I awoke with minor head-bursting pressure. The type you got after a particularly bad night of drinking, partying, and suicide by three bullets to the back of the head.

“Owie.”

It was bright out. Some time past noon when the sun shone with a soft, mellow quality.

My eyes trailed down to my hands. They—or rather, all of my body was caked in wet dirt—a trail mix of grass, soil, and a good day of rain. I wore something out of a Renaissance fair, too. A blue gambeson, linen breaches, and a nice pair of boots. Fit for reenacting an adventurer’s day in a time long gone.

“Okay, let’s get this removed.”

I put my fingers to my forehead and reached into my brain to pluck out whatever was implanted there. It felt mushy and warm, like tenderising meat. Painless but gross enough to provoke some disgusted reaction. Once I was done, I had what amounted to a small metal feather in my hand.

It was somewhat reminiscent of a bullet, and I suspected it was this place’s equivalent of one. A projectile used to kill and maim at distances. Though a bit out of fashion, I might add.

Why use these over a bullet?

Thinking that over, I rose to my feet. There were no houses in sight, just a long gravel road, tall grass, and the open wilderness. Chances are, I took over the body of some countryside girl who had a penchant for medieval lookalikes. Maybe some Amish or Mennonite.

Only—that didn’t add up.

What were the chances of that happening? More than that, didn’t that bastard say something about being banished? In which case, just where the hell am I?

Amused by the prospect, I found my gaze drifting to the open blue sky. And there, looming over me, was a giant yellow planet surrounded by white rings and many moons.

If nothing else, this was confirmation that I wasn’t on Earth. That, for what it was worth, that two-faced sack of dung had some merit to his argument, after all.

“Amare.”

I tried to cast a basic spell. No dice. The connection to my Devotees was broken. Shattered and cut off in this foreign land. This left me only with my reincarnation, my timely ability to possess the corpses of others.

It was a strange feeling. I considered myself a worthy shepherd, one instilled with ample authority and the right to govern those beneath me. And for what it’s worth—I did care for those who pledged to me—those who offered mind, body and soul to their dear Empress.

But on the other hand, here I was!

A brand new place to discover! Full of sights, tastes, and lives that I could savour and indulge in. Lives that I could both dominate and pit myself against. Rest assured, this Ostentatious Empress is hardly one to back down from a fight!

“Three wise men of Gotham. They went to sea in a bowl. And if the bowl had been stronger. My song would have been longer!”

I sang that lullaby as I walked along, trudging with no shortage of joy. I then sang a dozen other nursery rhymes, each one belonging to a different language. There was a lot to take in here. Out here, a distinct wild smell greeted me, a combination of the after-rain earth, unkempt grass, and spring. It was more true to form than the lands I frequented back home. Devoid of pollutants that raped the sky, and citizens decked out in metal limbs and chrome.

More than that, it was also eerily quiet. To the point where the distant whir of birdsong and buzz of insects more than supplanted the air.

“La gallina busca el maiz y el trigo, les da la comida y les presta abrigo.”

By the end of my twelfth lullaby, fields were within view.

Long lines of orange and yellow, no doubt used to grow grain. And just a little bit beyond—timber-framed houses, made with wattle and daub. It was a scene out of a typical countryside village. Quiet, empty, and just a tad dishevelled. Beholding these quaint little sights, I strolled right in, waving at a farmer who tolled the field.

“Hm?”

Upon closer inspection, I realised the fields were quite unkempt. Overgrown with weeds and underbrush. And that in front of the man was a deep, deep hole. Worn by repetitive contact.

“Hello, is there something I can help you with?”

Once the farmer met my eyes, his reaction soured. His lips turned down, and he fell to his knees, begging. Amazing as I am, we did just meet—so, clearly, something wasn’t right.

Was my fashion sense too gaudy? Had I secretly taken the body of a wicked harlot dressed in all too revealing full-bodied armour? My, what a scandalous woman I had become!

In the meantime, the man continued to beg, shaking his head with greater and greater intensity. Words came out of his mouth, too. Some Indo-European sounding language, though one beyond me.

“Attends, s’il te plaît.”

I threw out some random words in French. Then, I jammed my index finger into my brain. There was a wet, continued squish as my finger twisted like a screw against softwood. I aimed for my Broca’s area, a soft thing in the left hemisphere of my brain.

After a few seconds, I was done. Understanding flooded in, and residual memories of the local language took over.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Awari’Kaz! Deliver unto her a quick and painless death, for our offering has been upturned and our fates set!”

I wanted to tell him to worship me instead but had the tact to remain silent. Whatever religion they have here can be supplanted by me later. For the time being, let’s figure out just what’s going on, shall we?

“Hail, peasant. What ails you in these trying times?”

I did my best ‘sturdy hero voice’ and was met with nothing. Rather than reply, the man seemed to have fallen into some form of stupor, endlessly throwing out prayer after prayer.

What could have compelled such a reaction?

Driven by that question, I asked him again. And just like before, received nothing in turn. Nothing save the increasingly frantic movements and pants of his breath.

I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. Contemplation washed over me. I didn’t know much, but since the farmer fell to his knees, something was clear. There was a strange bump on the back of his neck. Red and moundlike. It resembled a tumour, albeit far more uniform, as if chiselled to specification.

Now certain something was amiss, I headed for the streets. There was a distinct lack of people. Just a few adults here and there. And while sparse, I was met with adverse reactions each time I did meet someone. Tears. Screams. Pleas.

I was met with them all—an endless chorus of unified despair.

“Please forgive me!”

A scream coursed through the air. Some middle-aged woman, frantic, rushed at me with a knife. I sidestepped it, disarmed her, and put her to the ground in a matter of seconds.

“Forgiveness granted, lady.”

My eyes traced the knife on the ground. It was a decrypt excuse for a weapon. Rusted and ill-fitted to the wooden handle. Yet, for the time being, it would serve its purpose well.

“Forgiveness at the expense of a little something, that is.”

I plucked the knife and decided to carry it along. In doing so, I shot one last glance towards the old woman. Like the farmer and many others, she too had one of those ‘mounds’, one that protruded from her arm, in fact.

Things were getting interesting. Mass hysteria, violence, and crazy old ladies? What streetside play had I wandered into? And just what role awaited me?

Slowly, surely, I continued until I arrived at my intended destination. It was the village’s usual run-of-the-mill: straw-thatched roofs, timber frame and all. But even so, it was big. Big, and with a convenient little thing that set it apart.

On a painted sign that hung from the building read ‘The Grey Pony’, and beneath it ‘Food and Drink.’

I pushed open a wooden door and entered the dingy establishment. I stroked my chin and examined the place from head to toe. Flames crackled in a corner, lit under a stone fireplace. The rug of an unnamed beast was spread across the floor and resembled a large, blue-spotted bear. It was the standard fanfare for an inn. Somewhat too standard, even. Empty of personal touches or decor that’d genuinely set it apart.

To my left was a counter. And behind that, a grey-bearded man paused mid-way to look at me.

“Came for a second horn?”

Second, huh? So, this body of mine must’ve met him before.

“What do you have?”

“Ale, milk, genberry wine.”

Genberry… Nothing came to mind—no recollection of specific tastes—just the faint mental image of a purple berry that hung off branches in Springtime.

“I’ll have your finest selection of genberry wine and milk.”

I sat at the bar counter. The man handed out two hollowed-out horns filled with drink, and I took them. As expected, the wine was far milder than the stuff back home. Probably around 2% in alcohol at best. In contrast, the milk tasted like a mix between goat and cow. Fresh and with a hint of dandelion, as some hypothetical milk sommelier might say.

“Not bad. Had you sold this back home, I’d reckon it’d compete with Swiss dairy, even.”

“Swiss… Got a nice ring to it.”

“That it does. Though, more accurately, it’d be Schweiz if you want to appeal to the Germanic folk and whatnot. But then again, what use is semantics when those who it concerns aren’t present?”

“You really are a strange one, you know.”

“How so?”

“You’ve changed. Became a whole different person in the span of a day, rambling about all these strange places.”

“Guess we must’ve got along well then for you to spout off all those facts.”

“Well enough. Well enough to know you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

I set down my two horns. Apathetic even now, the innkeeper stared at his palms. He was cleaning something. I couldn’t see what, but I could hear. The soft hum of friction and the hollow resonance of an empty framework.

“So, how come you’re back?”

“Was I supposed to be dead?”

“Unless you changed your mind, then yeah.”

I smiled and leaned forward over the barstool. My eyes trailed downward, and there I saw a most curious sight. The innkeeper had a piece of cloth in one hand and a skull in another. It was a small thing, too, and the perfect size to belong to that of a child.

It struck me as strange that there were no children around. If mortality rates were as bad here as they were in our real-life equivalent, then families had plenty of kids—five, six, seven, even!

So, why were none around? Why had they vanished?

“Is that your child?”

“No.”

“Are you a murderer, then? A twisted bastard that takes comfort in the bones of dead children?”

“No. Just someone who’s intent on keeping memories strong. Of those who’ve already passed from this world to the other.”

He pushed forward a vial—an inconspicuous thing filled with transparent liquid and a cork lid.

“Once midnight strikes, take it. Your soul might be damned, but it’ll be a painless way to go the first time around.”

“Damned, you say?”

He nodded. “If nothing else, it should cut out your nerves. Make them all empty like.”

“And what if I want to feel what happens? Aren’t we all damned to hell anyway?”

“Not this type of hell. Not the type we all go through when the clock strikes.”

Questions scoured my mind. Supposedly, this vial made it so I could not feel pain. At least for the ‘first time around’, in which case, was I set to die multiple times? Put through a cycle of life and death?

Finding it all very amusing, a few chuckles escaped my throat. Life and death! Just what did these strange villagers know of such things?

“Well, thank you very much, innkeeper.”

I pocketed the drink and left the establishment. There was some time until midnight, and until then, I wanted to make the most of it.