As she entered the shaded front room of the village store, Clio could not help but remember happier times. Irgudana, a somewhat plain man of extraordinary name had settled here with his wife not long after the war. Rumor claimed he used to be a sell sword, that he’d come here fleeing some terrible crime or head hunters. But no matter what housewives and farmers with too little to make sport off fancied up in their boredom, Clio knew the man as fair, even tempered and reliable.

She would not say they were friends, Irgudana made no friends with any of his customers, but as fellow outsiders, they’d struck an amicable working relationship. She made pelts and he sold them on, if Irumar hadn’t been by to take them off her hands. “Now that is a friend. It’s a shame I cannot wait for him.” The iterant peddler was who she’d planned to apprentice with, for her maiden voyage into the world. He was a dear friend, one not put off by her queer ways.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Clio made her way past the shelves filled with assorted good to reach the counter beyond which Irgudana awaited her. One of the unusually short leafears, the forest bark brown haired man was from the lands of Forest and Vale, to the north and east of Phaesant, on the opposite side of the Sapphire Lake. They were said to be savage, godless peoples, but Clio knew better.

“Oyy, child of leaf and bark.” Clio greeted him. “May your roots feed well this day.”

“Be welcome child of snow and shade.” He replied in his customary greeting. “May your ever find your mark.”

Clio had never been able to pry out of him if that was merely his customary greeting, or a greeting of his people to hers. What she knew for certain was that he greeted no other woman like her. Other hunters got the “ever find your mark” but the snow and shade bit escaped her. She was no more a northwoman than any other here.

“Do you still have those traveling packs? I’ve need of them after all.” Clio began. Ever impassive eyes lifted to her face as the shopkeep weighed her.

“So far.” He replied softly. Then waited in silence.

Clio knew that trick and she wasn’t falling for it.

…

Several breaths passed without either speaking or breaking eye contact, hers determined and his placid. Seeing as she was being stubborn about it, Irgudana left his counter to go fetch her new bags. Saddle and all.

When he came back, he laid the bags out on the counter before her. “The leatherwork of the Narrows is well known as steady and reliable work.” he began to drone. Clio mostly tuned him out. She may not have been a leatherworker herself, but she knew good leather. This was good leather. Even stitching, well-oiled and supple in her hands, the bags may not have been waterproof but they were close to it. That thought reminded her. “You have any reed covers?” she inquired.

Irgudana regarded her with the same steady, placid look at her interruption. Clio grinned. She knew that he did not much care for this part of making a sale. He oft had a sore throat from all the haggling the man did. The man all but glided into the back, returning with some light, wide woven reed covers that would keep the rain out of her mules saddlebags admirably, so long as there was not too much wind.

Which there shouldn’t be. The winter storms were behind them.

Clio thought about trade. Of what Irumar the peddler had told her and what her blasted memories insisted. Which were not the same thing, entirely. Irumar told her it would be best to take the produce from here direct to the nearest fairgrounds, which would mean setting out for the Baron’s seat. It was where the villagers went to sell their produce. Her memories told her it would be better to avoid the smaller faire and make way for the nearest proper town and its marketplace.

The Barons faire seat may be bigger than any village, but it was no proper town. Clio would find better prices feeding a hungry town than selling to some middleman. So once her bags were settled, which cost her good silver, Clio stocked up on what Little Brook had in abundance: carrots, cabbages, and rucks. The sweet root vegetables were something between sugar beets and potatoes of her last life, and a staple of her new life. While most farmers sold much of their harvest, a few rucks were always kept back for celebrations as they made for swell sweet stews.

No doubt the townfolk would appreciate them as much as she had.

With her coinpurse significantly emptied out, Clio set to loading her goods on the mule and into her own pack. Then, before the idle crowd of gossips which had gathered outside, the soon to be exile set out, head held high.

“I’ve done nothing wrong, and damn anyone who thinks different.”

Her resolve carried her out and over the fields and into the forest. Where she stumbled. For as she left the village she’d spent much of her girlhood visiting, for good, her head exploded.

Or so it felt. It was like someone had plucked her eyes right out of her head. Clio stumbled, seeing double, the well-trod path before her leading to the Faire of Yellowgrass, and a rapidly rising view from above. Her hands found a tree to lean on and steady her as the vision grew. Up and up, until it felt like she was a hawk, soaring high above among the clouds.

It was… decidedly unnatural, how she simply knew to look around with her second set of eyes. And what sharp eyes they were. Clio could see all around her, for many arlongs. Her vision sharp, perhaps not sharp enough to spot rabbit or quail, but more than sharp enough to notice bears or stalkers.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Or bandits.” it occurred to her. According to her friend, the tolls bandits imposed on lone peddlers were oft the bane of them. When they did not run into a band of Ironmen that would take not merely their goods, but their lives as well.

Clio could not help but laugh bitterly. “Where were you, all these years?” she asked, years spent as a hunter in the woods keeping her words soft. What child did not wish for a Blessing from On High? Dream of it?

All the tall tales and legends were full of them. Stories of heroes, of acclaim, of magic. Damn her, but she even knew this one. Everan the Waywatcher was said to be able to view all about him without looking. Always, in the stories, the hero found their power after some great tragedy forced them to set out to adventure.

“Adventure?” Clio scoffed. For all the world had opened up before her, more with this, she’d rather have the children hale and hearty. If this was her reward from On High, she’d not take it as her due, but as consolation. The Mother’s Mercy to shepherd her on her way.

“Blessed Mother, full of grace.” Clio began her prayer, as the view settled enough she could take careful steps while she explored.

***

The sensible thing to do would have been to go to the faire. But, emboldened by her Blessing, Clio set out for the town of Waterfoot. There was no well-trod path to it, but Clio would break her bow before she would struggle to find a game trail and with her vision to guide her past trouble, she feared no ambush in the wilds.

It would be villages, faire and towns that were troublesome, for the Waywatcher was said to lose his sight when he left the wilds. Indeed, Clio was confident her skills would serve her well in her travels. It was dangers of other folk that she was not well suited to managing.

As she settled in for the night in a tree above her mule, her eyes went back up to the full moon.

The same worn scroll unwound before her eyes as last time, except now Clio did not think herself mad. This had to be another Blessing, but for the life of her, she could recall no tale that told of this one. There was reason why Clio was reminded of video games from her old life: it looked like it came from one. There were many skills, but only four Attributes. Might(7), Grace(8), Acumen(8) and Allure(7).

She had 2 attribute points to spend.

Clio was unsure what the numbers mean, what was normal or not. What mattered to her was that the skill trade was the same soft rose color as Allure. Her trade was currently two and could not be raised further, lacking the small + sign next to it that most of the other skills had. Since none of her skills was above two, Clio assumed she needed higher attributes to raise them.

The huntress wanted to press the + next to Allure and raise her trade. Better trade, more profit, no?

Before everything, she needed to be safe. The world out there had dangers she knew little of, and greater ones than wild beasts. So as much as Clio knew she’d made mistakes haggling with the shopkeeper, those were like as not to kill her. They’d just ruin her.

The Ironmen would kill her or worse. As a woman, there was always worse. That, she would not risk. Clio focused on the + next to Might. There was this feeling of resistance, as if she was pushing some massive slab of stone. The button marked by the plus slowly pushed in while giving her a faint headache. Her Might changed from 7 to 8. Next Clio raised the red might aligned skill of Sinew(Bow). It was a one and she had feeling what it meant. Draw weight, if it worked as a game should, it should allow her to use her bow with more ease, or perhaps even get a better one.

If she could afford it, with her poor trade skills.

As before, at 2, the skill locked, the + disappearing, her Skill Points tracker dropping from 2 to 1. Again, she raised her Might. As it shifted from 8 to 9, both Sinew(Bow) and her Athletics skill, the only other skill linked to Might at 2, regained their +.

“So it is thirds.” Clio concluded. 9,12,15 in a linked attribute for 3,4 and 5 in the appropriate skill. Looking at the whole thing, Clio assumed that 10 would be as far as the skills could go, for she could not imagine someone with 30 Might. Would they be more than four times stronger than her?

“That kind of strength would be monstrous.” she whispered. “Well, it wouldn’t be more than four times now, would it?” Clio considered with a smile. 9 was much better than 7, even if she felt no different. Somewhat disappointed not to feel any different, Clio strung and tried her bow, but noticed no change.

She was not one to pout, but she sought her sleep with some disappointment…

…only to wake up absolutely ravenous the next morn.

Hungrier than she’d ever been, her stomach all but crawling up her chest, biting at her breast. What little meat and mushrooms she had on her were as sweet as fresh honey on her tongue… and sparked a distant memory from another life: “Protein. I need protein. Damn me for a fool, I wanted more Sinew. Well, seems I’ll need to grow it the hard way.”

It would save her the training and exercises, the months and years of steady practice with a bow it would otherwise take to develop those muscles. And Clio would be grateful for that… when she wasn’t watering at the mouth at the thought of quail, rabbit or any other meat she could get her hands on.

Suffice to say… Clio Kalvere made no progress that day. But she did hunt and bake over a fire a number of birds and forest critters. And each and every one tasted delicious.

It was as she was sitting on the warm ground, well fed and watered, that Clio made her final purchase: she split her 20 proficiency point between Single Handed Weapons and Archery. Raising the first by 10 to 44 and the second by 5 to 79. It told her there were likely cut offs for those too.

***

It was only some hours later, as she browsed her skills idly, having gorged herself on meat, that Clio found her Weapon Master skill and its value of 1. When she focused on it, all the Weapon Proficiencies lit up. It made Clio curse her past self. The young woman had a feeling those points would have gone a lot further if she’d raised it first.

“Still, I’m only level 3.” she’d get more soon enough.

At that, her somewhat exuberant mood fell. The hunger had made her giddy, knowing, feeling herself growing stronger… but she knew how it worked in games. Levels, experience? They were a matter of adventure. Of completing daring quests… of fighting and overcoming foes.

Killing.

Killing many, many foes, to grow stronger.

Everan the Waywatcher was the hero of his tale, true. But his many slain enemies may have had a different take on that tale. And for all the blood already on her hands… Clio knew it was as nothing as what would come if she walked down this path.

That sobered her right up.

It was a somber woman that made camp that night, the walls of Waterfoot visible in the distance without her Blessed sight.

She was not wrong. To be someone in this land of Warring Kingdoms was to make friends and enemies. And Clio was sick and tired of being ordered about, of being no one. She meant to start no quarrels, spill no first blood. But if foes came after Clio for just doing her job?

With hatchet and bow, she’d put them down like the animals they were.