Despite lacking a sense of decency, Penbrooke had an eerie sense of direction. It wasn’t familiarity that guided him but rather, when coming to a crossing or fork in the road, he just seemed to know which way led to the village and lake beyond as though guided by a magnetic pull.

Within a half-hour of leaving he had reached the village boundaries, where swaying fields of golden wheat and malting barley crops flanked him, orderly plantations of fruit trees visible further off in the distance.

The village – officially known as Greenhorn Bastion for reasons long lost to the vestiges of time – was really four dozen cabins made of oak and pine, fuzzy beards of moss being the sole splash of colour on what was otherwise blocks of dusty wood.

Scattered haphazardly amongst these houses were a handful of shops that were distinguishable from their neighbours only by the chalkboard signs hanging from their frontages.

These shops were nothing fancy: a baker’s, a general amenities store, a pub, and so on; since the village catered for basic needs alone, anything further required a visit to neighbouring Riversdale, a greater village encroaching on a town with so many shops that some even had to compete for customers through appealing storefronts and good customer service, foreign concepts to Greenhorn Bastion.

To reach the lake, circling the village was a shave quicker than cutting through it, hence Cal clung to the hope that Penbrooke would avoid the settlement and its inhabitants in his urgency to return the fishing rod. It’s one thing if Mum thinks I’m going through a phase and laughs; it’s another matter entirely should the whole village see me acting loony…

Without missing a beat, Penbrooke marched into the village humming a jaunty tune that seemed to belong to another world entirely. In less than a minute he had come across someone: Crooked Jerry hobbled along on a walking stick, his careworn face framed by a dusty coif that had seen better days. The elderly man greeted Cal with a wave as shaky as his gait, “Morning, sonny.”

Penbrooke gave a curt nod, frostier than Cal’s usual but nothing to stress over.

“Sonny, did you hear about Milliman’s Orchard?” Crooked Jerry paused, appearing as if he actually wanted to ask something else, seemed to debate whether he should, then decided he had to and fired away, all in a matter of seconds. “Uh, why are you wearing a broken bucket on your head… and what’s with the pitchfork?”

Penbrooke ignored the questions as if nothing had been said, mumbling to himself, “Tutorial NPC flavour text.”

If this had been the end of it, Cal would have been relieved; instead, Penbrooke walked right up to Jerry and openly gawped at the elder, glancing at the washed-out mustard tunic and plaited bark shoes, before turning to Jerry’s face with an intensity that bordered reverence. “This colour blending is unreal, though! They must have used next-level shaders or something.”

“Sorry, sonny, I didn’t quite catch that, heh. Say that again, would you?” Jerry rotated his head edgewise and cupped his ear towards the knight; and seeing as the elder was offering himself up like this, how was Penbrooke supposed to resist? Not that there was any intention to.

The noble knight acted without a moment’s hesitation and yoinked Jerry’s mangy coif, exposing the balding crown littered with wispy grey hairs for the world to see. “Woah… look at this texture pack, man. This hair looks so thin and feeble.” There was a subtle – but noticeable – charge of excitement in the knight’s voice. “I genuinely feel like I could yank off individual strands if I wanted!”

Unbeknownst to Cal, these spoken words must have been an invigoration spell for they infused Jerry with a burst of energy; the elder snatched his coif back and pulled it tight over his head, all of a sudden coming across as far more stable on his walking stick and squarish in frame. “Alright, alright, you can laugh now but when you reach my age you’ll be no different, I tell you.”

Penbrooke snorted, finally addressing the elder, “Not so if I get a transplant. That’s the miracle of modern medicine.”

“A what?” came a somewhat desperate reply, but the knight was already moving past and heading deeper into the village. Crooked Jerry could only scratch his head in bemusement as he watched the young man depart. “Huh, he’s becoming just like his old man. Who’d have thunk it?”

This offhand comment captured Cal’s attention, shifting it away from the first-hand cringe he felt. What does Jerry mean, just like my dad?

No one in the village spoke much about Cal’s dad, and his mum had always deflected whenever he asked. The most Cal knew was that people had complicated feelings on the man, fringing on negative but not quite, and that the last he was seen was when he’d told Cal’s mum he was going to get some milk from the mountain goats, only to never return.

Although Cal’s memories of the event had long faded, his mum had later told him that his dad, amidst his treacherous trek up Mount Negligent, had run into an odd monster called the Deadbeat Slayer

(This was a legendary beast named after its diet of free range, organic deadbeats; when hungry, it would wilfully ignore other sources of nutrition – including those ultra-processed deadbeats colloquially known as sugar daddies as snacking on too many of them put you at serious risk of diabetes – instead, it strove to subsist solely on gigolo males who’d nailed and bailed (and who as a result had forced a child to grow up fatherless, to say nothing of the poor, blameless woman whose heart they’d broken)).

Allegedly his dad had borne such a strong stench of one who’d sired and retired that the monster had gone into a frenzy on meeting him, mauling him to death in a horrific fashion. It had then apparently swallowed him whole, leaving nary a bone, let alone any child support payments. Given his mum’s self-righteous tone and the harrumph at the end, Cal had chosen self-preservation over further enquiries on the matter.

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

Yet, curiously enough, Cal had also overheard gossip when others thought him out of earshot that a search party had never been sent to check on his dad’s status as was custom whenever someone from the village went missing.

It was all rather mysterious. And although his mum spoke little of his dad, Cal could glean some meaning from the fact she’d never taken a man since, further mystifying his dad’s presence (or lack thereof).

Crooked Jerry’s comment made Cal curious as to which feature of Penbrooke was reminiscent of his old man. Is it the cold demeanour? Or perhaps could it be my dad also carried around a mud-stained pitchfork and a rickety helmet-bucket? …Don’t tell me Penbrooke himself is my dad back from the dead? Surely not, Cal hoped; there’s no way, Cal prayed; but what if?

While Cal melted down over the possibility-that-must-not-be-named, Penbrooke advanced on his objective, randomly moving off the path at times and walking in between houses at others, but all the same nearing the lake with each and every step.

Anyone who greeted the knight got a similarly reserved response, a world away from Cal’s typical disposition, but the majority of them didn’t seem to find it particularly rude; rather, it elicited many more references to his dad, including puce-faced Baker Bill remarking to his rumourmonger wife that the other half of Cal’s bloodline had finally awoken.

They may well have said nothing at all from the indifference Penbrooke showed them; the only interest he showed was for the environment, for a time tarrying in the village and marvelling at the wooden buildings – causing Cal to muse if Penbrooke originated from a prehistoric era where such buildings were considered luxurious and seldom seen – although he lost interest quickly, after which his pace summarily sped up.

The knight was soon out of the village with only a brisk walk remaining to his destination.

When he arrived, the lake glimmered in the afternoon light, discordant singing of insects and croaking of frogs colouring the scene. The humid air here was cloying against the skin and made the day’s heat more oppressive. Against a tree in plain sight leaned the lost fishing rod, its glossy maroon finish standing out against the backdrop of plain brown wood.

Triumphant, Penbrooke lifted it in the air like a trophy. “Let’s go! Now just need to return to get that sweet xp.” He paused and rubbed his chin ruminatively. “Though I wonder if this is an incompletable quest, like one of those tutorials where you come back from an easy fetch quest only to find out your village was raided by orcs or the like while you were gone, with everyone you know dead or missing.”

Huh? What…

Lost in thought, Penbrooke didn’t notice his gaze wandering until it got caught on the hot penny of a sun, which was now some parts descended from its peak in the sky. “Oh shoot, how long has it been? I need to check up on Ari. And all those chores still need doing.” Sighing, he placed the fishing rod by his feet. “I guess this is enough for an initial look; I’ll finish the quest next time.”

Within a dozen beats the spirit was no more, departing as unceremoniously as it had first appeared.

Cal experienced a jolt from the transfer of body control as though he’d been abruptly shoved from the passenger seat of a wagon to the front. Afflicted by a jittery tremor, he turned his hands over and stared, not quite believing what had happened over the last hour. Then, an uncontainable smile swept over his face.

The DIY helmet came off at once, his disbelief growing from the sheer joy he felt at holding a broken bucket in his hands as opposed to having it fringe his vision. “He’s gone! He’s gone!” Cal stretched his neck out and screamed at the top of his lungs “He’s gone!”

Perhaps it was the echo of his voice, this adulterous voice that had been voicing another man’s thoughts until moments ago, which brought down his jubilation as finally the details of Penbrooke’s departure struck him. “But that damned usurper left saying next time, so he must be intending to come back…” Cal’s eyes lost their lustre. “Though maybe not today given he said something about chores or the other.”

Pulling his mind away from wondering what kind of ghastly chores a spirit would have to do, Cal cast his focus instead on himself and on what he could do in the meantime; somehow he had to figure out a way to stave off Penbrooke when that body snatcher returned.

And there was one clue sticking out on how to do this, one person who the villagers had repeatedly brought up when witnessing Penbrooke’s actions.

Could it be my dad also experienced something similar to this? Maybe that’s why he left us, instead of on some bizarre adventure for mountain goat milk. There was no way his mum’s tale could be true: after all, how impossibly good would the milk have to be for a man with a family to take care of to risk his life over?

Yet, as tantalizing as the idea was that his dad had suffered unwanted possession just like him, it also meant confronting his mum about the truth…

Actually, having given it more thought, I really ought to ask the villagers first and arm myself with deadbeat dad facts before facing up to that Ogress. I mean, I may as well seeing as the village is literally there; if anything, it’d be foolish not to ask them on my way back. On top of that, um… Uh… Well… Oh wait, that’s right: Penbrooke mentioned an orc attack on the village.

Cal felt like scolding himself for almost forgetting Penbrooke’s completely lucid and perfectly sound warning.

Sure, Cal may have swept the idea under the rug on initial hearing because of how ridiculous it was to imagine orc raiders this deep in human territory; even if they were, their little outing would have merely ended as a warning to others who shared their ambition and nothing further.

He could picture it: a band of orcs slipping past the warfront and any succeeding borders using subterfuge and disguise, taking herculean efforts to maintain their front as a circus troupe or perhaps travelling merchants so that they could set themselves up in the perfect position to commit whatever dastardly deeds their warlock had conjured up. It broke Cal’s heart to consider them putting in all this effort and ingenuity, just for it to go down the drain because they’d ended up in his mum’s line of sight. What a divine tragedy!

Mulling over Penbrooke’s theory in more depth, however, Cal chastised himself for letting his prejudices run off with his thinking like that. Granted, his mum was indeed a horror on par with the Demon King himself so no issues on that front; rather, the fault in his thinking was in believing that his mum even cared enough about a supposed orc attack to bother stopping it.

What if they knew about her bear-like ways and attacked in the early hours of the morning while she was still snoring away in hibernation? Where was the guarantee she’d stop an imminent massacre if she was cranky he’d woken her amidst a pleasant dream?

There was no guarantee; and that was the point.

This meant Cal would have to take it into his own hands to check up on his neighbours and ensure they'd not been raided while he was away, even if it was no longer morning (for he knew being unreasonably thorough was simply a part of being duteous). And while he was carrying out his responsibility in visiting them, he may as well ask them about his dad for the sake of efficiency.

Cal vigorously patted his own back in awe of his thoughtful, creative planning; his mum had lectured him about the importance of doing this time and time again, and here he was now showing her who the boss was, who the big thinker really was: him.

Following one last pat on the back for the road, Cal picked up the fishing rod, pitchfork, and bucket, and started for the village once more, fatigued, yes, but also fuelled by a sense of purpose as he trod over Penbrooke’s steps, resolved to find out who his dad really had been and what had happened him.