The tavern’s taproom is a lot grander than I expected with vaulted ceilings and a polished wood interior. One exterior wall is mostly windows, which are opened out onto the courtyard that looks like some kind of fairy village for all the garlands and greenery. A gentle breeze floats in through them. There’s a large bar off to the far side of the room, opposite the stairs. Everything kind of gleams in high-end rustic; that, plus the boisterous and young-looking clientèle, makes me think that this place is the medieval fantasy equivalent of hipster chic.

Like in the courtyard, the main room has several long banquet tables made of sturdy looking weathered wood, and groups of people spread out along them, laughing and drinking and eating and chatting. The far edge of the room is occupied by several large round booths. It’s amazing how LA the place actually looks, and I mentally put a check mark under the It’s All Just a Dream column on the tally sheet I decide to start keeping.

I see Flynt with the three others from before in one of those booths, several mugs scattered in front of them. They look a little worse for wear compared to some of the other far more stylish-looking patrons, but they aren’t the only ones with weapons and a little blood on their shirts. On the opposite side of the room another team of adventurers celebrate at the bar, though their gear looks far more serious than what my acquaintances have pulled together.

I step off the stairs and turn toward Flynt’s table when a kid stops me. I say kid, but he’s probably in his early twenties for however much that differentiates; he’s about my height, with cool brown skin, short and pristine black locs, and a mega-watt smile. He wears an attitude and outfit that would be recognized as expensive in any era.

“You’re that elf girl on that Flynt guy’s team, aren’t you?” he asks. “The one who almost died?”

“Um. I guess so,” I say, though frankly I don’t care a lot for any of what he just said. I don’t like being called elf girl, I’m not sure about this whole team idea, and I have no idea why this stranger would care or even get the idea that we were a team.

Mr. Velvet Surcoat puts out his hand. “Glad you survived. Father says we need more adventurers these days.”

“Thanks,” I reply, taking his hand out of politeness. “I need to go meet my team.”

“Of course,” he says, “don’t want to get in the way of the celebrations. But if you all start looking for work, my family might have a few things you can help us out with. We can make it worth your while.”

“We’ll see.” Something about him rubs me the wrong way. The way he dresses, the way he carries himself, I know his type well: the sort of young adult who gets pissed at his dad because the brand-new birthday Tesla wasn’t the right custom paint color. “Excuse me.”

I extract myself as carefully as possible and walk a little faster than I intended toward Flynt’s table, weaving through other patrons as I do. The place isn’t packed, but it is busy, and the cultist attack is at the top of everyone’s conversation. I also hear more than a few whispers about me as I pass by, which is unnerving, and all of them refer to me the same way Mr. Velvet Surcoat did.

“You’d think they’ve never seen a female elf before,” I mutter, plopping down unceremoniously next to Flynt in the booth. “The elf girl, they’re calling me. It’s so demeaning.”

The four of them look at me and blink.

“Okay, I’ll be the one to ask,” says the male human who called himself a healer. “What were you doing talking to Grayson Stormbringer?”

“I’m sorry, who?” I look back at the direction I came from. “Mr. My Daddy Owns the World? I’m guessing I should know who he is?”

“Most people would,” Flynt replies. “He’s trouble.”

“Oh, I got that much from that interaction, no thank you.”

“And his father does kind of own the world. At least some of it.” The woman narrows her eyes at me and I feel my face warm under her intimidating stare. “He’s a Stormbringer. One of the Four Families?” The way she says it leaves no question about the capitalization of Four Families. Also, that I should definitely know what that means.

I do not.

“I’m… very new here,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “You can generally assume that I don’t know much about Qeth politics. Is his name really Stormbringer?”

“You don’t want to piss him off,” the dwarf states. I think I remember his name being Tyrus. “And you definitely don’t want his attention.”

“Great.” I make a face and suppress a shudder. “Well. I’m sure something else new and shiny will distract him soon. He seems that type.”

Flynt clears his throat. “On that note. Maybe we should do proper introductions?” He makes a gesture over my head toward the bartender, then points down at me.

I look around the table at him, the two humans, and Tyrus the dwarf with his neatly trimmed beard, which is definitely styled more boutique coffee shop barista than it is Gimli. They all watch me closely as if waiting for me to make a run for it.

“Um…” I say slowly, really not sure what to add. I haven’t thought up a backstory yet. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I’d need one for a forty-minute VR Experience, but here we are. “I think you all already know me, at least kind of. My name is Keira. I’m an elf. I shoot things with a bow, but not very hard, apparently. I’m new at this and new to here.”

The woman shakes her head. “I think I can speak for everyone when I say we thought you were joking about that earlier. But good on you for trying anyway. Just glad Jonas had the Essence left to cast a solid heal spell.”

The healer laughs. “She’s still pretty squishy. It didn’t take much.”

“Squishy?” I echo, the gamer parlance shocking. Could this be real, then? Were they sucked into it too?

“It’s a term for starting adventurers who haven’t really toughened up yet,” Flynt says, wincing slightly. “It’s generally considered to not be very nice. And it is a little condescending coming from a fellow novice. It’s not like any of us are much beyond goblin raids and bandit detail.”

“Yeah, true.” Jonas does not look the least bit apologetic. “But Keira seems like the type who can take the joke.”

“You’ve traded a dozen words with her. How do you know what type she is?” the woman asks.

“I can just tell these things.”

“I am squishy,” I admit with a shrug as I think of my whole eleven hit points, which feels more tabletop than videogame, so mixed messaging there, brain. But also, it isn’t fair. Eleven hit points? I bet I’d have more as a vanilla human. Damnit Tasha and your ears and cute enthusiasm. “I don’t know how not to be squishy, but I’m hoping to figure that out sooner rather than later.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Committing yourself to the adventurer lifestyle should help take care of that,” Tyrus says. “As long as it’s meant to be your path, getting out there and gaining experience should do the trick.”

I frown. What does that even mean? And how the hell would the adventuring lifestyle do that? Practice doesn’t make you more durable, does it?

Magic. It has to be magic. That’s going to be the answer to everything. And that’s a point in the It’s All A Dream column because, surely, reality, even a fantasy reality, would have better answers than a Nike ad.

“You know,” I say in a sigh. “I have a lot of questions about pretty much everything, and I think every question that gets answered just creates about ten more.”

Flynt is about to say something when the raven-haired elven woman from the painting upstairs puts a mug down in front of me. She’s pretty in the painting, but she’s objectively gorgeous in real life, with long, sleek hair and narrow, dark brown eyes set within a fine-featured face. She has daintily pointed ears significantly shorter than my own that just peak out from under her hair. She’s one part Catherine Zeta Jones, one part Lucy Liu.

“Don’t let them talk you into drinking too much after a zero-sum heal spell like that,” she warns in a low, breathy voice that carries a slight accent I couldn’t place if I tried. “It’ll decrease your tolerance, and there’s liable to be more than one story about you in the morning.”

“I am forewarned,” I say, smiling slightly at her, then I point to her for the others. “But there, look, you see? She’s another elf. Why are people treating me like it’s so weird to see one?”

The woman’s brow furrows, and she looks at Flynt. “She really is new here.”

“I told you. I haven’t gotten the story yet, though.”

“Catch her up, will you?”

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles as she walks off, then toasts his mug against mine and, with raised eyebrows, encourages me to drink.

I’m not much of a beer person, but it’s pretty smooth. It’s definitely more of an ale or even an extra extra dry cider.

“Right. Intros. Jonas. He’s a healer and is the one responsible for you surviving the last fight we had, but you know that. Originally from… was it Marrin?”

“Mornrise.”

“I knew it was one of the eastern cities.”

Jonas sits immediately across from me, a perpetual grin across his cool brown features, though it’s in a kind, almost dashing way. His curly black hair is cut short. He has a slender build and wears an outfit not all that different from mine in style. His tunic is maroon, and his trousers are black, as is his protective leather vest, which has layers to it as well as dark embroidery around the edges.

“Next,” Flynt continues, “is Meg.”

“Wait. Meg?” I ask. “Your name is Meg?”

Her expression falls into one of self-conscious confusion. “Yes. Keira.”

“Sorry, no, I just…” Way to go, Keira: just what, exactly? You expected something like Eowyn? Not every high fantasy name has to have a ‘y’ or a ‘z’ or something in it. Look at Jonas (which, now that I think about it, is also very my world). “Sorry. Honestly, I just know a lot of people with that name.”

I do. And frankly, they tend to wear yoga pants and carry lattes, not chainmail and swords.

Jonas grins. “Huh. Maybe you should go back home with Keira, Megs. Maybe you won’t feel so out of place.”

Flynt leans in toward me. “I just learned that they’re from the same town and have known each other a while. I don’t think they’re an item, though.”

“Oy, no,” Jonas gasps. “I’d rather give myself to The Deep.”

“That’s dramatic,” Meg mutters, rolling her eyes and tucking a piece of black hair behind her ear. Her complexion is a warm, deep brown, and her gaze is bright and sharp as she meets mine. “But yes. I’m Meg. Please just call me Meg. I’m from Mornrise, I like strawberries, and dragon stories, and hitting things really hard with my big ass sword.” She rattles it off as if she’s made the introduction a hundred times during a hundred corporate retreat ice breakers. “Yes, I’ve always wanted to be an adventurer; no, I never considered anything else; and yes, my grandpa taught me how to fight.”

“Her grandfather was Davin Gahl,” Jonas stage whispers.

“Oh.” I nod as if that makes total sense. “Of course.”

“You have no idea who that is, do you?” Tyrus asks.

“I really don’t.”

“Let’s just say he’s a bit of a big deal,” Jonas replies. “At least to humans.”

“From context I’m guessing he was a famous adventurer?”

“Calling him a famous adventurer is like saying Kellnor was a good archer,” Flynt says.

“Kellnor,” I repeat, the name ringing a bell. “Killed the last dragon in Qeth, right?”

“That’s the one. The archer who fired the arrow into Zel’Rosh’s heart.” Meg takes a drink at that, and sighs almost mournfully, which could have any number of meanings. Was she mourning Zel’Rosh— which, if I remember right, was a horribly evil dragon? Unlikely. She could be annoyed at the recitation, or wistful that she didn’t live in that period of time. Meg strikes me as the restless I have something to prove type. I bet she has a lot of brothers. I bet she is grandpa’s favorite.

I also sigh, but more from the canon that Kellnor is male and a ranged fighter. In the game— at least, if I remember correctly— you can play as male or female and select any of the four class types: melee, ranged, healer, or caster. So that’s another point in the Fuck, It’s Real column. If it were up to me, Kellnor would have been a badass woman with a sword. Kind of like Meg, actually.

“And I’m Tyrus,” Tyrus says. He has strawberry blond hair and a pale complexion several shades lighter than mine. “I think you knew that. I’m more of an in-the-shadows type of fighter. I prefer when the bad guys are distracted and I can sneak up on them. If I’m doing my job, they don’t know I’m there until it’s too late.”

“And by the time they do, you have their money bag?” I ask. Tyrus pauses a moment but then laughs, gesturing at me with an affirming point. I guess every party needs a rogue. “Have the three of you been adventuring together for long?”

“Oh, no, we just met Tyrus yesterday,” Meg says. “We were talking about finding the notice board and maybe heading out of the city for a job. Then the fireball hit.”

“I didn’t want to broach it until Keira came downstairs, but I’m curious if you may potentially be open to a couple more?” Flynt asks. “We could round out the party.”

We? I glance over at him, and he offers me a small smile in response. Yeah, okay buddy, but according to my inventory, I have an elven dagger in my bag that I won’t hesitate to equip…

“Hm,” Jonas says, poorly masking excitement as he looks between us and then toward Meg. “What do you think? We meshed pretty well together out there. When we had our shot, anyway.”

“We’ll have to do some training on her,” Meg says, nodding her chin toward me. “I have a feeling that’s the first time she’s fired her weapon at a living person.”

Cold coasts over me and I actually feel my face pale. Living person. Shit. How did I not even think about that? I was so wrapped up in convincing myself this was just a dream that I didn’t even think that I was shooting at someone. I just saw bad guy and did what I felt I should.

Are all those anti-videogame activists right? Have I been desensitized?

It doesn’t matter. This isn’t actually real. This is fine.

“Get a couple of job postings under her belt, she’ll have a better handle on it,” Jonas says. “She pegged that caster. Just needs to learn how to get more power on it. That comes from experience. And experience, we can help with.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Sure thing, Elf Girl.” He winks at me.

“Uhm, yeah, can we talk about that? Why are people so… weird?”

“Most elves of Qeth don’t leave the western valley much these days,” Meg explains. “We don’t really know why. They give some excuse like the magic is fading or some such nonsense. But what is more weird about you is that you’re an elf traveling without other elves.”

“The bartender seems to be okay on her own.”

“Oh, people definitely still talk about Nyssa,” Flynt replies, “but she’s been in Oosal for literal centuries. Not that you’d know it from the looks of her. You, too, you’re probably, what? Three-hundred and six?”

I shake my head. “Not remotely. And it’s impolite to ask. Can we go back a sec to that magic fading thing you said? I haven’t heard that before.”

“It’s a story,” Meg says. “A rallying cry from people in certain parts of our nation who believe that the death of the dragons— what, five hundred years ago now?”

“This year, actually,” Flynt agrees.

“Right. So these people say that five hundred years ago the death of dragons resulted in a gradual decline of magic across Qeth. It’s their way of saying we shouldn’t trust our current leaders because they’ve sold us a false bill of goods for an entire Age, and what those leaders call an act that saved the peoples of Qeth is actually something that’s slowly destroying our way of life.”

“Let’s not talk politics at a celebration.” Jonas toasts his mug against Meg’s before drinking. Meg looks perturbed but follows suit. It must be some kind of cultural thing. “Especially not when we all have just met. Don’t scare them away, Meggers.”

“I still don’t exactly understand what we’re celebrating,” Tyrus mutters into his mug with a deep frown. “The Silver Swords did the bulk of the work.”

“I got a few good zaps in,” Flynt says, sitting up even straighter and grinning. “Meg nearly took out that one guy on her own. Even Keira got a hit.” He nudges me with an elbow.

Jonas chuckles. “Yeah, you’re just bitter you’re the only one who didn’t deal any damage."

“You didn’t either,” Tyrus grumbles.

“But see, I’m the healer, I’m not supposed to.”

“Speaking of Silver Swords…” Meg roughly clears her throat and shifts awkwardly in her seat. “There’s one straight ahead, coming this way.”