Warm softness surrounded Peter on all sides, but it lacked the mild scratchiness of towelling. Peter opened his eyes slowly, confused as to where he was. He found himself in his bed, tucked in like he was five again. Looking around, his room was much tidier than he had left it, no clothes on the floor, all objects on his desk straightened or put away. Did I die or something? Is this some weird version of hell I’ve never heard of before?
He rolled out of bed, triggering the internet function of his implant as he did. Not to any specific page, he just thought that there probably wouldn’t be any internet in hell. When the search page popped up immediately he heaved a sigh of relief. If this were hell, that would definitely be Bing. So, what did happen?
He eased out of his room, frowning at having had to open his door. Opposite, his parent’s door was, of course, closed too but when he tried the handle gingerly he found it to be locked as well. Not that he wanted to go in, but his curiosity couldn’t be denied.
Down in the kitchen, there was no evidence of the scene Peter had witnessed the night before. He was almost prepared to write it off as a nightmare, but he could see that his Dad’s keys were not in the bowl where they should be.
Refusing to reminisce about the event, he checked the fridge instead. Bingo! Trust the curry house to come through for me. Peter pulled the plastic container of lamb vindaloo and paper bag with his cheesy garlic naan out of the fridge and put them in the microwave. Closing the door while holding the door catch to prevent it clunking loudly made him reconsider his choice of cooking device and he pulled the food out again. He fired up the oven and transferred the curry to a ceramic bowl instead. He breathed out as the oven door closed almost silently.
Sitting in the serenity of the kitchen alone, Peter tried to find the calm he had last night. The stillness, broken only by the low hum of the fan in the oven, helped immensely. The chill crept in behind his eyes and a numbness spread out from his chest, slowly easing its way down to his extremities. Moving with exaggerated care, Peter stood and made a loop of the kitchen, stopping every time the sensation threatened to recede.
By the time his breakfast was ready he could consciously induce the effect, walk around normally while maintaining it, and release it. There was no guarantee the effect had any real benefits, but it felt right. Now to see if I can do this online too. Peter grabbed the bowl and a plate for the naan, hung a virtual note on his door that said STUDYING for his mother to see when she woke up, and retreated to his sanctuary. He even closed the door, hoping that it being closed when he got up implied permission to leave it closed for now.
Despite the note he had little intention of actually studying. Or, at least, studying anything school related. That was clearly a dead end, even if he managed to cram hard enough to eke out a pass, Bully the Bastard was going to have his hacking harlot rip it away. Screw those guys. I’m going to bust out some levels and learn to swing the scythe. Even if it kills me. Heh.
Setting up his desk to resemble a study session was easy even with a steaming bowl of intestinal distress sitting in the middle wafting its delicious scent. Death can wait, vindaloo comes first, he salivated before tucking in.
Making short work of the curry, Peter wiped the bowl slightly disappointed with the naan. They made it white-people hot, he stuffed the last of the unleavened bread into his mouth and wiped his face with his sleeve. At least I won’t have to worry about it trying to eat its way out through the side of my intestine while I’m online. He pushed the bowl to the back of the desk, set himself comfortably and logged in.
Blinking in the warm gaslight cast by the lamps around the cottage, Peter surveyed the chaos surrounding him. To be fair, he had caused some of it himself. There was script up and down the walls and across the floor where he had unconsciously directed the quill to write out the raven’s biography. Peter stood up and wandered along the length of the tale, running a finger over the script and reading various parts that stood out. “What the heck did I do…”
Movement out the corner of Peter’s eye drew his attention to the mess that he hadn’t made. “DB! What the heck did YOU do?” There were shards of cookie jar, crumbs, papers and feathers all over the kitchen area floor. Even as Peter watched the detritus faded, leaving a very fat rat sat on his rump clutching half a cookie. “It thought I said don’t eat everything?”
DB managed to look ashamed of himself and held out the remains of the cookie to Peter. “Squeak?”
Peter’s heart melted. “I can’t stay mad at you, buddy. So, how about we go see if we can get some levels up and maybe figure out how to gather some souls along the way?”
Seeing that Peter wasn’t going to take his cookie away, DB stuffed the remainder in his maw sending crumbs tumbling down his furry chest, then dashed up Peter’s leg and into his hood. “Squeak!” he exclaimed, in tones of “Tally-ho!”
Casting one last eye over the self-repairing room, Peter left for the tavern. As the door closed the writing on the wall faded into the wallpaper, leaving no trace it was ever there.
Dave’s tavern was often home, or at least home base, to a variety of characters. Travellers came in many shapes and sizes, though being so close to the exit point of the Garden of Tranquility they tended towards the smaller end of the spectrum as they had not yet had time to acquire much power. Locals too could be quite different from what one might expect from a small farming village at the far end of the kingdom. For example, right now Peter was trying very hard not to stare at the fangs that protruded so prominently from the chef’s face as the culinary genius explained why he needed fish from a very specific part of the river outside of town.
“Sorry, could you say that part again?” Peter dragged his attention away from the very impressive set of gnashers and did his level best to listen to the quest specification.
“Roit, nar ‘ere we go. It’s like dis: dem fish eats dah berries wot falls frah der bush wot grows aht der bank. Ain’t narwhere else der bush grows ovah der wata. So’s gotta be dem fish. Geddit?” The strange dental configuration gave him a peculiar accent, but it was easily understandable if one paid attention.
Peter nodded along with the explanation and repeated it back to be sure he had it right. “Out the gate, follow the wall around clockwise until I get to the river. Follow the water north until I get to the bush growing out of the bank, in the hollow underneath find five fish and bring them back here before dinner. Correct?”
“Yarp. Jest as yer say, off yer hop,” he dismissed Peter with a wave, making Peter duck. Mostly because the hand doing the waving held a cleaver, and was being waved like it were a feather.
Despite the detailed directions, Peter chose to use the magic GPS anyway. Once he was away from the gate he let DB down for a run-around and began to practice summoning the calm numbness here in this world. To his chagrin it wouldn’t come. He kept trying, however, because he knew it was possible but that something was stopping him. Some unknown criteria he wasn’t fulfilling.
It was fortunate that Peter had chosen to engage the quest marker, because he walked right past the bush the first time. It was entirely unremarkable, the ‘bend’ in the river as described was barely a kink and the ‘hollow’ where the fish should be appeared to be little more than a darker patch of water. Peter peered into the shadow cast by the bush and thought he saw small movements in the murk. “I guess this is the place, time to get to it I suppose.”
Setting himself up on the bank, Peter pulled a barbless hook out of his inventory and laid it on his knee. Beside it he laid a roll of twine and a cork. He tied the twine around the cork, leaving a length half as long as he judged the river to be deep. That should put the bait right in the middle of where the fish feed. Tying the hook onto the end of the twine, Peter reached across and plucked a berry from the bush. Then he wiped the mess of squished berry on the grass beside him and tried again, this time using his sickle to remove the berry.
Maybe that’s it? He pondered, turning the berry over in his hand. I can’t find the calm because I’m trying to force it instead of working through the system. He put the berry on the hook and tossed it in the water. The cork bobbed mesmerizingly on the surface as the baited hook slipped under the surface. What was I doing last time I managed this? He struggled to remember as he waited for a nibble.
The answer remained tantalisingly out of mind, however, as every time Peter thought he had put his finger on the solution the twine jumped in his hand and the cork float ducked under the surface. Finally Peter managed to time it just right and jerked back on the line and set the hook in the fish’s mouth. As there wasn’t a barb on the hook, he made sure to keep plenty of tension applied so that the fish wouldn’t be able to spit it back out.
“Come here you bastard!” Peter grunted as he hauled his prey through the water. With a final heave he lifted his glittering prize into the air. “Gotcha!” Feeling like he was being watched, Peter checked his surroundings. A tiny paw on his ankle nearly sent him tumbling into the water in surprise. It was DB, looking worried and a little scared. “Oh, sorry DB,” Peter apologised as he jiggled the fish, “I meant this bastard. You’re fine, go have fun.”
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As the rodent scampered off, Peter tucked the fish into his inventory and re-baited the hook. Choosing a slightly different area of the river he cast the line so badly that it tangled into and inextricable knot and sank immediately. “Crap,” he swore, retrieving the mess. It was the work of a moment to cut the line away from the cork and hook and Peter set about retying his fishing line.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t immediately repeat his initial success. Somehow the twine kept twisting in his fingers, knotting itself in frustrating twists and swirls that sometimes he could untie and some that required simply cutting away and starting again. Two critical failures caused the twine to cut clean through the cork, forcing him to throw the halves away. Peter breathed through the frustration as he watched the bits float off down the stream, trying to find his calm before beginning again.
Eventually an itch from his arm reminded him that he was building a skill that incremented very slowly, but had finally ticked over. Pulling out a fresh cork he thanked his lucky stars that the ores he had collected in the mine had earned him enough copper to set himself up for this quest. Even though the jobs on the quest board don’t state prerequisites, it helps to be prepared for anything in this world. Peter checked to see where DB was, found his companion sitting nearby with a small pile of berries from the bush, he returned to setting up his fishing line. This time the twine length was just right, the loop around the cork dug in slightly without damaging the soft wood and the hook knot tied neatly with little wasted line. A little golden glow from his wrist gave Peter that happy feeling of a critical success. Peter smiled as he made his cast.
The baited hook, cork and trailing twine made a perfect arc through the air and plopped exactly where Peter had intended for it to go, rewarding him with another golden glow. Ok, so maybe they’re two different skills? Score, anyway. I’ll check when I get back to town, gotta watch for the bites. Sure enough, the nibbles began straight away.
It still took several missed tugs before he managed to set the hook again. Once he did, Peter began reeling in the line hand over hand, keeping the line taught to prevent the fish getting away as he had last time. Too taught, as it turned out. The line snapped and the fish vanished into the murk taking the hook with it.
“Ghah!” Peter leapt to his feet and yelled at the heavens. “I made that one perfect!”
“Squeak!” DB exclaimed, waving a tiny fist at the sky as well. “Squeaaak!”
The ridiculous sight stunned Peter out of his rage. Mollified, he reached over and gave DB a scratch behind the ear. “Who’s a good boy? You are.”
DB boggled and sniffled happily and went back to engulfing the pile of berries beside him. Peter decided to follow the example and tried to take one. “Squeak!” DB almost screamed and tried to gather all the little globes into his lap. He gave Peter a very ratty glare, and slowly stuffed one whole into his mouth.
“Wow. Okay. Those are yours,” Peter moved away slowly and making no sudden moves. “I will get my own.” He plucked one from the bush, which, to be fair was quite laden and in no danger of running out. Popping it into his mouth he found the flavour to be nothing to write home about. Rather tart, resembling a boysenberry with lemon overtones. He side-eyed DB and found the rat returning the expression. “You know what? They’re all yours. Pteh.”
Resuming the fishing operation with a fresh hook and float, Peter managed to catch the next two fish in quick succession, earning him what felt like generic skill-ups, but he left it alone for now. He was getting a little hungry and bored, or maybe hungry because he was bored, either way fishing was definitely not his thing. Not to mention his efforts to bring on the calm detachment had hit a roadblock with no apparent solution. Time to get back to town and pick up a new quest.
The fourth fish put up quite the fight, swimming back and forth along the length of the river, forcing Peter to let out some line to prevent it breaking then reeling it back in as the fish tired out. Eventually both fish and fisherman flopped exhausted on the bank. DB leapt in to save the day, dragging the fish away from the waters edge in his jaws. The heroic effort drained him too and all three lay on the bank until the fish stopped moving altogether.
Gathering himself up, Peter dropped the fish into his inventory then picked up DB and gave him a hug. “I couldn’t have done it without you, buddy. Thanks.” He looked into the interdimensional space where the fish took up two slots all by itself. “Dang he was a big one. I hope the last one is nice and small.”
DB did his best to reciprocate, managing to get his little paws halfway around Peter’s neck. He gave a happy little sniffle and ground his teeth. Once more Peter was struck by the complexity of his companions reactions, wondering how much computing power it took to render a world this real. He gave his companion a gentle squeeze and lowered him to the ground. “Right, let’s get this done.”
Peter baited the hook and tossed the line towards the darkest part of the hollow, reasoning that it would be where the last fish would most likely be. Immediately he felt a slight nibble. Bingo, he thought.
Ten minutes later, Peter sat down on the bank. The line would occasionally jerk from a nibble, but no matter how he pulled Peter couldn't seem to set the hook. “What is going on down there?”’ he demanded. Eventually the nibbles stopped, so Peter pulled in the line to find the berry he had baited the hook with to be gone. He replaced the bait and tossed out the line again.
Again, the nibbles started almost as soon as the hook disappeared under the surface. Peter began ripping at the line at random intervals in the hope of catching the fish unprepared. Still it failed to hook his prey. Reeling in the line again he found the bait gone. “Come on, how hard is it to catch one last fish?” he growled.
He put two berries on the hook this time, reasoning that it would take twice as long for the fish to eat it and give him twice as many chances to catch it. Something in the back of his mind suggested that it didn’t work that way, but he ignored the little voice and it went away. Peter lengthened the amount of twine between the float and the hook so the bait would sit closer to the bottom of the river, deeper into the dark hollow in the shade of the bush and cast again, nearly tangling the line in his irritation.
“Nibble nibble little jerk,” Peter muttered as he ignored the initial bites, waiting for something stronger. Again, the little jiggles on the line indicated something was nosing around the bait but still he waited, his anger slowly transmuting into something else. His chest began to tingle as a stronger jerk on the line was met by a forceful tug to set the hook but the resistance faded, clearly Peter had missed.
Just in case, Peter pulled the line in, muttering the whole time. Sure enough, both berries were missing. “Why won’t you just be caught!?” he yelled at the river, as though he could intimidate the fish onto the bank. He replaced the bait, balled up the hook, line and float and pegged it as hard as he could at the darkest part of the hollow. The tingling spread down to his forearms unnoticed.
The tangled mess slid under the waves as Peter wound the twine around his hand like a boxer taping up his fingers before a bout. The float bobbed to the surface, a few strands still hanging from it but the baited hook was still underwater. The tingling reached Peter’s knees, but the impact of his feet hitting the bank as he stalked back and forth masked it.
Two little jerks pulled on the line, stopping Peter dead. “This is IT,” he shouted, reefing hard on the line. The tingling hit his extremities as he spoke, the line snapping taught. “YOU ARE MINE.” The fish was hauled to the surface where Peter could see that it was almost as long as he was tall. Peter leaned back and windmilled his arm around the twine, coiling it around the limb for grip. The fish, in turn, thrashed as hard as it could, pulling back. The twine screamed in the air as the tension threatened to snap it.
It was, however, the hook that gave way. The forces placed upon it straightened the bent piece of metal, letting it slip out of the fish’s mouth. It zipped through the air and embedded itself in Peter’s chest. The pain went entirely unheeded as he saw his marked quarry turning to escape. He dived into the water, throwing his arms around the leviathan. He gripped as tight as he could to the fins and began landing punches on the thing’s gills.
In response, the fish tried to roll and thrash around in the water to throw Peter off. Due to the line trailing behind the hook now in Peter’s chest and sandwiched between their two bodies, all this achieved was to tie the two together. Whichever won, their fates were now bound.
Peter’s inventory had closed itself when he had launched himself off the bank and try as he might he couldn’t get a finger on the spot on his arm to open it and pull out a weapon. The chill calm that suffused his body let him consider the situation dispassionately. So, bound to a big fish, with no weapon, no air and no escape. The water’s getting darker, so it must be deeper than I thought here, or we’ve gone down a tunnel. The river isn’t particularly deep, so I’m guessing tunnel. He continued raining blows on the beast’s gills as he thought, on the off chance his unarmed attack would be enough to bring it down. It’s not like he had much else to do at the moment. What else can I do?
In desperation, the fish tried thrashing and rolling around, throwing itself against the walls of the tunnel. As his body impacted the surface, Peter discovered that they were made of squared off stone, like bricks. Little stars glittered in his vision but his calm never wavered. I might be about to die, but so is this fish. Wait, death? Is that it? Peter remembered the last time he had died.
He relaxed his body against the fish when it flexed towards him, and as he struck the wall pushed off with his wings, thrusting the pair against the far one. Peter jabbed his fingers between the gaps in the stones and pulled with all his strength while simultaneously headbutting the beast from behind. Last time he had been the meat in the pain sandwich, when the weird thing had landed on his head and eaten his face. This time he was free to put the squeeze on his enemy, pounding its head into the stone.
Eventually the fish stopped thrashing and Peter released his grip on the wall. The fight had pulled several very heavy pieces almost clear of their positions, but Peter prevailed before his air ran out. He bent the fish in half and stuffed it in his inventory, it taking up all the remaining slots, and began to swim back down the tunnel.
Behind him, with a terrible grinding sound, one of the stone blocks fell from where it had been hangining precariously. Peter paused, looking over his shoulder for the source of the noise when he saw the block land in the silt on the bottom of the tunnel. Then the next block fell. Then the next.
Peter swam with all his might for the patch of light that heralded the tunnel entrance, heavy stone blocks collapsing behind him. He yelped, wasting some of his scarce remaining air when one brushed his toes and swam harder. He screamed, wasting the rest of it when one landed on the back of his knee, crushing it to the floor amongst the mud.
He made no sound at all when the last one fell on his head, the keystone that held up the arch where the tunnel had once opened into the river.