The thing they don’t really tell you about real-time adventuring is that there’s a lot of plodding and downtime and nowhere near as many random encounters as the DMG would suggest—especially if you take the main road.
It’s only taken two months and a stat boost, but I think I have finally gotten used to it. It, and the whole need-to-walk-everywhere situation. Or, if I haven’t, it at least doesn’t exhaust me anymore and I’ve subconsciously accepted it enough that I would no longer place my little Kia hybrid at the top of the list of objects I miss most about my real life.
Waking life? Former life? Prime Universe life?
Whatever. My human life.
Of course, it helps matters that everything I hate about outdoors activities is generally a non-issue.
The weather is nice, with a light breeze, and while the sun is strong, it’s diffused enough through the leafy canopy that it’s pleasant rather than uncomfortable—though Tyrus’s nose and exposed forearms are still getting a little flushed and further freckled.
The road is packed hard so there’s minimal dust, and there aren’t biting insects in this area of Qeth (not until deep summer, anyway).
The wildflower meadows we pass suggest that Human Keira would likely be in a state of allergy-related misery, but much like near-sightedness and acne, that’s not something full-elves deal with, so the blooms just add patches of vibrant color to the landscape.
My party of five travels in a comfortable silence only interrupted when one or the other of us decides to share something from our own internal monologues: a theory about the situation, some remembered fact about the area or the creatures here, an overheard story that might be relevant. Jonas will occasionally hum under his breath, and sometimes Meg or Tyrus joins him. Judging from his soft mumbling and gentle hand movements, Flynt seems to be subtly trying to work out a new spell.
It’s not a new thought, but it really is nice to be this compatible with each other, and I don’t typically mind the quiet. I know some people can find it awkward no matter what, but I never really have (even if maybe I should), and, if we’re being honest, I’m the sort of person whose own thoughts are often so loud that I don’t even realize I’m sitting in dead silence.
As we journey, though, I do try to consciously keep myself focused on the area around us. I have confidence that my [Skills] will alert me to anything relevant—a kind of sub-conscious pattern recognition algorithm downloaded into my brain, maybe—but I still want to keep my thoughts as present as possible, which isn’t always easy.
Especially in quieter moments like this.
I’ve found myself struggling with how best to balance working with my current circumstances and this increasing feeling that I have to consciously remind myself that this is not who I actually am or where I actually belong.
Part of the problem, maybe, is that I compartmentalize pretty easily. I always have. I can get thrown for a loop, sure: I struggle a lot (even more than I let on) when people change plans suddenly or when something goes differently than expected. But once I accept a situation I tend to go with it and focus on doing what I need to do. I think it’s why I haven’t mentally lost it yet.
I moved to London for a couple of years in the early 2010s, and it didn’t take as long as I’d have thought to get wrapped up in the rhythm of my new life. Next thing I knew and it had been weeks since I’d spoken to anyone back home. I think in some ways it’s how my brain is wired: time blindness mixing with a bit of out-of-sight-out-of-mind (it’s not that I don’t care it’s just that other more immediate things). I’ll blink and it’s been three months and where did the time go.
That said, I don’t want to lose perspective. I don’t want months to go by where I haven’t thought about home.
That’s where the list comes in, I think, among other things. Thinking about people is emotionally hard. I try to stay away from that. But putting together a list of the things I miss feels more constructive. Like a touchpoint.
It feels kind of like a conversation topic that my friend Brett would have started at a happy hour. If you ever found yourself sucked into a medieval-style fantasy setting, what would you miss most? In fact, I’m kind of surprised she never did start the conversation given how nerdy we all are.
If she had, I probably would have taken it too seriously. I would have said something like “the internet” or “antibiotics.” If I’d had enough to drink, I might’ve even inadvertently spoiled the fun of the thought experiment with a little rant about female political autonomy or the romanticized misconceptions about chivalric culture or something else under the category of too intense.
Though, none of that really applies here, does it.
Sure, the internet would certainly make research easier, but a weird part of me actually enjoys the big dusty books, handwritten notes, and manual cross referencing. There’s a deep kind of satisfaction in it.
Antibiotics aren’t that necessary, either. Magic isn’t as strong and prevalent as it apparently used to be, but there are still enough able local healers that anything an antibiotic would treat can get taken care of pretty quickly. Specialist healers can even cure many cancers and chronic conditions—from autoimmune diseases to asthma to bad eyesight and hearing loss.
On top of that, there are a number of handy magical medical devices that mitigate the symptoms of depression, allergies, migraines, or even a monthly cycle (huzzah for the moon bracelet, my favorite magical device ever—though elves, apparently, only have to worry about that twice a year).
It’s not that magic can treat everything. They don’t have advanced imaging or in-depth medical knowledge. They can treat diseases, but germ theory, vaccinations, and preventative medicine are all pretty reudamentary. Sudden onset or difficult to detect ailments like heart attacks, strokes, aneurysms, and embolisms are still an issue. That, among other things, means childbirth is often still fairly dangerous. Dementia and other cognitive or brain-related issues can’t be meaningfully treated magically.
There’s also no resurrection-style spell like those that tabletop RPGs trained me to expect—though there are a few recorded incidences of something like it (usually attributed to some being of ancient magic).
Generally speaking, though, it seems that the vast majority of people in Qeth die either from old age or accidents.
The place still has its negatives. There is a notable wealth disparity (though not as bad as in modern Los Angeles—or most big cities). Cultural prejudice is very much a thing (though that seems personal rather than institutional). The political system is all kinds of unbalanced and factionalized (insert basically any political theory quote here).
But all-in-all, things could be worse. I could have gone to an Experience for a dungeon survival adaptation or, I don’t know. Dark Souls.
That’s probably why my list of missed things skews heavily toward food—or at least, the food-adjacent. A can of Diet Coke straight from the mini-fridge under my desk (which keeps it so cold that little bits of ice will float in it) is pretty high on the list. I know it’s terrible for me, but sometimes, I just crave the bubbles and the sharpness of the artificial sweetener.
Extra Toasty Cheez-Its. Bordeaux wine. Taco trucks.
Margaritas. There’s not even anything tequila adjacent here.
Showers though also make the list. I miss showers. I’ve never been a bath person. I don’t like feeling like a soup.
Hand lotion not made from animal fat would be nice.
Deodorant. Crowded spaces all tend to smell like the dealer’s hall on Day 3 of Dragon*Con during a heatwave, back when it was confined to the very bottom of the Hilton.
I wonder what my friends are doing.
And is my mom okay? How is Dad holding up?
My bag slips off my shoulder, and it almost trips me as it hits against my knee. It’s surprising enough that the movement jars me out of my thoughts.
Grumbling, I pull the bag back up and adjust it to where it should be, trying to get it to settle back into shape. I slip my hand under the flap and into the bag itself, making the conscious effort not to visualize anything in particular so I can check for the millionth time that nothing’s randomly floating around inside. There’s a brief finger-numbing snap, which has happened periodically in the last month and a half or so, but the bag’s interior seems cool and empty otherwise, just as it should.
“You okay?” Meg asks, looking over at me, eyebrow raised.
“Fine. Just remembering I need to do some reading about Bottomless Bags. Mine’s been acting up.”
“How so?”
“It’s been… lumpy? I don’t know how to explain it. It used to be molded to me, I’d forget I was even carrying it. Now it falls off, gets tangled with things. Shocks me, sometimes.”
“Shocks you?”
“You know when it’s very dry and you touch something metal and it snaps at your fingers? It’s kind of like a powerful version of that. Leaves my finger tips a little numb after.”
“Is there a taste to it?” Flynt glances over his shoulder. “A little sweet, in the back of your throat?”
I frown. “Now that you mention it…”
“That sounds like discarrium. You don’t have any high magic items in there, do you?”
“Aside from the bag itself, you mean?”
He shakes his head. “The bag isn’t magical so much as it’s enchanted. It holds onto the Essence of the magic that was cast upon it. Discarrium usually only happens with items that actually produce or control Essence in a significant way. Or, I suppose it could when items with strong opposing enchantments come into prolonged contact with one another, but that’s pretty rare.”
I mentally cycle through what I can remember of my [Inventory] without risking the obvious distracted stare into nothingness that would come of actually pulling it up. There’s a bunch of elixirs in there, a few specialized wands (a fire starter, a water purifier, a light emitter), one of the rocky-talkies, a bunch of enchanted arrows of different types… I don’t think any of those would count, or at least, I’ve carried similar if not identical items since before the bag got all out of shape and persnickety.
The bag itself initially was part of the “swag” from the Experience that brought me here in the first place, and the objects in it got translated into useful Qeth-based items. The “adult beverages” turned into elixirs. The novelty ice cubes turned into the enchanting stones that Flynt modified into the rocky-talkies. That kind of thing.
The hoody did become what the [System] identifies as a [Cloak of Dragon Scales, Legendary], which I’m not high enough level to equip—and I’m not sure it would be class compatible anyway (plus, dragon scales are quite rare, very valuable, and sure to garner attention from people that I don’t want attention from).
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Maybe that could be it? But it’s been in there from the beginning. It doesn’t make sense that the bag would suddenly start negatively reacting to it.
“I don’t think so. You’ve helped me buy all my magical items at this point,” I tell him.
“Hm. I can’t think of anything that would create the effect, then. We’ll have to take a look at it when we have a moment.”
“It’s not dangerous, is it?”
“What do you mean by dangerous?”
“I mean, it’s not going to rip a hole in the fabric of space-time or cause the prime material plane to implode, is it?”
There’s a pause and all four of them look at me with a varying mix of confusion and horror—I’m pretty sure they have no idea what I’m talking about but context clues hint at badness. Flynt waits a perfect beat before he pulls out his little notebook and stubby pencil, flips to a page and starts to scribble as we continue our pace. The way Tyrus nods and taps at the notebook suggests this is, indeed, a fairly regular occurrence and I really have no idea how I missed it before.
“Space-time,” Flynt murmurs. “Prime material plane…”
Meg chuckles. “It would be a pretty fucked-up system if something you could possess could cause anything to inadvertently implode. Much less everything.”
“No, I don’t think it’s dangerous to any kind of scale,” Flynt says, tucking the notebook and pencil away. “Worst comes to worse, it could be an indication that somehow there’s a tear in the enchantment.”
“That would be unfortunate,” Tyrus grumbles. “I like not having to carry all that shit on my back day in and out.”
“We couldn’t fix it?”
Flynt shakes his head. “Keira. I don’t think you understand. Da has owned the nation’s most preeminent magical curiosities shop for over three hundred years, and he has personally seen three bottomless bags. Ever. One of them is an heirloom passed down the Terravin family’s primary line. Another is owned by the Steward of the Citadel. And the third?” He taps at the bag against my hip. “That’s an exceedingly rare and difficult enchantment. I don’t even know that there’s anyone alive in Qeth able to effectively cast it anymore. Not with any degree of longevity.”
Tyrus whistles between his teeth. “I knew they were rare, didn’t realize that.”
Meg looks similarly impressed and her eyebrows raise as she considers it as well. “I hadn’t either. How’d you say you got it, again?”
“It was given to me,” I mutter, resting a hand on its smooth leather front flap.
Meg scoffs but Tyrus cuts her off with a chuckle. “You think about it, though, and that’s more believable than any other explanation. Elf Girl can surprise, sure, but she isn’t exactly a master thief.”
“I could be,” I half-heartedly defend myself, but I can’t keep the smile out of my voice, which effectively breaks that line of questioning.
I’m about to ask a follow-up but that pins-and-needles sensation fans up along my scalp again. The pricking guides my attention to our right, up the slight slope and into the trees. Part of me expects some ominous appearance to the forest: unexplainable darkness, mist or fog, the vague and eerie caw of an unseen corvid, but there’s none of that. It just looks like more of the same wooded area we’ve been passing by all this time.
It doesn’t feel like it though.
Everyone else has stopped with me, watching warily.
Jonas clears his throat. “What do you see?”
“Nothing yet…” My voice trails off as I move up the slight rise to the tree line, and I rest a hand on the rough bark of the nearest pine. Pulling up my personal [Map], it looks like we’re very close to where I dropped the [Pin] yesterday, and I’d guess a little more than a bell’s hike north from the first highlighted exploration area, which falls just a bit short of where the Crag is marked.
I think the [Map] closed and glance back at everyone else. “This is definitely the right area from yesterday. We should start heading up.” I point.
There’s a beat of hesitation from everyone as we stare up the slope through the trees. Jonas then sighs heavily and shrugs as he steps forward, past the rest of us, his feet crunching on fallen pine needles to produce a vague puff of yellow pollen.
“Jonas?” Tyrus asks, frowning, though there’s an edge of amusement to his tone.
“What?” Jonas glances back and shrugs. “It looks quite normal. Serene, even. What’s the worst that could happen? Mosby clearly has no power at all here.” It takes all of us a moment to register the sarcasm in his voice, and by then, he’s already several paces ahead, stepping over a fallen log as something small and furry darts away through the underbrush.
“Well, we shouldn’t let the healer too far out of our sight.” Meg sighs and follows, rushing a little to catch up.
“I hope I’ll go first doesn’t become a habit,” Flynt murmurs under his breath.
I flash him my best I guess we’ll see expression before moving to catch up, stepping easily through the underbrush and tree fells to be a good ranger-in-the-woods and take the lead myself.
Our trek through the trees is not what I would call subtle.
We decided fairly early on that we weren’t going to focus on stealth as much as we were getting where we were going at a reasonable pace. Time was of the essence and if what we’re looking for does fall under any of the three presumed options (harpy, hydra, or hag), it might actually be easier to draw it out if we don’t seem to be trying to hide our presence. We don’t want to be ostentatious, but not appearing to be actively searching for something could be to our advantage.
Still. It’s hard not to cringe a little.
I’m no longer surprised to find my footsteps are next to silent without even trying; I seem to instinctively know where and how to step so as not to break a stick or crunch bark or startle some sort of creature hidden nearby. Tyrus, meanwhile, disappears periodically without a sound or glimpse, scouting through trees or just trying new techniques.
He and I aren't the problem.
Flynt isn’t loud, but his approach reminds me of my brother-in-law or any other avid weekend hiker. His steps are careful and practiced, but that’s more to make sure he doesn’t twist an ankle than it is out of any effort to conceal his presence.
Meg would be silent and deadly, I have no doubt, if she weren’t in fairly serious armor: a chainmail tunic plus chest plate, greaves, bracers, and pauldrons. She’s done what she can to minimize the clank but the noise is as inevitable as Thanos. We’re saving up to get her a muffling enchantment, but still have a ways to go.
Jonas isn’t wearing nearly as much armor as she is—just the chain shirt he recently upgraded with some kind of anti-poison buff (I still don’t get how something on his torso can cast protection on his whole body, but, you know, magic). He doesn’t exactly have cat-like dexterity, though, which means his [Stealth] skill is roughly in line with a toddler playing hide-and-go-seek: there’s a clear effort there, but…
The pins-and-needles sensation guides me up the wooded slope and keeps me on alert, though it doesn’t have the sharpness that I equate with a danger sense. That low-key setting allows me to begin consciously noticing the things that my game-based instincts must be clocking: slight bends to branches, berries carefully and selectively plucked from their stems at human height, the occasional marking in the dirt that looks like something being dragged, or places where the foliage is crushed in a way a typical animal wouldn’t create.
There’s also a very light spiciness that hangs in the air, and I’m not sure if it’s more of a smell, a taste, or just general impression. It reminds me a little of how Flynt’s magic often smells, but there’s a note of difference that I can’t really explain—or maybe an absence of something that is otherwise uniquely Flynt.
The feeling of everything changes abruptly, though, shifting from a gentle hum in the background to something as unignorable as a flashing red stop sign in the dark. I don’t have to check a map to know we’re approaching the Crag. Within the space of a half dozen paces, the pins-and-needles sensation sharpens, the spiciness of the atmosphere starts to make my eyes water, and the hairs on the back of my neck pickle in a way that makes me understand exactly what genre novelists mean by that.
The trees drop away. There’s maybe thirty paces of gravely dirt between the line of trees and the abrupt cliff face, which is probably fifteen feet tall. I’d guess it’s some kind of granite given it doesn’t have the horizontal layering that I associate with something like limestone, but I’m definitely talking out of my ass there; it’s been a long time since my geology unit in high school. It looks like someone just came and cut out a chunk of the mountain, and that scar continues down in either direction, curving with the mountain to the east and fading into shadows to the west.
The top of the Crag is green and vibrant. Some small trees encroach on the edge, but there’s also long grasses and hints of wild flowers peaking out. The space between the lower tree line, where we are, and the face of the Crag is an entirely different story. It seems utterly devoid of life: little more than bleached stone chips and gray dirt that wouldn’t even sustain Arizona succulents. The only hints of color come from fallen leaves that have blown in. The breeze rustles some of them, which adds to the eeriness.
I stop short, still within the trees, and frown. The others follow my lead and they pause a little bit behind me.
“I thought you said the Crag wasn’t magical.”
“It’s not,” Meg says. “Or, at least, it’s not thought to be, right?” I can almost feel her looking over toward Flynt for confirmation.
“Not that I have ever heard. Why?”
I reach slowly out beyond the tree line. There’s a little bit of a buzz at my fingertips, and it leaves a dull, bitter taste at the back of my throat, like a can of Diet Coke that’s several months out of date. “I think there’s some kind of magical energy here. The vibe of it is different from the Dragon’s Grove, but there’s a similar buzz.”
Flynt moves up beside me and peers out, though he doesn’t cross the line. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
His brow furrows and he glances back over his shoulder. “I could take a few minutes and cast a magic detection spell.”
“Is that likely to change our course of action?” Tyrus asks.
“It’ll confirm Keira’s hunch and could give us insight where the magical field is, probably the type of magic, maybe where it’s coming from. Depends how far away we are from the source and how concentrated the magic is. It might even be able to confirm what we’re looking for.”
Tyrus makes a low tisking sound. “That’s a lot of uncertainty. We already know we should expect mind magic, and if Keira says there’s magic here, we should believe her. She’s called it right a few times now. I like being prepared, don’t get me wrong, and it’d be helpful to know for sure what we’re going up against—but that doesn’t seem like a great possibility. No offense, Flynt, but you’re a much better combat caster than you are a utility mage, and I’d rather save your Essence for that.”
Meg sighs. “It’s your Essence, Flynt. Your call. But Tyrus does have a point.”
“Let’s go down a ways.” I move before they can respond, following the tree line to the west, toward the shadowy area in the distance. “I’m pretty sure that’s what the guard captain meant by ‘the murk.’ It might be worth investigating in more detail.”
The Crag stands starkly to my left as I carefully traverse the rocky terrain. It’s a pronounced presence even when making a point not to look at it, though the buzz is oddly dimming with every step closer to the shadowy area, slowly leaving a flatness to the air: not a return to normalcy so much as it is an absence of something that feels like it should be there.
I find myself resting my hand against the soft, smooth leather of the front flap of my bag. I have a strange urge to reach in, though I have no idea what I’d be trying to retrieve.
“Am I really the only one feeling this?!” I call back to my party.
“Keira, slow down!” Meg’s voice is farther away than I expected, and I’m dimly aware that they’re not at my heels like I felt they should have been. I didn’t think I was moving that quickly, but when I glance over my shoulder, they’re well behind me, making their way through thick underbrush.
And they’re hazy. I can see them, I know they’re there, but it’s like peering through a curtain of dense rain.
That’s… odd.
I turn back in the direction I was headed. The shadowy murk is still up ahead, but a lot closer now than I thought it was when I heard Meg’s voice. There’s a strange, greenish glow from somewhere inside it, and I hesitate another few moments. It doesn’t feel ominous. My ranger senses aren’t tingling. I don’t have any sense of dread. Just curiosity.
“I’m going to check this out!” I call over my shoulder, but even as I do I realize I’ve already been moving toward it.
There’s a dense wall of vines and other foliage ahead of me, but it’s easy to spot the hint of a way through, and I slide easily through branches and into darkness—darkness, except for the blurry hint of a green glow several strides away.
I pause to let my senses adjust. A low rumble comes from somewhere above me and there’s a vague rushing sound in the background that feels like it should be familiar but that I can’t place. It smells a little like sawdust.
As my eyes get used to the dim lighting, it looks almost like I’m in a dark hallway. In the back of my mind I vaguely remember reading something about mental magics, but honestly, why wouldn’t there be a hallway here? There’s supposed to be a hallway here. I knew it was here.
It’s maybe four feet wide and there’s an impression of a ceiling. I touch the wall to my left and realize that it’s some kind of stone painted black. I follow it along toward the green glow and pause just a few feet shy of it as it comes into focus.
Is that an exit sign?
I look to my left where a black metal door is set about a foot into the wall. It has one of those push bars at the center and a carved wooden sign posted just about eye level: Stand Victorious.
Victorious? Victorious in what?
Back where I came from, there’s a sliver of gray light. It moves slightly, like a line of morning sunlight through curtains I didn’t pull all the way closed the night before.
I rest my hands on the push bar, expecting a magical zap of some sort, something that could hint what this actually is. But it feels solid. A little cold to the touch. Past the door… are those voices?
There’s no sign of Meg or the others. My vision is different, though, there’s an odd hint of a shimmer around the edges of everything, which I think is why I had a hard time reading the exit sign. The bag feels even lumpier than it ever has.
I should go back the way I came. I should forget about this. I should go back and meet up with my party. It was dumb of me to go so far by myself. So, so dumb. The book said something about this… what was it?
My fingers won’t let go of the door’s bar. My heart is pounding in my chest. My ears itch and feel weirdly heavy.
Something in the back of my mind screams at me, but try as I might, I can’t hear it above the thump of the bar and the creak of the door as I push it open and step out into a chilly gray day. As the door slams closed behind me, everything goes cold.
I can hear traffic a street over. There’s a helicopter somewhere nearby. I’m standing on plush red carpeting that has a massive version of the Chronicle of Qeth logo embroidered on it in gold thread.
To my right, someone laughs. A very human approximation of Flynt sits in the driver’s seat of a large, black, extended golf cart that has decals of kyttles along the side. He grins at me.
“Welcome back, adventurer! What news? Did you recover the Stone?”