On all previous visits to the Goose & Child Inn, Damien had come alone.

This time, he brought along company.

The man himself reappeared in his bed, bloody blade still held in a white-knuckle grip. The shoddy replica of Excalibur had been the first sword his parents had bought for him, and it seemed fitting that it would be the blade he brought with him to this world.

Layla cried out in surprise as he appeared, dropping the armful of fresh linen she had been bringing into the room.

“You have got to stop doing that!” she snapped, although her relief at his safety was clear on her face. “Can’t you just come in through the door like a normal person?”

He gave her his most sheepish smile, but there was no joy in it. Sam was dead, and if his last vision of his childhood home was any indicator, he was now the proud owner of a pile of smouldering ashes.

I fucking hate Loch Lomond

A cry followed by the sound of shattering dishes from down below ended the exchange. Damien bolted out of bed and was three steps out the door before he remembered he had arrived, as always, in his long johns.

Armour up, he thought and was only mildly surprised when chainmail, shield, and Dukayne all seemed to leap not just to him but onto him. Even Excalibur, robbed of its place in his sword hand, appeared to have found a place in a hilt at his side.

He was almost at the top of the stairs when a momentary dizziness threatened to topple him.

YOU HAVE REACHED LEVEL 3. HAND SIZE INCREASED BY 1. ADD 3 CARDS TO YOUR DECK.

He didn’t have a great deal of time to contemplate his options, but he quickly took stock of his cards as he descended.

1. Powerful Strike

2. Cleaving Blow

3. Parry

4. Shrug it Off

5. Unorthodox Tactics

6. Whirling Assault

He was contemplating his seventh and final card when he crashed into the back of Oleg’s wife, who had been backing up towards the stairs.

Magda! he remembered at last. Her name is Magda!

The force of their collision knocked poor Magda to the floor, but Damien’s time on the football field meant he could keep his feet in all but the most dire of occasions. He vaulted over her prone form, landing between her and a wild-eyed Benji, who brandished a broken bottle already wet with blood.

“Stay back, you fu-” Benji began but must have recognised the armoured figure barrelling towards him at the last moment. He had one brief moment of clarity before Damien’s shield caught him under the chin, lifting him off his feet and sending him spine-first through a nearby table.

For a moment, the image of the drunk arsehole laying in a pool of spilt ale, splintered furniture, and broken glass reminded him of another card in his deck: Tavern Brawl.

No sooner had he thought of it that it leapt not into his hand but into play. All around him, men of all shapes, sizes, and races began to wink into existence, many of them in the midst of throwing a punch or taking one.

All hell broke loose as thirty or more NPCs came into existence mid-fight, their presence turning an open battlefield into a minefield of swinging fists, flying furniture, and slick floorboards.

He lost Benji for a moment in the chaos, ducking under a clumsy punch from a mutton-chopped giant and skipping deftly back from a rolling pin being swung by a fiery-bearded dwarf.

He had precious little time to marvel at the sudden presence of races from fantasy, so busy was he ducking and weaving his way through a brawl of his own creation.

“Fred!” he could hear Oleg shouting. “I could use yer help! This one’s a wildcat!”

Pushing his way through the press of violence, he angled towards the bar, where he could see Oleg’s broad back pressed up against it as he wrestled with Drew. The little guy should not have presented a challenge to a man the size of Oleg, but judging by the spreading pool of red on the barkeep’s back, he’d been caught unawares.

Weaselly little fucker, Damien seethed. Of course, he’d stab a guy who meant him no harm.

A slightly built elf put himself between Damien and the bar. A little Unorthodox Tactics, delivered in the form of a punt to the crotch, sent the unfortunate soul arcing up and over the bar, where he crashed into the neatly arranged bottles of liquor on the wall.

“Wha-?” Oleg began, too preoccupied with his fight to finish the thought.

“Put it on my tab!” Damien barked, vaulting the bar, planting another kick in the fallen man’s chest, and spinning to face Drew.

The drunk turned to face him, squinting in confusion.

“Damo?” he asked dumbly. “What the fuck is goi-”

A tankard to the side of the head silenced him. Oleg dropped the shattered glass and nodded to his would-be saviour.

“Thank ye for the assist. Friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Damien said, already turning to regard the fight raging throughout the common room. “Old enemy.”

“Ye’ve got no shortage of those, it seems,” the bartender said, gesturing to where Damien had been shot. “Are ye well?”

“I’ve been better,” Damien admitted, “but I’ll be right. My apologies for the mess.”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Oleg looked at the crowd and shrugged. “This? This is a Tuesday. It’s just good to see some life in the old girl again.”

—---

While Oleg bumped heads together and doused tempers with buckets of ice-cold water, Damien deposited Benji and Drew into the cellar.

Wish I’d left a dire rat or two down there… he mused as he shut the door. He’d taken the time to bind their hands and ankles together as best he could - rope use was not a skill he possessed in-game or out, so he’d made do with what he could remember of his father’s many failed attempts to make a man out of him on camping and fishing trips.

If only he could see me now.

When the last of the drunks had been sent on their way - to where Damien had no idea - he slumped into his usual seat and called for a beer.

Oleg brought two across, sliding into the chair opposite. When Damien looked confused, the big man smiled.

“I reckon ye’ve got questions, and I reckon I owe you answers.”

Damien didn’t know where to start, so he started at the beginning.

“What is this place?” he said, gesturing to the darkness beyond the tavern windows. “If you say the Goose & Child, I’m going to toss this beer in your face.”

Oleg chuckled. “It was - is - the village of Fairhill. It’s just… scattered at the moment. I can feel the others out there, but damned if I know where they are. Ye found Voril and Sofia’s shop - he’s fine, by the way - but I don’t know where ye’ll find the others.”

“How many others are there?”

Oleg shrugged. “Hard to say if ye’ll have to find each building or if it’s just the important places ye need. If it’s the latter, ye’ll want to find the apothecary, tannery, general store, Nefril’s tower, the manor house, barracks, and adventurer’s guild. If it’s the former, ye’ll need to find about thirty houses and farms.”

“I see,” Damien replied dully, trying to recall what he knew of the various structures that had been listed off. Most of them seemed familiar from his childhood adventures, although he didn’t remember the tannery or manor house. “Where did they all go?”

Oleg shrugged again.

“Sam did somethin’. He said it was to protect you.”

“Me?”

“You and ye world,” Oleg explained. “He said he’d made a monster, and he needed to kill it. Said he couldn’t do that here, so he’d do it out there.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If he drew this ‘monster’ to our world, why did he need to scatter yours?”

“The monster’s from here. He’s got power here. Sam wanted to cut him off from that.”

“By moving some buildings around?”

“By breaking the monster’s ability to come back here and gather his power. He’s alone out there; he is. Cut off from his armies, advisors, treasures, and kingdom.”

Matthias. It was obvious, of course. It should have been from the start. He hadn’t been oddly dressed because he’d been trying to fit in - he’d been oddly dressed because he had arrived in the garb of his world.

“If he’s such a threat to my world, why did Sam take him there?”

“I told ye that,” Oleg growled. “He couldn’t beat him here, and he couldn’t stop him there if he had his power from here, so he took him, naked as a babe. I’m guessin’ from the look on yer face, it hasn’t worked out.”

“Sam’s dead. The ‘monster’ had these two jackals in your cellar kill him. He sent them to kill me, too.”

Oleg’s face paled. It was not the reaction of a man finding out a friend or colleague had died, but something far, far worse.

“Sam is dead?” he slurred. Overhearing, Magda dropped another tray of plates. They hit the ground a few seconds before she joined them and fainted dead away.

Oleg rushed to her side on spaghetti legs, barely making it himself. Damien moved to help the two of them, still confused by the severity of their reaction. He’d been friends with Damien for most of his young life, yet these two acted as if their own child had died.

“What is Sam to you?” he asked, but Oleg only gave him a thousand-yard stare.

From the stairs, her own face pale, Layla answered for her father. “Sam is our creator. He’s our god.”

“God is dead,” muttered Magda as her eyes fluttered open. “God is dead, and He walks your world unchecked.”

“Two worlds doomed,” Oleg intoned. “If the creator couldn’t stop him, what hope have we?”

The three of them consoled one another, excluding Damien from a family’s grief. Confused and overwhelmed, he staggered to the bar, where he slumped into a stool and eyed the trapdoor beyond.

Sam was dead, and evidently, Matthias was some BBEG he’d been trying to stop from destroying the real world by cutting him off from this one.

Why didn’t you tell me your fucking plan, Sam? What was with all the cloak and dagger?

Before him, a booster pack appeared. He had half a mind to toss it across the room but thought better of it. For now, at least, he was bound by the rules of the game.

Probably for the best, a cruel part of him thought. You were better at this game than you were at real life.

Peeling open the packet, he tipped the ten cards out into his palm, careful not to let them touch the beer-stained surface.

Common

* Molotov Cocktail: Equipment

* Torturer’s Tactics: Universal Social

* Orc Raiders: Talespinner

* Magic Missiles: Wizard Battle

* Healing Prayer: Priest Battle

* Mastercrafted Lockpicks: Rogue Equipment

Uncommon

* Baneblade: Equipment

* You Killed My Father…: Universal Battle

* Wendigo: Talespinner

Rare

* Secret Compartment: Universal Exploration

A better draw than his last, at least.

The art for Baneblade caught his eye. It was a spitting image of the replica excalibur he had brought with him.

Reading the description, it appeared Dukayne might have competition.

He couldn’t remember what exactly Bane meant as a keyword, but he remembered Murray being obsessed with his axe, Dragonbane. He’d have to ask the gawky idiot about it when he saw him next.

Why don’t you bring him here?

The thought never would have crossed his mind a day ago, but if he could accidentally drag those two arseholes here, why couldn’t he bring Murray?

More importantly, if he brought Murray, would he become Fudgerod the Flatulant like Damien had become Fred the Fighter?

We need better names…

There would only be one way to find out.

“Oleg, Magda, Layla,” he began, “I’ll be right back. Don’t let those shitheads out, no matter what they say.”

As he stood, his foot caught on the leg of his stool. He was able to keep his balance easily enough, but he momentarily lost his grip on the cards. One of them - Secret Compartment - drifted down to the floor, narrowly missed by his outflung hand.

Where it struck, there was a sudden click of a mechanism at work. The floor slid open to reveal a small, book-sized compartment.

In it was Sam’s ledger - an overstuffed folder full of sketches on napkins, pieces of graph paper, meticulously drawn maps, both handwritten and typed notes, and more than a few magazine clippings. It was, in short, everything Sam had ever written about his world.

Bingo.