The queen is a mess. I spent the entire day with her, regaling her with stories and news from Earth, but there would never be enough time to catch her up to speed on everything. Choosing to spare her memories, I omit the details of all the bombs that fell across the United States. I let her know we fought a war, that it ended, and that no one wins when nuclear weapons are used.

The woman’s own story is as unbelievable as mine. She was only sixteen when she arrived in Inktown. She made it on her own for a few years with the merchant class, working first for a tailoring guild and then opening her own shop in town selling dresses. Eventually, she came to know Inktown’s prince, and they fell in love. The prince, later elevated to king, died a few years ago from a fever that Inktown’s best healers could not alleviate. And now she’s the queen, beloved by most, still only level fourteen, and with very little interest in things like combat or training her stats.

Curiously, it was Ingrid who founded the Inktown City Tournament. She’s been using the Tournament in an attempt to farm champions for a very specific quest. According to the queen—and I suppose that I am proof enough that she is correct—there are others from Earth who have come to this world. Ingrid has been searching for them, sending parties out into the wilds and to neighboring kingdoms, though most have not been successful. The area beyond Inktown and its quaint forest is dangerous. Terrifyingly dangerous.

That’s where I’m supposed to come in. Ingrid knows of a man from Earth, someone who has been here longer than her, who is rumored to be able to send people back. The stories are only that, stories, and attempting to explain such things like Earth and going home to the people here is an uphill battle. No one knows for certain if going home is possible, and no one even knows if the man who can do it is real. All the queen has are rumors and legends. Every few years, when she feels the Tournament champion is sufficiently strong, she pays them a handsome fee and sends them out in search of the man. So far, none have returned.

Queen Ingrid, her eyes still wet with tears and her voice shaking, gives me a task before sending me back to Gnomeslayer Estate in a padded carriage. When I am strong enough, she wants me to set out into the wilds with Sir Vasily and his entourage in search of the man. If I bring him back, the possibilities are endless. Ingrid will happily give me the kingdom. Or she’ll take me back with her to Earth and leave Inktown to Sir Vasily. As long as she makes it home, she doesn’t particularly care what happens here.

I give her another hug, and she kisses my cheek, thanking me over and over again for telling her my tales of Earth. When the time comes and I’m confident in my own survival in the wilds, the queen promises to bestow upon Sir Vasily the task of finding the legendary man in the wilderness. For now, my own task is clear, and I readily accept it: train.

The next morning, I wonder how much I can divulge to Sir Vasily and the others. Ingrid was confident that no one born in Inktown really understands anything about moving between worlds, so the truth is essentially impossible. Inktown people also tend not to understand Earth technology which explains why Sir Vasily refers to my rifle as a wand. After breakfast, I settle on the easiest explanation: the queen thought I cheated at the Tournament, I showed her my low level and how weak I am, and she eventually let me go home after coming to the conclusion that cheating would have been impossible.

For training, Sir Vasily kindly informs me that I’m too low level to do much with his soldiers, and I would just end up getting in the way as they prepare for a fifth title next year. Instead, he gives me a sack of coins—they’re called crowns here—and directs me to a local wizards guild to take on some easy quests.

Beyond the crowns, Sir Vasily has another surprise for me: my first piece of armor. While the best pieces of the rhino hide would be saved for the best soldiers, Sir Vasily saw fit to bestow a reward on me for felling the beast, and the result is a thick, rather uncomfortable belt that does absolutely nothing for my fashion. The wizard has to tell me how to analyze the item, and scoffs at my ignorance before heading back to wherever he spends his days.

“Resolve.”

The item glows a bit in my vision before its stats appear:

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Djun-Rog Belt, Basic Quality: Made from the magic-resistant hide of a fearsome Djun-Rog, this belt protects its wearer from all harmful magic spells of level 8 or lower. If the wearer is subjected to significant magic, the effect will be lost.

Overall, the belt could be worse. Much worse. I don’t know exactly how strong a level eight spell is going to be yet, but I switch it for my own belt nonetheless. Once more with my rifle slung over my shoulder, I set out for the wizards guild which ends up being only a block or two from the hunting lodge I visited before. The building is small, like most of the structures in Inktown, and boasts a rather impressive waist-high stone fence topped with metal spikes. The stones are carved with all sorts of symbols I don’t recognize, and the spikes on top are twisted into intricate designs and geometric shapes.

Part of me expects some kind of arcane riddle or something like that to be able to enter. Instead, I push on the gate, and it opens like any other gate typically would. No magic spells, no boobytraps, and no flourish of whimsical enchantment. I’m a little disappointed.

If the gate is mundane, approaching the building itself is different. There’s a tingle in the air that’s hard to describe. It feels like the space just before a lightning strike in a heavy storm, the moment when the wind and rain die down for just a split second and all the hairs on your arm stand on end. The charge is invigorating, and on a hunch, I check to see if there’s an item generating it.

“Resolve.”

Much to my surprise, the stones beneath my feet illuminate in my vision.

Engstand’s Enchanted Steps, Advanced Quality: These steps were created by Engstand, the first Archmage of Inktown. They restore one mana per second to all who stand on them. Welcome to the Wizards Guild!

That’s pretty cool. The Wizards Guild strikes me as a friendly place. I wonder why Sir Vasily hasn’t mentioned being involved in the guild before. As the most famous wizard in all of Inktown, I would have thought he’d be the guild’s president. Or archmage, I guess. I don’t really know how trade unions work here.

I open the door, eager to explore what promises to be a magical guildhall, and am met with a scene more reminiscent of a VA hospital waiting room. Chairs line the walls on either side of the door, and most of them are occupied. Directly across from the entrance, a pair of beady eyed gnomes sit behind a large wooden desk, and their brightly clothed feet swing a foot or more above the floor. Clearly, the table was designed with human statures in mind. They shuffle papers back and forth, sometimes writing on them with ink pens, but mostly just shuffling.

All the people look bored. Some of them might be asleep. One of them actually is. An older woman with graying hair and a hooked, wrinkled nose is fast asleep with a line of drool slowly creeping down her chin.

I look for someone who seems like they might be willing to help me out and settle on a tall man about my age with blonde hair, pointy ears, and an interesting wolf’s head pendant hanging on a silver chair around his neck. He’s sitting next to the older sleeping woman.

“Hey. Can you tell me what’s going on?” I wave to catch his attention.

His previously unfocused eyes settle on me. “What?”

“I’ve never been here before. What, uh, what’s going on?”

He rubs his eyes and yawns. “We’re waiting.”

“I can see that. But waiting for what?” I can’t tell if the guy is being intentionally obtuse or if he’s just tired.

He slides a little, and the old woman slouches against his shoulder, still fast asleep. “Just waiting to post a quest.” His gaze roams me up and down as if realizing for the first time that I look a bit different from everyone else in Inktown. “You’ve never been here before? I swear I’ve seen you around.”

“Did you watch the Tournament?”

He smiles and points to my chest. “You’re on Sir Vasily’s team! I knew I recognized you! No wonder you’ve never been in the hall before. He wouldn’t be caught dead here. So… what are you doing?”

Finally, some progress. “Yeah, I’m actually hoping to train a bit as a wizard, but I really just want to know what’s going on. Why is everyone half dead and just sitting around?” I glance toward the old woman to make my point.

“You really have no idea?” He readjusts the old woman once more.

I shrug. “Nope.”

“Well…” He gestures to the gnomes sitting at the front desk. “When people need help and can’t afford to hire one of the fancy guilds or a freelancer, they come here. If you’re lucky, a wizard will help you for free. It takes some time, however.”

“Interesting. What help do you need?”

His expression sours. “Not me, my mom. Well, not my mom by birth, of course.” He smiles and flicks one of his pointy ears as though that’s supposed to mean something to me. “She has a little farm up the river. Some idiot stole her boat, and she can’t float her produce down to the market without it. Really puts her in a bind.”

“You know where the thief is now?” I ask, sensing a task where my skills may actually come in use.

He nods. “Yeah… will you help us? Unfortunately, we can’t pay you. Without the boat, she has no way to make any crowns.”

I extend my hand to seal the deal with a shake, but he just looks at it quizzically. Oh well. “My name is Sarah. Good to meet you. And I would love to help.”

His eyes light up. “Really?” He jostles his mother who takes a moment to wake up. As we head out the door, one of the gnomes from the desk yells something at our backs about proper permits and authority from the archmage to undertake charitable quests. I flip him off over my shoulder with a smile. Despite once being a cog in a very large bureaucracy, I’ve always disdained red tape. If I can help these people retrieve a stolen boat—a task that seems trivial with my rifle slung over my shoulder—I’m going to do it.