Am I a murderer now? I certainly aided someone to kill someone else. But the person I helped looks like a Warhammer miniature come to life, and the person he killed was a sadistic piece of shit who cast spells of pure evil. All of which kind of confirms that I’m in a world where combat is everyday and killing things is part of the deal. So I don’t need to feel bad.

Right?

Let’s go with that.

Bray is patching himself up with bandages torn from a dead griefer’s undershirt. I try on the same man’s armour but it doesn’t fit and now I’m smeared in his blood. His boots are the right size though, so I put those on, and I pull two rings from his fingers and for want of a pocket, slip them into the side of my pants.

Bray winces as he winds strips of cloth around the injury in his side. I feel worse about that than aiding and abetting a murder. “I’m sorry. You know, about hitting you with your own knife.”

“Ah, think nothing of it,” he replies. “You’ve given me something to remember you by. I can recall the face of everyone who gave me a scar. Though most were enemies, not allies.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t apologise. You did well, friend. We did well. I would reckon our enemies to be level four or five at least. It should have been nigh impossible for us to best them. Thankfully we had luck and surprise on our side. You were a good distraction.”

With the wounds patched up, Bray takes a small bottle from his shoulder bag, uncorks it with his teeth and drinks the contents. “Ah, better.”

“Is that a healing potion?” I ask him.

“I wish. It’s the next best thing, friend. Whisky.”

----------------------------------------

We reach the village without further incident, and I’m painfully aware that I have no clothes on, other than a pair of dead man’s boots and my itchy horse hair kecks. I feel awkward and self conscious. It’s like I’m having one of those anxiety dreams where you go to school without your trousers on.

Luckily, no one seems to care. People go about their business largely ignoring us. I say “people”, but “humanoids” would be a more accurate description. As I’m walking down the main street, I see a cluster of arguing dwarfs, hairy and squat like Bray. I see an impossibly good looking slender figure with blonde hair sitting on an upturned bucket checking the feathers on their arrows. A couple of absolute brutes, green of skin and pointy of tooth, bump into us and grunt apologies before striding away. In the middle of the road, there’s an old woman in a dazzling dress of expensive looking red silk waltzing with a ghost only she can see.

Brackwater itself is the perfect distillation of every western medieval fantasy village trope. The houses are simply made and haphazard in their construction, with thatched roofs leaning into one another, puffs of smoke drifting lazily from their chimneys. There are stone walls, and wattle and daub, and timber beams aplenty. Most of the buildings look like they’re falling down but in the most endearing and picturesque way.

We pass by one of the larger buildings with a sign hanging outside it that reads “The Cackling Pig.”

“The inn!” I shout, excited at the prospect of stepping inside. Not just because of the possibility of big foamy flagons of beer, but because it surely offers a quintessential fantasy experience. What novel or game in the genre doesn’t include a tavern? Inside, we’ll find a surly innkeeper we can pump for rumours that will lead to important quests to follow. He might even know where Ella is. A guy in a hood will be smoking enigmatically in the corner. He’ll probably get up at some point and come over and tell us something about our destiny. There’ll be groups of adventurers fresh from their escapades, getting drunk and shouting “huzzah” a lot as they toast their recently plundered loot.

“Let’s go in. I could kill for a beer.”

“Do you have the coin to pay for it?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. But you will get a small pouch of bits with your starting gear once you choose a calling. You can buy me some ales with that.”

We walk on past the inn, turn a corner and then stop outside a grand looking house with blue and white stripes painted on the door.

“We’re here,” says Bray. “At the Lodge of Beginning. Good luck, Doon of Tooting. Choose well. I shall wait for you at the Pig.”

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Inside the Lodge, a man greets me from behind a low counter and he’s perfect. Academic looking, with half moon glasses perched on the end of a long nose. He’s losing his hair, obviously, because he has to be north of a hundred years old. He’s mostly bald with a few whisps of grey around the tips of his pointy ears. He’s dressed in an elaborately embroidered waistcoat and what you’d probably call breeches made of wool. As he steps out from behind the counter I can see he has long socks and fancy leather shoes on his feet.

“Good morning, good morning. A neum! And an outsider at that. Come in, xeni, friend. Come in. You are in the right place. Are you cold? I can make it warmer in here.”

“No, I’m fine thanks. This is the Lodge of Beginnings?”

“Of course, of course. And I am the guide here. Pom Rust. Yes, yes. The brother of that Rust, gods rest his bones. Come in, come in. And tell me your name.”

“I’m Doon, from Tooting,” I reply, as he vigorously shakes my hand with both of his.

“Greetings Doon. And Tooting is a place outside of this one I assume? Very well. You must meet Ms Smith, our jeweller here. She is also from faraway planes. Another xeni, like you.”

He goes back behind the counter and beckons me forward. There’s a huge book open on the counter top. He pushes his glasses up and flicks through several pages before finding the right place.

“Do you happen to know another, er.. xeni?” I ask him. She’s called Ella, bit older than me. Blue hair.”

He looks up. “I’m afraid that I don’t. There are many outsiders here, but the lands of Istoria are vast, and I’m not the only guide here. But let us begin your initiation. First, please tell me the name of your patron.”

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“Um. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You patron. Your sponsor.”

I give him a blank look because I have no idea what he’s talking about.

He continues. “The being who invited you here.”

“Ah, right. Ella did. She sent me a message. I had it with me but all my stuff disappeared when I arrived.”

“Yes, that is usual. It will be stored away in Padia’s Palace, ready for when you return home. But I doubt your friend Ella invited you. It would be impossible for her to do so.”

“I see.” Worry starts to build. Have I been tricked? Was the note false? “She definitely sent me a note, it was in her hand writing. I’d recognise it anywhere.”

“Hmm. Unusual. There are rare cases of xeni beseeching patrons to invite friends from their homes to join them here. However, I can only think of one or two such instances. If this Ella did write the note, there would still need to be a patron involved and I would need to know their name.”

I have no fucking clue what to say next. The only patrons I can think of are rich people who give money to artists.

“Saatchi, maybe?”

He shakes his head. “Let’s try this. Have you recently spoken to any beings with horns or wings, who offered a fantastic prize in exchange for your soul?”

“Er.. no.”

“Have you been seduced in the last week or so?”

I pretend to think about it, like it’s an actual possibility. “Not that I remember.”

“Anyone in flowing robes, with an aura of light about them?”

“No.”

“Met anyone with a halo?”

“No, I’d definitely remember that.”

“Anyone who can control the wind? Whip up storms and cast down lightning? Anyone who can raise the tide or calm the seas?”

“Er.. no.”

“Alright. Let me think. This note, from your friend Ella. How did it get to you?”

“She sent it to me, in a kind of parcel.”

He sighs. I’m doing my best but I think I’m trying his patience.

“And who delivered the parcel?”

“Right, it came from a lawyer. I think it was Rob someone. Rob Golding. That’s it.”

Rust smiles. It’s what you might call an enigmatic smile.

“Could it have been a Mr Goodfellow? Hob Goodfellow?”

“Yes! That’s definitely it!”

“I shall write down Mr Puca. For they are one and the same. He is a most powerful, but unpredictable being. A good person to have on your side for certain. But he is always up to something. There are always other things at play, with old Puck.”

He scribbles in the book, and then turns it around and hands me the quill pen.

“Sign here. And by doing so, accept the usual terms of residency in these lands.”

“Do I need to know what those terms are?”

“Only if you have a day to spare. They are most lengthy. I can get them if you like?”

Just like a real video game I guess. Always pages and pages of terms and conditions to scroll through and accept before you actually get to play anything.

I sign my name in scratchy ink and hand back the pen.

“Excellent. Welcome, officially, Doon of Tooting, to the Land of Istoria. Please come through to the Room of Selection where you shall take the first steps along your destined path.”

----------------------------------------

The Room of Selection is not as grand as it sounds. It’s a fairly ordinary square room with worn carpet. Wardrobes line the walls and in the centre of the room is a circular, marble tile. On either side of the tile are two leather chairs facing each other. Pom sits in one of the chairs, and beckons me to sit in the other.

“Now. I shall ask a few questions, which you must answer truthfully. I am not someone you need to impress, and honesty will result in a calling that suits you best.”

“Fair enough.”

“What did you do in your own world? What was your calling in that life?”

“Well, I wouldn’t really say it was a calling. But I had a business selling sandwiches to offices in Soho. I had a trailer on my bike. I was the Sandwich Dude.”

“A cook, then?”

“Sure, close enough.”

“And did you enjoy that trade?”

“It was alright. I liked not having a boss. People I met were mostly nice - hungry office workers who were always pleased to see me. My sandwiches were pretty good. Did a beautiful stacked chicken and avo, nice fresh tarragon mayonnaise. Was always the first one to sell out.”

“Hmm. Now tell me. Are you quick to anger?”

“No. Well, no more than most.”

“Do you like hitting things with swords?”

“No. That’s a bit literal. Are you going to ask me if I like shooting arrows next?”

“Please, just answer the questions as best you can Doon. We find they are very effective.”

“Sorry. I’m a bit nervous, to tell the truth. I feel like I’m in a job interview.”

“There is no need to worry. I am here to help you make the right choice. Not to trip you up, or catch you out. My next question - are you attuned to the ebb and flow of magical currents?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Do you like performing? Showing off your talents?”

“I was in a band for a bit. I like playing guitar, but mainly just shredding by myself, learning solos in my room, that kind of thing. Not so keen on the performing part really.”

“In your land, are you a famous lover?”

Again, I pause for far too long before answering this question, even though the answer is simple.

“No. Not really.”

“Would you describe yourself as inquisitive?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Do you like the company of cats?”

“More of a dog person, to be honest.”

The questions go on. And on. Some of them are abstract, and some of them are so obvious he may as well ask me “would you like to be a druid?” I’m not entirely sure how helpful the process is. After every answer, Pom nods sagely. Occasionally he throws in an “I see” or an “ah, yes.” Eventually, just as I start to lose the will to live, he sits up straight and claps his hands.

“Very well. Doon of Tooting, I give you three calling choices.”

“Great.”

“The first, is a Breaker. These stoic fellows are the bane of all renegade magiks. They are resistant to the arcane and cover their bodies with wards and glyphs that repel damaging spells. Their minds are fierce strong, and able to resist eldritch suggestions that they would be happier living as a frog than a man. They stand to the front in any encounter with sorcery, absorbing fire strikes and static lashes alike while their comrades damage the foe.”

“So, kind of like a punch bag, but for spells?”

“A crude way of putting it, but yes. Not keen? Then let me tell you about Delics. These artisans are prolific imbibers of mind-altering herbs and minerals. They are seers who seek answers from realms within themselves and mysterious, esoteric planes without. They are voyagers to the Great Weird, returning with knowledge that powers sorceries of questionable and unpredictable utility. On their astral travels, the most formidable delics are able to glean knowledge of unique spells of immense power, known only to them.”

“That sounds more like me.”

“But be warned. It can be a dangerous calling. Fortitude of the mind is an imperative, as every journey to a transcendental realm carries a risk of getting lost within it, never to return.”

“I see. Still not a no, but I’m keen that you tell me about the third choice.”

“The final calling, is a difficult one to master. At lower levels, the Slayer shines. But as they progress, they require more dedication to their craft than most to maximise their abilities. Not as brawny or strong as a Warrior, not as quick or deft as an Assassin, the Slayer relies on their wits as much as their sword play. They are more attuned to magic than other melee classes. They have more wyrds to shout, and better command of arcane artifacts and weaponry.”

“Wyrds?”

“Spells, quickly cast. Magic wyrds of power, shouted at the enemy.”

“Right. I do like the idea of being a caster. Are there no wizard type choices available to me?”

“The delic, that I mentioned before, is the closest to wizard. Although your answers to my inquiries tell me that you don’t have the capacity for learning that each of the true magik callings require.”

I think about getting offended by that, but he’s probably right. I lack concentration and I was a middling student at school at best. Spending hours pouring over magical tomes to memorise spells is probably not a good fit for me.

“What are your thoughts?” Pom asks.

“Well, Breaker is out, for sure. I’m not a front-of-party kind of guy. It sounds horrible, to be honest. So it’s down to the witcher or the acid muncher. I mean, you know, the Slayer or the er.. Delic.”

“Both would serve you well.”

“But which would be the most fun?”

He doesn’t answer that question, rightly assuming that it was rhetorical. After turning over the options in my mind for a few minutes, I come to a decision.

“Okay Pom. I’m ready to make my choice.”