Sleep came easier than expected. I must’ve been more exhausted than I’d realized.
Chirping birds and a brilliant blue sky greeted me when I awoke just after dawn. It would’ve been a nice start to the morning, if not for a sudden urge in the pit of my stomach leaning me over to one side where I vomited everywhere.
Ugh. I felt like crap. At least I’d only puked. Getting the runs in a place that didn’t look like they knew what toilet paper was would have been much, much worse. That damnable blue box splattered itself across my tear-smeared vision.
CURRENT HEALTH: 65% (Food Poisoning)
Good job. You ate rancid food. Your belly is less empty, but you are sick. You’re lucky you only had a bite. The effect should wear off shortly.
Seems about right. I knew that leg of lamb wasn’t good.
What clued you in?
Yeah, well you weren’t exactly offering filet mignon last night.
Correction. Fargus wasn’t offering filet mignon.
Whatever. Listen up, you worthless box. I’m starving and I have no money. So, if you have any ideas on how to correct that situation, you could go ahead and share them. Because, you know, I’m in some weird world, with absolutely nothing except for some vial of green goo, that I apparently have to wait to drink.
The screen didn’t respond.
Figured.
And what about Phlegm? She was as hideous as a sixty-something Karen full of Botox and Bud Light. Old and weak—food poisoning might kill her. Then again, maybe not. She seemed more accustomed to working with… I dunno… sickness? It didn’t make any sense, but I figured if she was traipsing about the town dressed in a schmatte, she might not really care about whether or not the lamb was rotten.
Me on the other hand… My mouth tasted like butt. I needed to rinse.
There’s a puddle over there.
I’m not drinking out of a puddle. What am I, an animal?
Well, you did just sleep in a stable.
I’ll survive until I can find something in a mug or glass or even a horn.
Suit yourself.
THIRST LEVEL: Parched
I felt awful and was uneasy about my meeting with the hag. Hell, maybe it wasn’t the leg of lamb, after all. Maybe just being so close to Phlegm had poisoned me somehow?
I said food poisoning, not hag poisoning.
Yeah, yeah. Okay. I get it. Hey, 68%? I’m not drunk anymore. That should count for something, right?
I don’t make the rules.
That got me thinking about something Phlegm had said. The gods were preparing to help me.
How many gods exist here?
Pyruun citizens worship many gods and goddesses, including, but not limited to Ludos, God of War, Fre, the Goddess of Light and Shadow, Baruu, God of Summer’s Flame, Wokaaner, God of the Emptiness and Void, and Prakuma, the Goddess of Death.
Is that all?
Not remotely.
Shall I continue?
No, that’s okay.
I felt pretty dumb, conversing with whatever this thing was in my own head, but I had to admit, it was nice to have company in such a bizarre place. Still hoped to snap out of this and find myself back in Willistown, except more and more, I was losing faith it would happen. I can’t remember ever sleeping while dreaming, not to mention the myriad other things I’d experienced over the past twenty-four hours.
I’d been so distracted with the screen, I kind of forgot I was walking. Back on the main road, I came across a set of small footprints that led off into the wild woods on the… western(?) periphery of the town. The hazy peaks of several mountains rose in the distance, and I got the sense that if I followed the tracks, they would eventually bring me to them.
No doubt, the footprints belonged to Phlegm. I could tell by the way they dragged like some zombie from the Walking Dead. Though there were other, more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.
NEW OBJECTIVE:
Obtain food.
REWARD:
Food. Duh.
I sighed.
You don’t actually have to tell me that. Believe it or not, I’m pretty good at figuring out when I need to eat.
And I currently wasn’t hungry. My stomach was still knotted from the food poisoning.
You’ll feel better, and then return to being starving.
I said I know how it works.
I gradually lumbered back to the center of Nahal, taking my time since that seemed to be all I was in control of. And wouldn’t you know it, as my feet sloshed across the wet mud of what seemed like the town center, the screen was right.
CURRENT HEALTH: 70%
Effects from food poisoning have worn off.
You are starving.
I was, indeed.
Nausea was promptly replaced by a hunger pang. Sensations in this world sure did progress aggressively.
Townsfolk went about their daily chores, all dressed in medieval-style clothing. One of which was a baker carrying his goods down the path, and he seemed like a potential opportunity.
I fell into step with him, noting his obvious girth. Eating well had apparently never been an issue for him. He had a white beard, and flour dusted across his face and apron. Then I realized his beard was actually red, and was just also coated in flour.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
In an instant, he began glowing that blue-white glow…
NAME: Mork
OCCUPATION: Baker
RACE: Wellick
SPECIAL ABILITIES: Cream pastries that’ll make you cream.
WEAPONS: Probably a rolling pin.
That’s gross. Besides, they can’t be that good.
BET.
I gave Mork the baker a cheery greeting. “Hello!”
The man looked me up and down and I could tell he wasn’t impressed. Couldn’t blame him either. I wasn’t all that much to look at, especially not after sleeping on hay and puking everywhere.
“I got nothing to give ye, beggar,” he said. “Now leave me be.”
I pretended to be shocked.
“A beggar? Me? No, good sir, I would implore you not to think of me as such. I am a bard, gifted with the skill of spinning yarns and singing tunes to entertain the masses.”
May as well embrace the role I was playing, I figured.
Mork studied me again. “Masses? Pfft. Where’s yer instrument then… bard?”
Balls.
“I, uh, was regrettably waylaid last eve and it was destroyed by the sort of hooligans one would hope never to find themselves in the company of. Alas, I am left with my voice alone.”
The baker grunted. “Fine. Why don’t’cha sing me a ditty, then, and perhaps, if it’s any good, I’ll throw ye a few crusts as thanks.”
“A man can hardly sustain themselves upon mere crusts, my good sir. A few coins may well be a better option.”
Mork shook his head. “I have scant few meself. Why d’ya think I’m selling this lot? Are me loaves not good enough for the likes of ye? C’mon now, give me a tune as we plod.”
“Very well.”
The prospect of only being paid in crusts did little for my pride, but the gnawing in my stomach was content with the proposal.
I cleared my throat.
Oh, man. You’re not really going to try improvising again, are you?
I’ll do better today.
No doubt. It would be hard to envision a worse performance than last night.
You know, you could offer up some helpful advice every now and again.
You’re right. Don’t suck. How’s that?
Unreal. I took a breath and started singing.
> “On the road one fine morning
>
> Strolled a baker and a bard
>
> The smell of fresh bread
>
> The taste of warm lard—”
“I don’t use any lard in me recipes,” Mork the baker interrupted. “Well, except perhaps in the sweets and confections. But me bread don’t have none.”
“It’s not customary to interrupt when one is singing,” I said.
“Well, it’s a stupid song. Sing something else.”
Would you like to access your Catalog of Songs?
“No, shut up.”
“What’d ye say to me?” the baker said, stopping mid-step.
Frustration got the best of me, and I didn’t realize I’d answered the screen out loud.
“Not you,” I said, bowing. Why the hell was I bowing? “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Then who was ye talking to? Only me here, lad. Now if ye can’t be cordial, I—”
“No, no. Seriously. Okay. Fine. A new song? Here we go.”
I took a deep breath and started again.
> “Do you know the muffin man
>
> the muffin man, the muffin man
>
> Do you know the muffin man
>
> who lives on Dreury Lane.”
I continued as one would expect until the song was done.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
Mork sighed. “Weren’t the rousing ditty I had in mind. Was looking for something, I dunno, more heroic? Of places far off and heroes long lost? Besides, this is Main Street, not whatever you called it. This is boring stuff yer singing about.”
“That song’s actually about a serial killer, I’ll have you know. Nothing more exciting than that.”
“Serial what now? Alright, alright. The song was boring, but your voice was… not bad. Wasn’t good neither. Ye sure yer a bard?”
I thought my advice was helpful. Did you not understand it?
Shut up and bring up the catalog.
Ya think?
The same six songs appeared in front of my eyes. One popped out at me and it sure as hell wasn’t the one I’d sung last night.
That one.
As I was about to sing a song called T’was Morn in the Eve, the baker said, “Know what? How about a dance instead. Ye dance, right?”
“Well, not re—”
“Dance nice for me and I’ll give ye a whole pastry. How’s that sound?”
“Dance?” I asked with trepidation. I’ve never danced before in my life. I didn’t even go to prom in high school.
You heard the man. Dance, monkey.
I’m not a stripper. I’m not just going to dance because some dude tells me to.
Oh. Silly me. I thought you were hungry?
And that, folks, is how bad life choices are made.
HUNGER LEVEL: Dangerous
Dangerous?
You haven’t eaten properly in days, Danny. This is how the world works. Perhaps a Snickers bar?
I started to ask if they really had those here, but Mork the baker was getting restless.
“Ye gonna entertain me, or should I continue me delivery?” he asked. “These boxes are getting heavy.”
“Got anything with cream inside?”
Hahahaha.
“Ye’ll get what ye get and ye’ll like it,” Mork said.
“Alright, okay. Dance…”
I thought of the only dance I could. In my head, I sang the Macarena and began the steps.
Both hands out. Then flipped them. Crossed my arms. I felt like an idiot. Absolutely must’ve looked like one too. When I got to the part where I shook my hips, the baker had had enough.
“Stop, stop, stop!” he said. “I’ll give ye something to eat just to get ye to stop.”
He set the boxes down, reached into one, and tossed something glossy and sugar-coated at me, mumbling about “the worst bard he’d ever seen” as he retrieved his goods and left me standing there in the middle of the street with a few of Nahal’s citizens staring at me in abject horror.
ITEM OBTAINED:
Pastry.
If it tastes weird, don’t worry. The baker has cats.
I tore a chunk free and started eating it. Then I called after him, “Thank you for your patronage, my good sir. I wish you well.”
OBJECTIVE COMPLETED:
You’ve found food. It was sugary, sweet, and the cat hair was fibrous. Be careful. Diabetes exists here too.
CURRENT HEALTH: 82%
HUNGER LEVEL: Acceptable
The pastry was soft, warm, and doughy. Different from breakfast desserts back in my world, and somehow better. More wholesome. It filled my stomach as I delved deeper into the town center. Then I worried it really did have cat hair in it and that was what was so filling.
As good as it was, it wouldn’t be enough to sustain me for very long.
NEW OBJECTIVE:
Obtain a heartier meal.
REWARD:
Food. Duh.
A hearty meal. Right. Like some meat—but not lamb. Something solid. Protein. That sort of thing.
Question was, how?
The screen offered no advice, but it didn’t need to, the answer obvious. With money of course! No matter the world, money talked. I wasn’t sure if barding paid well—it sure as hell didn’t back at the Heart-Shaped Box—but I needed to earn somehow.
I thought about Phlegm again and the bargain we’d struck. Before the end of the day, or before the sun sets once more—as she’d put it—she’d promised a replacement for my instrument. Did I tell her it had to be a lute? A guitar would be even better.
Crap. It better not be a huge harp that I’d have to lug around everywhere.
That would be pretty funny.
Yeah, for you, maybe.
I wandered down the town’s main thoroughfare. Colorful triangular flags hung from strings draped between buildings that were surprisingly well built, considering they didn’t have power tools or machines. The place was sort of bustling. I mean, it wasn’t Times Square or anything, but for a podunk town like this? It was lively.
A hand-carved sign with an anvil swung above one building, and the screen told me it was a Blacksmith. Another had what looked like a needle and thread—apparently a Tailor. There was an Apothecary. Maybe they had some good drugs that would snap me out of this whole ordeal.
Then I heard a commotion and spotted a band of entertainers performing for the early morning passersby.
TROUBADOURS:
Wellick, dwarf, and halfling.
Wellick… huh. That was what the tavern owner was. And Mork. This woman looked just like a human.
I guess I’m just a wellick here.
You’ll pass until you—
Take off my pants. I know!
The wellick lady was a bit of an acrobat, flipping and cartwheeling around, while the stout dwarf lifted heavy items to show off how strong he was—and yes, he had a legendary beard. The curly-haired halfling played a small pipe of some type.
That’s a flute.
A fellow bard, huh?
No lute, though.
The small crowd gathered around them didn’t seem all that impressed. Surely, it was nothing compared to my ravishing rendition of “The Muffin Man.” The troubadours looked anxious that their show wasn’t winning anyone over. Sadly, I understood the feeling well.
The halfling inched his way toward me.
“Don’t like the music?” he asked. “How about a magic trick?”
“I’m not really the magic trick kind of guy,” I told him.
“Aww, just a small one?”
The halfling got uncomfortably close, so I took a small step back and felt something solid slam into me. Or rather, I slammed into something solid.
A strong hand squeezed my shoulder.
“Well, well, well… it is you again.”