Not even a full hour after Booth barely restrained himself from flat out murdering the bandit they’d captured, he sat inside a rustic farmhouse at an equally rustic table and got to know his family.

Nothing noteworthy happened during the visit, at least not outwardly. Booth’s narrator had guided him through the darkness along the lane between Traton proper and his parent’s holding, a modest but well-kept stone and thatch home surrounded by rail fences. From behind the fences issued the shuffles and lowing of some small number of animals, although he couldn’t see what in the darkness. The smell told him at least one cow and maybe a couple of hogs.

Booth had planned to stand outside the door and make up his mind once he was there about whether he’d really go inside. But someone from town, or maybe just the game’s System, must have told his family Booth was coming.

Before he could even begin to think about anything, the door had flung open. A woman who hadn’t sounded or looked like his mother, except for her hair color, had wrapped her arms around him. Despite their great size difference, she’d pulled him into an embrace so tight he wasn’t sure he could’ve escaped it, even if he’d wanted to try.

He hadn’t wanted to try. She hadn’t looked or sounded like his mother, but she’d felt like it. It had taken everything in Booth not to burst into tears. He’d settled for clinging to her like he was a little boy again.

His father also did not look like his father, not really. He spoke with the same brusque self-assurance. He stood stiff-spined and smiled proudly as Booth’s mother dragged from Booth stories about his Tilier training and his journey from Diairm and the fight by the pond in which he’d recovered Traton’s prized relic and taken out the bandits who’d stolen it.

Over a dinner of ham, green beans, and potatoes supplemented with hot bread and creamy butter, Booth tried to give credit to the rest of his party for their part in his victories. He was grateful beyond belief that they’d decided to go on the next quest with him. He didn’t feel smart enough for this game’s more intellectual puzzles.

That’s me. Only good at solving problems with my fists.

Booth’s father waved away all Booth’s attempts at modesty. That reminded Booth of his real father, too, dismissing Booth’s attempts to explain to his father that it wasn’t his individual talent but the entire football team which had pulled off a play or won the game.

Booth’s IC little brother’s name was Tobias. Tobias was ten, half Booth’s age. He sat beside Booth, his skinny little elbows planted on the table, and hung on Booth’s every word.

“I’ll be eleven in a couple of weeks,” Tobias eventually informed Booth, cheerfully oblivious that the boy he’d been based on had never made it that far.

Booth blurted out a flimsy, panicked excuse that he needed to relieve himself and stumbled out of the house. Outside, far enough that he was sure they couldn’t hear him from inside, he stood in the darkness and sobbed.

His real family was dead. Toby, Mom, Dad… They were gone. He would never see them again.

I’m dead, too.

Except, of course, that he also was not dead. Booth Green, XXXL-sized former defensive tackle and farmboy, he was dead. Booth Greenfield, Tilier of Voshell and local hero of Traton, was not.

Booth Greenfield’s family was also not dead. Not real, either, but they seemed real enough. If he let himself, Booth felt like maybe he could make them real, in some sense. Maybe it would even be a little like keeping his real self and family alive, or the spirit of them or whatever mushy bullshit way you wanted to look at it.

None of it made any real sense. He was not, after all, smart enough to handle the intellectual puzzles. But in the darkness, with the earthy scents of the farm swirling around him, Booth gave up trying to reason things out and allowed himself to feel his way through what he ought to do next.

Once he got his shit together enough, Booth went back inside. He let his mother, who was also not his mother, fill his plate with a third helping even though he was stuffed. He assured his father, who was also not his father, that he understood the great responsibilities being placed on his shoulders. When his brother, who was also not his brother, dragged Booth to look at his meager collection of carved wooden toys, Booth listened carefully and asked interested questions about each one.

Stolen story; please report.

Booth had wondered what it would be like to meet his fictional family. He’d wondered if it would be terrible or comforting, wonderful or awful.

It was both.

#

The hour was too late and too dark to do anything more that night. The mayor wisely set a doubled watch in case the Scourge of Batzieh got any ideas about coming back sooner. Lor’ariel thought they would not, but of course there was no guarantee. Booth had taken himself off to the farm on Traton’s outskirts where his family lived, but the good mayor had insisted on putting the rest of them up at the inn.

Nildeyr and Dorrias busied themselves with a small performance for the townsfolk who remained in the inn’s common room. The mood was subdued, but a bit of levity might do them all some good. Nildeyr would likely find the tips small compared to larger cities.

Perhaps that will be good for him.

Lora chatted for a bit with the innkeeper’s wife, a lovely woman with a bright smile and a keen humor. While she conversed, however, Lora also kept an eye on Karon Chanford. Lora took note of many things—the corner table which Karon chose, the precise manner in which he laid out meal and drink and book on his little table so that he could easily divide his attention between them. The tasteful but not terribly expensive wine which he ordered.

Arra, of course, stood at deceptively casual guard just behind Karon’s chair. The impressively large woman had eaten standing up and apparently did not drink very much.

After observing for just long enough, Lora expertly disengaged with the innkeeper’s wife, happy to leave the woman feeling quite good about herself. As Lora meandered on a carefully calculated route to Karon’s table, she caught Arra’s eye and smiled. Arra did not smile in return, but Lora had not expected that. Arra did nod respectfully. That, Lora had thought might happen. Lora had, after all, been diligently cultivating a good relationship with the woman. When Lora pulled out the chair across from Karon and sat with careful grace, Arra did not bat an eyelash.

Neither did Karon. He looked briefly up from the book he was perusing and took a sip of his wine. His emptied plate had been shoved off to one side. To most people, Karon’s glance would have seemed disinterested at best.

But Lora felt a sharpening of his attention. She was quite clever about things like that. It was part of her job, a practiced skill which she’d used to bring all six of them here, together, all the way from Diairm.

However, Karon was quite clever, too, Lora thought. He was part of the plan, she was almost certain, yet he remained enigmatic, even to her.

“Is there something I can do for you, priestess?” Karon had returned to his book and did not look up again.

Lora smiled. “Just curious.”

She waited. Karon spent a few more beats pretending to read from his book. From her vantage point, the age of the pages was obvious, the script faded, the letters formed in an archaic style of writing. The language was not immediately known to her.

Karon didn’t sigh, not audibly. But his chest rose and fell in a single more deliberate motion. When he looked up this time, he met and held Lora’s gaze.

He had lovely eyes, a golden-green not terribly different from the aura which shimmered around him—an aura so faint that Lora imagined most people could not discern it at all. Dark blond hair had been pulled into a simple but neat tail. He wore a clean doublet and breeches in the usual deep forest green.

“About?” Karon asked in that cultivated and oh-so-patient way of his.

“Many things.” Lora smiled again and inclined her head toward the tome he’d been studying. “What are you reading?”

With one deft motion, Karon closed the book, graciously and without any definitive slap like a lesser man making a point might have done.

“Nothing at the moment. I’ve been interrupted.”

Karon was not half as intimidating as Lora thought he’d like to be. Still, she held her smile in check. Useful information could come from getting under a person’s skin. The trick was to antagonize them only just the right amount.

“What do you think you will do, do you think, regarding our Tilier friend and his determination to rout evil from the Shining One ruins?”

“I’m still thinking on it.”

But he wasn’t. Lora was quite sure that Karon Chanford had known immediately what he intended to do.

“Arra would be quite useful, should we run into a fight.” Lora did allow herself a little more smile, now.

So would you, Master Chanford, and it has nothing to do with being able to read and write and being learned in history. It doesn’t even have to do with the small dabbles of magic you’ve allowed us to witness you working. But you won’t say that, will you?

Karon looked intently into Lora’s face for a few more heartbeats, and she knew he was gauging her meaning and intent—was she innocently curious or up to something?

That is always the question, isn’t it?

“I am leaning toward accompanying Tilier Greenfield. As you say, my bodyguard and myself may be of some use.” Karon broke their locked gazes and sipped the last of his wine. “Shining One ruins are bound to be fascinating, if nothing else.”

And then Karon stood, took his book, and walked away.

Lora had been quite sure he was going to do that, too.