.”

“I can hunt! What am I supposed to tell them when they ask me what I’m carrying?”

Chester gave Russell an impatient gaze.

“Just tell them it’s a weapon. You won’t have to use it unless there’s another monster. Russell, we have to engage with these people, not skulk around. Come on, we’re laying bricks. Teamwork, right?”

He patted Russell on the shoulder, and the [Gunslinger] took a breath. But they’d already agreed and he was conscious of the Silver Swords watching him, so he nodded and grabbed his pack.

——

Fortunately, the Drake told Russell he was going to be pulling the night shift, so it’d be dark when he had to stand watch.

“Look, just shout if you see anyone trying to sneak in or out. We told everyone inside—no leaving to use the privy. Woll’s orders. If you see a monster, scream. You won’t be the only one on the walls.”

The low dirt walls weren’t exactly impressive, but Russell nodded as he held his long rifle as covertly as he could. He didn’t see the Silver Swords below, but he cursed Chester—again. The Drake, Rillemet, did inspect the rifle with a frown.

“One thing—what’s that you’re carrying?”

“It’s…my weapon. It’s like a crossbow.”

“Huh. No design I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s from Terandria.”

Rillemet raised his brows. After Russell was not forthcoming, he nodded.

“I guess it’s new, or maybe they have a copy in Pallass or something? The City of Inventions makes stuff like that all the time.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I see it?”

“…Sure, but be careful. Don’t touch—anything.”

Russell held out the gun but didn’t let the Drake do more than touch it. Safety on or not, he jerked it back before the Drake could peer down the tube.

“It’s loaded.”

“Right. Oops. Well, as long as it shoots, just walk down the walls every now and then. No need to march. Here.”

He had a lantern, and Russell accepted it. He stood on the walls as the Drake walked down, and then he sighed. It was going to be a long night. Russell walked up and down the walls and distinctly heard Rillemet talking below.

“Yeah, the Human’s fine. Bit taciturn, and he’s got some weird crossbow weapon. I’m turning in. Tell Woll that the walls are gonna become mud unless we actually start making them out of stone. I’m surprised this entire place hasn’t rained away.”

Whatever someone else said to him was lost as Russell stared into the night. He was annoyed at Chester. Annoyed at Honarai getting them in trouble, even if she’d been trying. Lenora was fine. Arnie had muttered about ‘gathering intelligence’ before they’d began working.

If only I were by myself. Then he felt sure he could have gotten what he needed from Oregg, gone out, begun hunting, and come back and made enough coin to buy some supplies and keep going.

Instead, they might be found out already. True, not by evil people, but…

What will this lead to? Erin said that some people knew us. Enemies and allies.

He had three guns; the others were sleeping with his pack, which had the shotgun and his ammunition in there, and if he lost it, there was no replacing it in this world.

The most precious things, the only things that made him useful. Russell paced up and down the walls trying to think. Eastwards from here, but to where? Erin had said she had an inn where he’d be safe. This was Izril, but they were far from normal civilization.

Could you trust people you just met? A [Knight] had to be a man of honor, right? A Dwarf, a half-Elf, a Human.

Goblin and Antinium. Russell nearly ran into a Drake patrolling the other side of the wall, whirled on his heel, and walked back.

Monsters. There was something called a ‘Scourgequeen’? But he’d shot down a Maven; they’d been saying it had a bounty and that her hide might have been worth something if someone could process it.

Could I kill monsters? Like an adventurer?

He didn’t have enough ammunition. How to get more? Impossible. He could have hand-loaded the shells back home, but…maybe Arnie’s gunpowder was the best option.

Why bat guano for gunpowder?

…It was a long night. Russell only got relieved when the sun was rising, and he stumbled down the ramparts as a yawning Rillemet met him.

“Good work, er, Human. Dead gods, I told you that you didn’t need to pace!”

“I just felt like walking.”

“Well, I appreciate the energy. Get some sleep. Your group’s over there.”

Russell walked over and groaned.

They’d set up his tent in a corner of the keep. The tent, which was so visibly from Earth with its nylon fabric and unique design that—

He gave up. He was tired, and the fact that they were getting out of his bedroll meant he’d get that and the tent. He stumbled over, sleep-deprived, and Honarai offered him something.

“Hey, Russell! Good work! We get breakfast. Here, I got you this, and I could get you some tea later?”

She held out his tin cup filled with water. Russell took it, raised it to his mouth, then jerked the cup away.

“Hold it. Where is this from?”

He peered at her; they’d been drinking rainwater they’d had to collect in the tent tarp, but they’d been low on water before. She shook her head.

“Don’t worry, Woll said we could use the well. It’s over there, see?”

She jerked a thumb at a crude well and bucket someone was drawing water from already. Russell’s sleep-addled mind prompted him to take a sip of the water. But then he squinted.

“Did you boil it?”

“Boil it? It’s from the well.”

He dumped the water out of the cup instantly.

“I’ve got soap in my pack. Clean the cup, clean everything with boiled water, got it? Don’t drink anything from a well without boiling it, Honarai!”

He was tired and snapped at her, and she raised her hands.

“C’mon, Russell—”

Then she felt at her stomach.

“Ow, I’ve got cramps, actually. And Chester said his stomach hurt last night too.”

Russell stared at her, and his heart sank as he heard cursing from over to his right. He turned—and Dawil crawled out of his own tent.

“My insides! Dead gods, was it something I ate?”

Honarai stared at Rusell, then at Dawil, and the [Gunslinger] closed his eyes. Even Gold-rank adventurers? But in a world of magic and spells, he supposed…only Ylawes Byres, who cared about well sanitation, and the Gnoll, Nailren, made a point of boiling water.

Everyone else?

Well, half of them had all gotten what he was pretty sure was dysentery.

——

It was actually quite a problem. It was dangerous.

And gross, of course. Give credit where it was due: it was the young man, Russell, who went running towards Woll and delivered the news to the Drake the moment he realized what was going on.

To Woll’s credit, the Drake instantly shouted the news and issued a public apology; he hadn’t known. He was, of course, both embarrassed and in trouble with any group that had gotten sick, but the most embarrassed person was probably Dawil.

“I can’t believe I’ve got…whatever the hell it is! Like a rookie in front of the younger adventurers! I just—I remember Ylawes boiling water, but Falene took over once we hit Gold-rank and just hit our gear with [Cleanse] and cast [Purify Water] each time we camped!”

He’d taken the convenience of magic for granted. So had Woll; the Drake from Salazsar might be prepared in many ways, but he’d never had to worry about sanitation in his city.

The Dwarf was pale-faced, sweating, holding his cramping stomach, and he was one of at least a hundred struck down by the mass-dysentery. He lay there, curled up, until a shadow fell over him.

“Psst. Dawil. Whose magic is silly now? Hmm?”

He groaned up at the superior half-Elf who stood over him. However, after that, Falene just checked his temperature and cast a cooling spell on him, Insill, Dasha, and Infinitypear, who were all lying there.

It was a mark of how badly Dawil was feeling that Falene didn’t mock him that badly. Even Infinitypear had gotten sick.

“I just don’t understand. You drank water, Rasktooth.”

The Cave Goblin was patting his brother’s back.

“Yeah, but I grew up drinking dungeon water or insides of monsters.”

“…And?”

“You is stop brown streaming when you get, like, one year old. Or you get a Skill, [Greater Resistance: Filth] or something. Guess that one place where Cave Goblins beat even Antinium, eh, Brother?”

He cheerfully patted Infinitypear again, and the Worker rasped.

“I am not in a pat-pat happy mood, Brother. Stop patting my back shell, please.”

“Sorry. You need help to get to the poo spot again?”

The latrines were…crowded. A second one had been dug, but Falene grimaced.

“Bad sanitation causes this. Washing one’s hands with hot water and cleaning that well—essentials. I’ve agreed to keep teaching the ground-purification ritual and cast [Cleanse], but Woll may have to do more than rely on my magic. I’ll help Dasha use the privy with Pekona. Er, how bad is it this morning, Ylawes?”

He took a breath.

“It’s…well, I’d rather be cleaning up Creler guts, Falene. It is a smell and sight. Be careful where you step.”

She paled as Pekona finished putting a charm on Dasha’s chest. Ylawes heard loud cursing from the side and groaned.

Russell’s party of probably-Earthers, the Silver Swords, the colonists, and Cenidau’s warriors were all hit. Evor was swearing up a storm as Styrvi snapped into another tent.

“If you need to shit that badly, use your helmet! But don’t come to me to clean it! Argh, how are we not sick?”

She and Rigalde had drunk a lot of water from the well too; Cenidau’s wells were so cold apparently it wasn’t as much of an issue. Rigalde muttered.

“I handed you the cup. [Cleanly Hands].”

“Argh. What a time to be a [Maid]. Cleaning literal shit off of clothing!”

However, for all their ribbing and complaints, there was a sense of actual urgency amongst the healthy. Woll himself was speaking to a sleep-deprived Russell and Lenora, who were the only two standing.

“Let’s say it is this disease you know. Dysentery?”

“Could be cholera. Either way, it’s going to take days to clean up. And it means they need hydration. But it could get bad.”

“So, water, boiled water, understood. How bad is…bad?”

“They could die. Do healing potions work on diseases?”

Woll was glancing around at the people lying there or hobbling to the latrines. The horses were unhappy as the scent of manure was replaced by something a lot worse.

“No, that’d make it worse even if we had enough. How fatal is dysentery?”

Russell hesitated as Ylawes walked over with Rigalde. He glanced at them, and the [Knight] listened as the young man licked his lips.

“It killed more people than anything else on the—during a famous incident back home. I don’t know how to treat dysentery. It’s a threat where I come from—lots of idiots will drink water without purifying it first, but I’ve never had to treat anyone. They need rest, lots of fluids, and medicine.”

“Medicine. Like for the Yellow Rivers disease. Could Goisedall have any…?”

“It’s not a common issue. Drakes have good well sanitation, so the [Healers] might not carry any.”

Especially if this is an Earth illness. Ylawes bit his lip, and Woll sighed.

“We need a [Healer]. A good one, right now. Miss Falene has sent word to the local Drake cities, and I will seek out every caravan passing by here, but I confess, I am ashamed, Captain Ylawes. Salii would never have made this mistake.”

He hung his head, and Ylawes had to ask.

“Could it be we’re wrong, Woll, Russell? I know this all seems to point to the well, but a good adventurer double-checks things. Woll, you’ve been here longest. How have you not gotten sick, or most of your crew?”

For answer, Woll pointed glumly at someone going around.

“I suppose it was just luck. And the rains—it gave us so much water we weren’t using the well nearly as much until just now. As for how I didn’t get sick of late…tea, Captain Byres. Tea. Once we got it, I’ve not had a drop of water, just tea, and of course one boils the water before drinking…we might have saved many people from the tea and failed to notice the well as a result. I’d toss an entire crate down the well if that sanitized it. That doesn’t work, does it?”

He turned to Russell, and the young man shook his head. Ylawes felt at his side.

“I could offer you some powdered silver…”

“Does that stop dysentery?”

“No, it’s a family custom, but it might help?”

Woll shook his head after hesitating for a minute, and Russell eyed Ylawes.

“Best not to toss anything else down there. It’s going to be a long, filthy day, gentlemen. Mister Russell, sleep. Miss Lenora? I will hire you to write up Miss Falene’s news about the purification of the ground on our billboard, something eye-catching, as well as an advisory about this sanitation issue. Then, all hands are going to be digging a new well and more latrines. Captain Byres, I’d gladly pay for help too.”

So that was how Ylawes made a living for a bit. Digging holes for people to poo into. All things considered…he’d rather have been marching. Still, it let him keep an eye on Russell. Dawil’s test of Honarai had proven they were lying about where they were from, but how else to tell for sure if they were Earthers?

I could just ask. But Russell seemed wary. So, Ylawes Byres tried to think of the most Earth-like thing from Erin Solstice he could imagine. He thought and thought and finally had it after helping Dawil to and from the horrible latrines.

“You need anything else, Dawil?”

“Just some more good water and rest, lad. I’ll be hungry in a bit. Sorry.”

Dawil lay down with a groan, and Ylawes saw Chester wobbling back over to some blankets Woll had given them; Arnie was wrapped up in the sleeping bag, and Honarai was in the tent. He paused, then raised his voice.

“You know what? I really miss food from home—I mean, Liscor, Dawil. I could really go for a cheeseburger right about now. And a milkshake.”

He’d never actually had a milkshake, but it was something he’d heard Erin and other Earthers say longingly. Ylawes watched as, out of the corner of his eye, Arnie’s head poked out of his sleeping bag. Chester halted dead in his tracks, and Honarai rustled around in the tent and went still. Dawil stared up at Ylawes with one bloodshot eye.

“Congratulations, lad. Now, would you mind tying the tent up? I’m gonna try and sleep.”

Well, it was something to Ylawes at least. He wondered what to do about it.

——

They knew. Russell stood on the walls, gazing down at the Silver Swords, and he held a long tube wrapped in a bit of cloth he’d traded for.

A rifle. He gazed down at the [Knight] who was made of stories. A good man.

That’s what he’d heard people saying. The Silver Swords. Ylawes of House Byres, like he was someone they were familiar with.

He seemed honest, brave, and he knew.

Russell held the rifle like a spear, but the wrong way around. Such that he would let it slide down his grip, find the trigger on the inside, raise it, click the safety off, and fire.

He could do it in one motion. If he needed to, he could aim and fire, and even distant as he was—the [Knight] was so close within the range of a rifle.

He had a helmet, but not on now. His blonde hair…Russell was sweating. He did not want to shoot this man.

But be careful. That was what Erin Solstice had warned him. He had firearms. He did not know who to trust.

Shift the cloth. Aim, fire. He would hit the man through the head. Russell would have to take out his entire team. He could do it; they were close together, and he could reload the bolt-action faster than anyone guessed. Let alone if he went for his revolver.

He had not killed anyone in this or any other world. But they could not have his weapons. She had come to him, that [Innkeeper], to warn him. To tell him…

The [Gunslinger] thought he understood this world. He thought he treated it with the gravity that Honarai, Arnie, even Chester and Lenora lacked. But he was still new. Still young.

He could see, as he thought of how to kill Ylawes Byres, the man stop grinning at Dawil and freeze. Put a hand on the back of his neck as if he’d felt a sudden chill. Ylawes Byres’ head turned right and left, and Russell pretended to keep sauntering down the wall.

He didn’t see Insill glance up and poke his teammates or Infinitypear bolt upright in his Sleepingbag of Fluff and nudge Rasktooth. The Silver Swords all woke up, from Dawil who cracked one eye open and shifted, so a little leather holster was exposed, to Falene, who whispered words of magic.

And Russell noticed the sudden moment of tension, but he did not know why because he was new here.

[Dangersense].

Ylawes Byres was casually walking up the walls as Chester halted, unsure if he should stop the man. But Woll trusted him, so no one even glanced twice as the [Knight] studied the battlements and did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn.

He frowned, scratched at his head, and then glanced at Russell. He smiled, lifted one hand, and Russell faked a smile too.

How do you know what a cheeseburger is? A milkshake? I could believe one or the other. But not both.

Were there people from Earth, Earthers, in the open? Erin hadn’t indicated that. She’d said they’d come for her. This good and honest man…

Have you killed them? Do you know them? You know us. What is going to happen?

Swing up and fire. Just a thought. Russell did not want to murder anyone, but—he had killed the Maven. She had been huge, a screaming monster of pallid flesh and teeth, but she had been the most humanoid, intelligent thing he had ever slain.

He remembered shooting the grizzly bear dead and, in the following silence, sitting and thinking what a waste it was. That infinite regret when he saw how magnificent the great beast had been, and the certain knowledge he had done the right thing.

But that man…frowned, just once. Put a hand to the back of his neck. Rubbed at one ear. Then came striding down the walkway.

“Russell, right? I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

Russell smiled, as untensed as he could be. Ylawes Byres just glanced down at his teammates, who were peering up at him, and lifted a hand.

——

He smiled, and Rasktooth stared up at his Captain with huge, glowing eyes.

Monster. He met Russell’s gaze for a moment, and they locked eyes. Goblin and Human. Rasktooth frowned, because there was no hatred in Russell’s eyes. Yet when the young man glanced at Ylawes…

Anith sat up, exposing the black fur on his chest. Insill had grabbed his foot. Dawil got up, yawning, reaching for a water flask. And Falene just sat.

“Dawil.”

“I know, Falene. Let him do his thing.”

They sat as the [Dangersense] shrilled again in Insill’s and Infinitypear’s ears. Louder now. Not the faint alarm.

And they knew the Silver Knight heard it too, but Ylawes just held out a hand after tugging his gauntlet off.

——

“I fear I haven’t introduced myself fully. Ylawes Byres, Captain of the Silver Swords. I know we’ve met, but I never had the chance for a word.”

He could grab Russell’s gun—the [Gunslinger] hesitated, but he had to do something. So he switched the covered gun to his other hand, held out a hand.

Revolver then. Ylawes’ eyes flickered, and Russell picked up on the little movement.

Why?

Why had he come up the stairs? Why was he…? Russell heard Ylawes clear his throat.

“Your group’s fascinating, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mister Russell. Not many people have done well in the New Lands, even my team, and we are adventurers. To survive so far in without much in the way of supplies or rations—”

He was a clever man. Just like anyone from home. Russell bared his teeth.

“We lost all our gear. And our friends.”

It was a good lie. Chester’s lie. Just don’t ask who or where or what. Ylawes nodded.

“Of course. I’m sorry, that’s insensitive.”

“No, I understand. You’ve been through it as well.”

“We have. My people, my team, have been led astray by my indecisiveness and foolishness. But they persevered through it all. They humble me, from Rasktooth to Anith. Thank you for not treating Rasktooth unkindly, or Infinitypear, by the way. So few would give them a chance.”

God. He was so earnest. Russell glanced down at the Silver Swords, then at the darkening landscape. He felt the revolver taped to his chest, skin tearing with the adhesive, and knew he’d rip off his epidermis, but he could draw it. He stepped back, staring out across the landscape.

“I guess we’re just a bit more open-minded than most. Sorry, I have to stand watch.”

“Of course. It’s just that a Goblin and Antinium are not welcome in any corner of the world. There are few people who’d tolerate them…anywhere. Just so you know.”

Was that a hint? A warning? Russell’s skin was freezing. His heart was beating too fast. Don’t do this. Don’t—he looked Ylawes in the eyes.

“Look, we’re just trying to get to safety.”

“I understand. I’m…I’d just like to talk.”

“Well, now’s not a good time.”

Leave. The [Knight] heaved a huge breath. He stood, folding his arms, gazing across the dark, beautiful world Russell had yet to explore, and the young man imagined finding that safety Erin had promised. Dropping off his companions, then coming back here to explore.

“This New Land is a beautiful place. It makes me feel like the world is an adventure again, as if I were a boy.”

“Truly spoken, sir.”

“I just wish I weren’t endangering anyone else. That it wasn’t so hard at times. I just want to have…an adventure. But I also want these young rookies to level with me. I want to see them become something amazing. I can’t have it both ways. Or even one way. But I want to do right by people. That’s all. I…like to see people smile.”

Russell could not meet Ylawes’ earnest eyes as the [Knight] turned to him. Ylawes went on.

“I’ve changed a lot.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. I didn’t think I would. I thought I was on the Right Path, where honor, nobility, and courage gave me everything I needed. Then…my sister showed me up.”

Ylawes frowned. He felt at his mis-fitting armor, at the stubble on his chin. Russell glanced at him.

“You have a sister?”

“Yvlon Byres. She’s famous. Almost Named-rank. She passed me, and I was jealous. I didn’t…think I was. But I suppose I felt annoyed. Why wasn’t it me? She’s younger than me. I always knew I was better than her at most things. But she…she’s braver. I think she is. She took more risks. Lost more. And rose higher. I never really talked to anyone about how I felt about this.”

Why was he telling Russell this? The young man felt compelled to say something, anything.

“I never had siblings. I grew up by myself. My dad wasn’t really in my life much after I got through high…education. I know how it feels to be jealous of people.”

This world was his chance. But Honarai and Chester were more important here. And Lenora made beautiful art. He was just a [Hunter]. The guns made him special.

But Ylawes was glancing at the covered gun, now, and speaking.

“It’s difficult for so many, I agree. And I think…I haven’t had it that difficult. I’m a nobleman. Falene and Dawil joke about it sometimes, but I didn’t know what that meant until I really looked at someone who wasn’t born with my wealth and advantages. In the New Lands, everyone’s equal. It must be hard, though. For you.”

“Me? I’ve been hunting all my life.”

Russell was faintly insulted by this, but Ylawes nodded down at his camp.

“Your friends haven’t.”

“You can tell?”

“It’s a bit—obvious. They’re new. So are you, aren’t you?”

Russell said nothing, but once more, Ylawes twitched, and the [Gunslinger] noticed it and the two simultaneous movements below.

They can tell I’m thinking of…and then a dark pit opened in his stomach as his fears became a reality. But Ylawes’ voice was controlled.

“You learn to tell. It’s a strange thing, Russell. Those Cericel the other day…”

“Strange how that happened. Sometimes, things happen, and it’s best not to ask questions.”

“True. But the Silver Swords ask all the questions. We’re not very smart—well, Falene is and Dawil is, but not me—and we’re nosy. We try to help. And if you were in need—”

“We’re not. Sometimes, you should leave well enough alone, sir.”

Russell’s voice was louder now, and he stood, hands on the stock of the rifle aimed down at his feet. Ylawes peered at him, and the wind blew the [Knight]’s fair hair.

But he was a brave man. He didn’t back away from whatever he was being told.

“Russell. I think I know your people. I think I know you.”

“I think you’re mistaken. I think it’d be a bad idea to bring anything up.”

Russell was sweating. Ylawes knew. So he had two options. Trust this man or don’t. But how could he trust…?

He was everything that looked like a hero from stories in Russell’s mind. But Russell had been warned. He backed up, and Ylawes took a step forwards.

“Russell…”

“I’m warning you, Ylawes. Don’t.”

Just back up. Back up and he’d get everyone to leave camp in a moment. Just run for it. Ylawes stood there, and below, someone called up.

“Hey, Captain.”

Ylawes never moved his eyes off the [Gunslinger].

“Leave it, Insill. Russell, you might be new here.”

“I learn quickly.”

“Yes, but…in case you didn’t know, there’s a common Skill some people gain. It’s called [Dangersense]. It’s not very reliable, but plenty of people have it.”

Russell squeezed his eyes shut. Then opened them, and sweat beaded his brows in the spring heat.

“I—I see.”

“I’ve learned not to rely on it. But I do listen. Russell…”

“I don’t know what you want, Ylawes. But I don’t trust you. You seem like a good man, so drop it. Please?”

Russell was begging Ylawes. His arms were shaking with adrenaline. Lift and fire. Lift and—

He was panicking, he realized. Panicking in a way he’d never felt when face-to-face with an animal. But a person? He didn’t know what to do, but he was ready. Ready—for what?

Russell was afraid.

——

Ylawes Byres stood there.

“I see. It’s hard to trust someone. I understand. But Russell. You’re not alone.”

The young man jerked. His eyes found Ylawes, and they were like a piercing gaze of their own. The silver knight had scarcely seen eyes as focused as Russell’s. They reminded him of Halrac.

With a voice filled with calm, and the only thing he had: trust, Ylawes raised his hands.

“I’ll leave you alone, Russell. I swear. We don’t mean any harm by it.”

“Good. Thank you. That’s all.”

Russell backed away down the battlements, still holding that weapon that made Ylawes certain Russell could kill him. Death sang in his ears.

Yet Ylawes just stared at Russell, and, on the ledge of the battlements, hanging off a protruding piece of stone, he could see a black-haired woman with a sword. Pekona. She was waiting.

He hoped Russell didn’t glance down and to the side. But Ylawes met Russell’s eyes again and saw the panic, fear, and wondered…if this was what it had been like for the others.

Erin. Ryoka. Kevin. Imani, and so many more. He turned and gazed back east. Towards where he wanted to be. And north.

“The High Passes lie to the north, Russell. It’s a long way to Human lands. Not that the Drakes are always…terrible. But they can be difficult.”

Ylawes swallowed hard. Russell said nothing. Ylawes stepped back. That felt safer, but his [Dangersense] still sounded in his ears, a long siren.

“If you go east, you’ll find Goisedall or another city. Then you can follow the trade roads north. Do you have any coins?”

“We don’t need help. Thank you. We’ll find our own way.”

Russell’s voice made it sound like he might go any direction but what Ylawes suggested. The [Knight] heaved a breath. One last try.

“Russell—I’m not going to follow you or give you instructions. Just a suggestion. If you keep going north, there is only one safe route through the High Passes until Magnolia Reinhart builds her wall. You must pass by the Bloodfields, which are dangerous at this time of year, but a road has been built. In the shadow of the High Passes, there is a single place. A city. It won’t be flooded by the time you get there. It is the City of Liscor, and it divides north and south Izril. The only place where the Antinium, the Black Tide of Izril, have made a Hive amongst other people.”

Russell drank in Ylawes’ words like some kind of prophecy, eyes focused on Ylawes’ face. So hungry. So afraid. Ylawes saw his finger twitching and spoke.

“If you go there, stop a while. I won’t tell them to expect you—”

Death. He paused, and below him, his team tensed, but Ylawes just met Russell’s eyes. He would say it. Say it, because he had to give the young man the chance he deserved. If it meant his life…Ylawes didn’t want to die.

“There is a building far away from the City of Liscor, which is relatively safe, even if plagued by monster attacks. It is a famous building, and I wouldn’t walk there; monsters infest the rolling Floodplains, and they are dangerous, even for me. Hidden Shield Spider nests, though I have been told they have decreased in number, Rock Crabs…”

“I get it. What’s there? I suppose I should know all of this?”

Ylawes shook his head, meeting the hostile glare.

“No. Not everyone would know this place. It is a strange building. An inn.”

Russell went still. And Ylawes could no longer read his face, but the [Knight] spoke on over the pounding of his heart.

“It’s perhaps the strangest place in Izril. It’s called The Wandering Inn. Inside, you’ll find the hated Goblins, feared Antinium, and more. It’s not always safe, but there is a wonderful [Innkeeper] who runs the place. She’s…absent. For a while. And the inn is often hated or distrusted, but it is a place where great and wonderful things come from. And tragedy. I will not tell you to go there. But if you should ever travel north…it has rooms for very reasonable rates, and good food. Familiar food, I think, to you. If you are good of heart, you will find friends there. Tell them I sent you. That’s all I wanted to say. You don’t have to do any of it.”

Ylawes turned on his heel. He began walking down the battlements, nerves alert, waiting for…death. But he realized, after a few steps, that he no longer heard that alarm. No longer felt his skin crawling.

In the silence, Russell T. Morgan spoke.

“Wait. Please.”

Ylawes halted and turned. He saw Russell lower the strange cloth object that couldn’t be a spear, resting it on the ground. He flicked something. Then gazed at it and put it on the edge of the battlements next to him. He stood there. When he turned to Ylawes…the [Knight] knew.

“That inn. What’s…what’s the name of the [Innkeeper]? The important one? She’s important, right?”

“She’s the most important [Innkeeper] in this or any other world. I like to think she’s a friend of mine. But I think I’m just one of her many guests. Someday…I’d like to repay what I owe her.”

“What did she do for you?”

Russell took a step forwards, and a lantern illuminated his face, now. He was so young. Wary, nervous, afraid…but Ylawes met his eyes and smiled.

“She broke down what I believed about monsters and the world. Gave me real monsters to fight. Made my sister a hero and left me behind. She served me drinks and food. I never would have become a Named-rank adventurer before. Just a good, honest Gold-ranker half-blind to the world. Now…”

He craned his neck back and gazed at the stars. Then he held out a hand.

“Her name is Erin Solstice. And I think she’d want to meet you, Russell.”

The young [Gunslinger] peered at Ylawes’ hand, then his face. He stood there, caught in indecision, before he exhaled. It felt to Ylawes like all the tension, the burdens Russell had put on his own shoulders, his expectations, and the ones someone else had put on him, lifted a second. He took Ylawes’ hand and squeezed hard. And all Russell said was this:

“I dunno if I’m that likeable or important. But she…I’m on her side. Can you tell me more?”

Ylawes Byres smiled. When he did, he shone so bright that Russell wiped at his eyes just once. Then let the [Knight] introduce him to his team.

Sometimes, Russell realized, the things you read in stories weren’t all dreams. He relaxed, and for the first moment since he’d met Erin, he stopped worrying about his guns. Then he sat for a while, apologizing, and basked in the stories they told him. And swore he’d see it for himself.

To brave a world’s danger and chase the trail an [Innkeeper] had forged. To race across the wilds and find the heart of stories promised to him. And someday, to walk home and tell them of the lands yet untamed. And the friends he had made on the long journey in this world of wonders.

[Gunslinger Level 16!]

Author’s Note:

So here we are. A new character has appeared, and I know how some [Readers] feel about meeting new faces.

Too many or too hard to get invested in another point of view. The fear that it’ll slow down the story is fair, but for a tale this long and large, I think it might actually be low on unique points of view. I don’t do what Game of Thrones does and give you snapshots through a side-character’s eyes who’ll never appear again.

Each style to their own. But Russell…I’ve known he was coming for a long time. Like other points of view or scenes, I’ve put him in a box in my head, and refined that idea again and again, in preparation for the moment we meet them.

For the better, I think, in most cases. The chance of how I’m feeling any given day informs the chapter’s quality. In this case, some of the scenes that complete this chapter came in edits. More proof it works, and I think it’s that kind of pacing that changes stories themselves.

The ending with Ylawes I wrote yesterday. I paid for it; my neck is KILLING me for reasons I don’t understand. Sleeping like a pretzel? It wasn’t even a great day yesterday. It was in fact one of the larger suck ones—personally since we can’t compare that to the news or events in the world—for the last two years.

I had no motivation to write, and I had to use a rare trick, the writer’s classic, to motivate myself: alcohols. Not something I normally do. But the result was that scene, among others, and I think it mattered.

Because Russell would have eventually found the inn, or the inn found him. A mysterious white Gnoll who’d been clued onto a stranger with a gun might have found him, or a Courier on a run stopped and encountered a young man with a need for directions.

…But he might have shot someone first to defend what Erin told him he should keep safe. He still might, but I think meeting that silly, honorable [Knight] who’s so close to a story is for the best.

I like stories changing like that and knowing how everything shifts. And I hope I’ve accounted for everything I know should happen and might happen changing. But if it weren’t for surprises, I’d be so much less happy to write my days away. Just a thought. I might split the last New Lands chapter with an interlude, but this arc is carrying us to new places. Let me know what you think of our new characters and the New Lands so far.

—pirateaba

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