“Ow!”

Once more, Peter woke into darkness. This darkness was more stuffy and musty though. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his forehead and a burst of stars caused him to lie back again. Through a rising panic he explored his environment with the only sense available: touch. He was bounded on all sides by silk-lined walls, leaving little room to move. Eventually he found a braided cord by his head and pulled on it vigorously. Far off a jangling bell could be heard. Right. The bell, he remembered, continuing to pull the rope as hard as he could. The priestly lady said something about a bell.

“All right. Keep your shroud on,” a voice from outside his confinement grumbled. “Damn Travellers. Why can't they stay dead like the rest of you lot?”

A sliver of light pierced the darkness, then widened as the lid of the sarcophagus was pushed aside. Peering in was quite possibly the ugliest face Peter had seen since joining the game. It was indescribable.

He sat up and took a deep breath of fresh air. Well, air anyway. It was decidedly not fresh in here. The walls were lined with horizontal alcoves in which resided skeletons. Some had weapons and shields placed on them. Some had jewellery strung from their bony bodies. They were all absolutely dead and had been for a long time.

“Well, Traveller? Would you like some more time to regenerate, or are you ready to face the world again?” The man asked. It had to be a man. Nature could not possibly be that cruel to a girl. It's frame was hunched, knobbly and moved weirdly. The voice that issued from him was oddly calming however.

“I'm ready to get up, thank you. Sorry for going crazy with the bell. It's the first time I've died.” Peter edged over the side of the stone coffin and stood blinking in the half-light.

“Oh-ho! A first timer! Well, welcome to my crypt. I'm Jacob, and it's my job to guide you to the Sisters of Mercy. Or, as I call them, the sisters of absolutely no bloody mercy at all. Follow me.” He began to head for the door with an odd, rolling gait. Peter thought he might have made a decent sailor with that walk. “I've not had a fresh faced Traveller through here in a little bit. Folks just aren't dying like they used to.”

Peter followed him along a torch lit tunnel. They were well spaced apart and he was glad of it, his eyes were still quite sensitive. “Popular place, was it?”

“Oh, for sure,” Jacob replied. “It's dead centre of town. People were dying to get in here. I even used to have my band practice down here, until people complained. Apparently we were loud enough to wake the dead.”

Peter smiled to himself. His dad told the same sort of jokes all the time. Then his smile faded. His dad used to joke, but hadn't in a long time.

After a walk long enough that Jacob's jokes had started to repeat, they arrived at a steel ladder set into the stone. “Up you go young sir. Thank you for listening to an old crypt keeper’s rambling. The Sisters will meet you at the top of the ladder. They've got tea and biscuits I'm told. Now, as much as I like the company, I hope I don't see you again. In a box, at least. Feel free to drop by the cemetery any time.”

Peter took hold of the first rung and watched Jacob amble off into the dark, muttering to himself good naturedly. When most of your friends are dead you get used to the sound of your own voice, Peter guessed.

At the top of the ladder he was indeed met by a Sister in the usual habit. Instead of speaking, she merely gestured for him to follow a short way down a much lighter corridor, with walls that were all white marble with sconces set in a much more regular manner. He was waved into a room with a wooden chair and desk against one wall and a rug and cushions on the opposite side. On the desk was parchment and a quill with an ink bottle. Set in front of the cushions was a small coffee table with a steaming mug and an assortment of snacks. Peter threw himself down on the cushions, grabbed a biscuit and dunked it in his tea. Munching on the snack he looked around to find himself alone. He sat and sipped the tea, which was quite excellent, and thought about his demise at the teeth of the monster. It had hurt, and the surprise had made it worse. It had shocked him so much that as soon as the darkness had rolled in he had logged out as fast as he could. He replayed the moment in his mind again. The experience was exactly the same as when Billy had hit him. The surprise that someone, or in the rabbit's case, someTHING, had wanted to hurt him so badly. The coldness in their eyes, their desire to end him. Peter was left feeling an odd mixture of rage and fear. He desperately wanted to hunt down the mad bunny and cause it as much pain as it had inflicted upon him. Yet, it had taken him down so fast, so easily, he dreaded that it would do exactly the same again. Peter sipped his tea again. Perhaps he should simply leave it alone for now. If he was more careful, quieter and more attentive he could avoid putting himself in that situation again until he was stronger, and armed.

Sparked by the thought of arms, Peter rolled up his now very grubby sleeve and looked at his left forearm. He scrolled through his stats to the Skills section, worried about experience point loss. It had been mentioned on the wikipedia page that when your character died you could lose stats and skill points. He had no stats to speak of anyway, but he had just earned himself some points in Herbalism, fractional though they had been. Nope, the score is unchanged. Still sitting at 0.3%. He let out a sigh of relief, which cut off shortly. He quickly scrolled to the inventory mark and popped it open. The berries were all still there, and his sickle was undamaged. Unlike his clothes that were rapidly becoming tattered, it was almost pristine. This time his sigh of relief was uninterrupted.

Just as he swallowed the last of his tea, a Sister appeared in the doorway. It could have been the same one. Was there even more than one here? “Traveller, are you prepared to face the world again?” she asked. He thought the voice could be same as the one he had met in the chapel, but he wasn't certain. They might have just used the same voice actress for all of them. When he nodded assent to the question, the priestess gestured for him to follow her. They walked  up the hallway and ascended a short flight of stairs which brought them out into the graveyard. The priestess bowed and retired back below.

Jacob was there, tidying a plot with a scythe. It wasn't a large graveyard, room only for about fifty plots and a marble arch that led down into the crypts. The tall brick walls kept the air still in here, but the sun shone gently, reflecting off the polished headstones. One plot stood empty with a pile of fresh dirt next to it. Peter wandered over, curious. The headstone bore his name. Shocked, he called out to the crypt keeper.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Jacob. What the hell?”

“Well, Traveller, how did you think you got down into my crypts?” Jacob leaned the scythe against the stone. “By the grace of the Avatars, when you bind your soul to this place a stone is set in the yard here. If you die out there, your body is brought here by their will and I have to dig you up and take you down for a rest while your body knits itself together. Most Travellers are awake and screaming when this happens, but some lucky few sleep through it like you did. It's one of the reasons Travellers go to such lengths to avoid dying. Massive sets of armour, magic potions and shields, some even hire mercenaries to do the adventuring for them. Still, I usually gets to see them all at least once. Now, I've got duties to attend to, unless you want something else?”

“No, thank you,” Pete mumbled distractedly. “You've given me much to think about.”

Pete wandered over to a nearby bench and sat down. Lifelike NPCs, painful deaths AND respawning in a coffin. None of this had been noted in his research. What else hadn't been mentioned? Was it even worth playing? But the flipside of the coin wasn't much better. His parents didn't look like they were going to stop fighting any time soon. Did his dad really just fall asleep working? He was in for a world of pain when he got back to school anyway and the advice his parents had imparted sounded like it was going to earn him more beatings either way. At least here he knew he could eventually do something about it. Armour had been mentioned, as had magic. Now he just needed the means to acquire it.

The quest! Peter jumped up and ran out the gate of the graveyard excitedly. The quest for the herbalist was complete and he was owed some money! Running out into the square Peter found he had absolutely no idea where to go from there. He checked his arm again, flicking to the quests section and thumbing the guiding lights option. Once more the little lights shimmered into life to show him where to go. Magic GPS, what an idea.

Following the flickering trail along the street was a cinch. It wended itself around people, NPCs, Peter reminded himself. There couldn’t be this many people role playing as Citizens, could there? Jogging along the trail Peter kept one eye on the lights to ensure he was going the right way and turned his attention to his surroundings. He passed a few stalls, one selling fruit, one selling smallgoods, one selling an impact...

Wait? An impact? Peter was flung through the air, visions of a large animal mixing with sky and ground. He skidded to a halt in a jumble of arms and legs. Picking himself and dusting off his increasingly ruined clothing he looked back the way that he had come. The lights passed through a rider on a barded warhorse as though it wasn't even there. Peter thought about this as he tried his best to tidy up. Maybe the magic GPS didn't account for Travellers, if that was what the rider had been. He certainly looked the part. Peter picked up a clod of earth and slung it at the back of the oblivious twat who had paid exactly zero attention to the poor person he had bowled over. They were just riding up the middle of the street as though they owned the road. Of course, his stats in this game were the much the same as his athletic ability in real life, and the clod bounced off the head of a random figure who'd just stepped out their front door.

As the poor innocent tried in vain to solve the Mystery of the Muck Missile, Peter ducked guiltily into an alley between two houses. Then he remembered the bus that had embarrassed him the previous morning and felt vindicated. Stupid machines, Skynet could suck it. So could the jerk on his armoured ass. Bugger ‘em, he thought and strode confidently back out into the street. Pointedly ignoring the ruckus up the street where the Mysterious Muck Missile Manhunt had become a small riot with pointed fingers and accusations thrown as randomly as Peter’s clod, Peter followed the lights down the road to an unassuming building with a wooden sign in the shape of a maple leaf hung above the door.

Opening the door caused a bell to start jingling as Peter found himself in a dimly lit room lined with open topped boxes and labelled jars. Behind a counter at the back of the room stood an elderly man in a grey robe with an impressively long white beard. The flickering lights had formed a ring around him, indicating he was the objective of the quest. The herbalist himself, Peter assumed. Well, he can wait. Peter browsed the merchandise, examining the assorted leaves, roots and sticks of exotic wood. Some he recognised from the real world, camphor wood, cinnamon sticks and vanilla seed pods. Others were clearly made up. He doubted that there was any such thing as Blood Orchid root, mallets from a Sledgehammer Plant, or Dragon Fruit seeds.

The man at the back of the room coughed to get his attention. “Welcome to Bovrn’s Bower young Traveller, the finest herb shop in Averton. Is there something specific you need for, say, a potion or a salve?”

Peter ceased his browsing and opened his inventory. He withdrew twenty of the berries and placed them on the counter. “I have come to fulfil your quest. You needed raspberries, yes?”

The herbalist's face lit up with a smile. He quickly swept the berries into a large jar and hid it under the counter whilst looking shiftily behind him at the curtain that separated the shop from the rest of the building. “Well done, Traveller. Here are five coppers for your efforts,” he whispered, dropping the coins onto the counter. You'd think Peter had just brought in a package of illicit drugs the way he was acting.

“May I ask, what sort of potion do you make with those?” Peter inquired, whispering as well.

“No potion, I just really love raspberries. My wife says I eat too many so I have to hide them from her,” he replied with a wink. In a louder voice he continued. “Maybe you seek recipes? Your interest in my wares suggests you may be in the herb business yourself?”

Shaken by the sudden change of tone, Peter stammered, “Ah, er, recipes? I'm new to this world, could you explain how recipes work, please?”

“Certainly, Traveller. Whilst you can eat the raw ingredients to gain some of the benefits of a herb, you also receive all the effects from that herb both positive and negative. Recipes and the correct brewing equipment will allow you to distil the desired effect. I have for sale a basic mortar and pestle, a small cauldron – popular with the alchemist on the move – and the recipes for basic health and essence potions. I also carry more advanced recipes like barkskin, stoneskin, alacrity and mental acuity enhancement. Which would you like?”

Peter dropped his voice to a whisper again. “Uh, well, first, I have some more raspberries, if you're interested.” He placed the rest of the berries from his cache on the counter.

“I can only accept twenty more, Traveller. Any more and I'll have a stomach ache, and the rest will spoil. I can offer three coppers, is that acceptable?” When Peter nodded his assent, the berries were swiftly replaced with the metal disks.

“Good sir, I have but eight coppers to my name.” Peter raised his voice again. “What do you have that you can offer in that price range?”

“Nay young lad. Whilst that sum would certainly procure some herbs from these stocks, it wouldn’t afford you the meanest of the tools I have to offer.” The herbalist shook his head sadly.

Dismayed, Peter declined and slunk out, pulling the door shut behind him a little harder than he’d intended. His eyes had started burning and his head was filling with cotton wool. He couldn’t catch a break.

“It’s gotta be past midnight. Maybe I should try getting some actual sleep,” he muttered to himself as he sat on the step outside the shop, closed his aching eyes and logged off for the second time that night.