Time: 4 days 17 hours 11 minutes
Joren watched the townspeople in a daze. A film separated him from reality. Perhaps it was the omnipresent clock that created the dissociative state. Or perhaps it was the exhaustion of having fought a global war and died at its conclusion that had finally spanned the gap between worlds to catch up with him.
Whatever the case, it distracted him from the magic gathering in the palm of his fellow Morriim. When the light in his periphery finally became too brilliant to ignore, he reached over and chopped at her arm with his own. The magic faded from Nahlia’s hand. “What are you doing?” she questioned.
“You see how many of them there are.”
“You propose we die politely?”
“Politeness is the right tack,” said Joren, rising to his feet, “but not to chart a course towards death.” He drew his sword from its scabbard, a gesture that slowed the march of the villagers. But then he stabbed it into the wood of the bench and hopped down from the carriage with his arms raised. “I suspect you know this horse and carriage. And therefore that we’re not its rightful owners.”
A young man shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, pitchfork in hand, face screwed up in grieving anger. “I received a distress call from my betrothed.”
“Explains the magic potion,” said Nahlia. Joren turned his head to her. “The headless girl was an amateur sorceress.”
The young man at the fore melted at the news, the anger leaking from his expression until all that remained was pain and mourning. The pitchfork slipped from his fingers as he dropped to his knees and began to weep. A cocoon of supportive villagers enveloped him, laying their hands on his head and shoulders.
Joren shot Nahlia a chastening stare.
“Your loved ones were not slain by us,” he told the villagers. “A pair of bandits ambushed the carriage.”
“I’ll have their heads on pikes,” growled the fiance.
“Should be a simple task,” replied Nahlia. She cast a thumb at Joren. “He’s gone and done the hard work for you.”
An old man peeled away from the huddle that surrounded the grieving lover and approached Joren. “Is this true?” he asked. With a stooped back, a deeply creased visage, and a rawbone frame, he looked brittle. But a toughness shone in his gray eyes, something fostered over years of strife. Decades. “Did you avenge my son’s betrothed?”
“I killed the bandits who slayed the family riding in this carriage,” Joren answered matter-of-factly. The guilt at having failed to save them forbade him from taking credit.
The old man inspected him until a little head nod suggested he was satisfied with what he saw. “You will be guests in our village tonight. What are your names?”
“I am Joren.”
“Nahlia,” she answered for herself with a wave.
“From where do you hail?”
Nahlia and Joren exchanged looks, a tacit recognition that their purpose here in Eldaviir was better kept to themselves for now. “Distant lands,” Joren answered cryptically.
The old man slit his gaze, but quickly dismissed his suspicions. “I’ll not pry secrets from the man who delivered justice on our behalf. Come. My name is Samson Origath. My son, Erik, had arranged to marry the beautiful Vivienne. She and her family were to move here. I’d told them to wait for the next caravan, but…” he trailed into a plaintive silence.
Joren was so accustomed to loss that he did not think to comfort Samson. In its last days, Isandros was a continuous stream of loss. Death was so commonplace that its people forwent their funeral customs. Graves lacked markers, names were quickly forgotten. The world seemed merely a holding place for souls en route to oblivion. People were ghosts long before they drew their final breaths.
“Bring the cart into the stable, I’ll show you where,” Samson called out to Nahlia.
A flicker of disappointment crossed the elf’s face, knowing she would have to relinquish the carriage and its small bounty. Snapping the reins, she commanded the horse forward. The huddle shifted out of its way and Joren followed behind, for a moment cutting his eyes at the grief-stricken faces. Tears bejeweled their cheeks, almost beautiful when they caught the waning daylight. It had been so long since he’d encountered someone who hadn’t emptied themselves of tears. That loss retained its sting here in Eldaviir was reason enough to appreciate this new world.
After decoupling the horse from the carriage and stabling it, Samson led his guests through town. Joren walked alongside Nahlia as the two of them surveyed Wenderton. It was a small and modest community, built of thatch and cobblestone, dirt roads reaching for three blocks in any direction. The path that exited Virii passed through the center of Wenderton, arched over a river before snaking off across the hills.
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Samson led Joren and Nahlia over the stone bridge to his patch on the bank of the river. There was a fenced-in field adjoining the main house where a dozen sheep lazed in the dusk. This world was not unlike Isandros. Or, rather, the Isandros before the war. It was almost as if Joren had time-traveled instead of switching worlds. He could nearly convince himself of it as he watched the sun slip beneath the horizon, dusting the hillocks with its lambent residue. Grass folded in an evening breeze. Snow-capped mountains marked the distant boundary of this hilly terrain. Trees shaded the plots of Wenderton, their greenery colored in sunset’s warm hue. Joren stood for a moment in this tableau, pulling it into his chest with a deep breath.
And at the bottom of it all, his clock.
4 days 16 hours 49 minutes 58 seconds
Memories of screams, the pungent stink of rotting flesh, the twinkling haze rising off magic-scorched earth.
“Joren.” He looked back from the distance. Nahlia stood in the doorway of Samson’s home, staring over at him.
He joined them in the house, which was little more than a hut. A fire raged in the hearth. A plate of bones sat on the dining room table. “Pardon,” said Samson, whisking his dinner scraps into the scullery. “Have a seat by the fire!” he called back.
Joren looked at Nahlia and the two sat opposite one another beside the fire. “You think it’s wise wasting Time on hospitality?” she asked him, keeping her voice low.
“How else would you prefer to spend it?” he countered.
“Earning more Time.”
“How much do you have right now?”
“Look,” she said, and displayed the figure in the air above her head.
1 day 17 hours 33 minutes and 2 seconds
it read. “Plenty of time,” Joren said. Or, was about to say, until Samson returned from the scullery to discover the golden numbers hovering over Nahlia. His eyes widened with shock.
“Morriim,” he muttered.
Nahlia rose from her chair and prepared a magic blast, but Joren shouted, “Nahlia!” and she held off on throwing it.
“You know what we are?” she asked their host.
The old man drifted towards the fire and stared into its flames. “There are few who believe it, though my waffling faith is now affirmed.” He twisted around to face them. “Have you really been sent here by the gods to perform the culling?”
“Morrii himself,” Nahlia answered.
Samson’s eyes floated to the ceiling. “Blessed are we who fear your mighty hand,” he muttered. He flicked his eyes to Joren. “Have you only just arrived?”
Joren nodded. “A short time ago, yes.”
“The bandits granted you some days, I take it?”
He nodded again.
“Boon of a first encounter,” said Nahlia.
“Initially, it was a rabbit.”
“Family of deer for me. Wait, how did you manage to kill a rabbit with no magic and no weapon?”
“Patience.”
Nahlia chuckled. “Nerves of steel to be patient with only thirty seconds.”
Joren cracked a rare grin. “My brow was not dry.”
“I may have a bounty of souls for the two of you to dispatch,” said Samson, a slight quaver in his voice as if he was bargaining with Death for his own soul. Joren thought to put him at ease, but preferred to hear his proposition. “As you’ve not harmed any of us in Wenderton, I take it you’re not indiscriminate in your killing.” He smiled nervously. “If moral judgment be a factor, might I point you in the direction of a great many sordid men and women ready for the blade.” His eyes cut at Nahlia’s still-glowing fingertips. “Or the fatal touch of magic.”
“Point then,” Nahlia urged.
Samson directed his pitch at Joren, who he deemed the more reasonable of the two. “The bandits you killed, they come from a campsite to the east, only a few hours’ ride from here. They have long plagued our village. We are humble farmers, none matching the Body or Spirit of those seasoned marauders. Pleas to the king have gone unanswered, the western war drawing his eye away from domestic strife.”
“War,” said Nahlia. “War is good. War means work. Plenty of it.”
Samson turned to her. “Cut your teeth on our bandits and we will send you on your way with food, clothing, a tent to sleep in, blankets to keep you warm. We haven’t much else, no money to spare, but by all means take the rest, we would be forever grateful to you and the gods for your service.”
Joren looked across at Nahlia, a game look in her eye.
“Alright,” said Joren.
And across his vision appeared the following:
Mission Accepted: Wenderton’s Scourge
First Task: Kill the bandits [0/5]
The listing of a first task implied subsequent tasks, though they did not reveal themselves presently. Joren watched Nahlia’s big blue eyes dart side to side as they scanned the text. “Suppose that binds us to the obligation, eh?”
Joren stood. “It seems Morrii has sanctioned your revenge, Samson.” A sudden pain wrenched his gut and he saw a warning flicker.
Hunger will deplete Blood by 1 Cup in 1 hour
He gritted his teeth and laid a hand over his grumbling belly. Samson placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “You needn’t ride out tonight. Eat with us, take the room meant for Vivienne’s parents. Rest. Then tomorrow, meet them at dawn. They are a lazy sort, given to sleeping long past sunrise.”
Concern crossed Nahlia’s face. “Only a few hours,” Joren assured. “We’ll meet them with plenty of time.”
Nahlia nodded. “Okay.” She turned to Samson. “What’ve you got to eat?”