There is only one forest in the entire Galassia where the Banalla tree—often called the ‘Pauper’s bread tree’—can be found: Sylvaranth woods.

The tree has earned its name because of its soft, spongy bark, which can be ground into flour and baked into bread. The bread’s unpleasant texture and woody aftertaste make it nobody’s first choice of food. Worse, if improperly cooked, the bread can make one violently ill—sometimes lethally so. Yet, ‘pauper’s bread’ remains a staple for the residents of the villages scattered across Sylvaranth woods.

The reasons for this are simple. The Banalla tree regrows its bark fully in a matter of months, and the bread can keep for an incredibly long time if kept dry, making it a dependable source of sustenance for the locals, even in the leanest years.

I’m no culinary historian, so while I found all that mildly interesting, I was more concerned about the deeper implications of running into a Banalla tree.

As an endemic plant, this tree has not only reliably indicated my current location in Galassia but, with a little added context from Anetta’s library, also what I could expect from the locals.

Sylvaranth woods was once an elven forest. While the elves have long-vacated the area, some of their descendants—of mixed Elven and human heritage—persist to this day. As a consequence, most of the locals are blonde, red-headed, or silver-haired, with radiant blue or green eyes.

While not as overtly xenophobic as their full-blooded ancestors, my black hair and eye colour are the exact opposite of popular.

Why?

Historical conflicts.

The black-haired, dark-eyed clansmen of the mountains south of the forest have been supplementing their food stores by raiding the bountiful forest villages for generations. To the local villagers, they are like a seasonal plague, only worse. I won’t get into too many details here, but let’s just say they are ‘messy shoppers’, and leave it at that.

These raids are so significant and long-lasting that they merited inclusion in my ‘general knowledge library.’ So, depending on the timing of the most recent conflict, as well as the locals’ ability to hold a grudge, my reception could be anything from somewhat cold to outright lethal.

“Ryder, please tell me there’s a super-secret plan I’m too featherbrained to understand. Why are we walking straight towards a village of people likely to pull torches and pitchforks on us?” Anetta asked, her voice trembling only a little.

Said village was in the middle of a large clearing, just out of sight, hidden behind a tall palisade broken up with an occasional century tower fully surrounding it. While not exactly exuding a welcoming atmosphere, the wood of the fortifications seemed to be cracked and weathered, indicating that there haven’t been any recent repairs or upgrades to it. Furthermore, only one in three century towers looked to be manned.

The lack of recent repairs and sentries suggested that the village hasn’t faced any recent threats, reducing the chance of encountering defenders on high alert, or a hostile reception. Or that was the hope, at least.

“Super-secret plan?” I asked in amusement. “Not exactly. I’m banking on being viewed as a passing traveller, rather than a spy or an enemy scout.”

“Uh…how so?”

“For the same reason I couldn’t blend-in among the clansmen south of here if my life depended on it. I may look similar, but I know almost nothing of customs, greetings, local slang. I obviously don’t fit, despite similarities,” I said, gesturing at my face.

Which was true. I always found it amusing when movie heroes that spoke the local language effortlessly passed themselves as locals in spy movies. The hero speaking an obscure dialect of a local language infiltrating the headquarters of the enemy organisation with no one the wiser is just ridiculous.

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Anyone who travelled even a little will tell you that it doesn’t take an alert counter-intelligence operative to see you are not who you pretend to be. All you need to do is get into a car and drive a couple of villages away from where you live at. Any local grandpa with a hoe on his shoulder and blind in one eye will figure out that you are not from the area before you are done exchanging greetings.

“Aren’t you putting a lot of trust in people being reasonable?” Anetta complained. “You know, ‘if enemy shaped, probably an enemy’ kind of logic.”

“Not at all. I’m most likely going to register as an oddity rather than an enemy. If worse comes to worst, we follow the immortal words of Steve Harris and ‘run to the hills.’ But that’s unlikely.” I said with assurance I didn’t really feel.

I wondered if Anetta could feel my emotions the way I felt hers on occasion. If so, it would explain why her worries echoed mine. Despite my cock-sure attitude, of course, I felt daunted. But unlike her, I kept my worries leashed.

Fear can be healthy, but letting it rule you is how you die an ignoble death. The only thing being a coward can guarantee is a mountain of regrets and missed opportunities down the line. And besides, graveyards are just as full of craven as they are of valiant people.

“I guess the alternative is for us to stay in the woods overnight. So, this is more of a ‘pick your own risk’ situation more than ‘to risk or not to risk’,” Anetta said, obviously steeling herself for whatever comes.

“Exactly,” I confirmed. “I’ll take hostile people over hostile wildlife anytime. I’m far from hopeless in a fight, but I’ve had much more practice talking my way out of trouble than fighting out of it. It’s just how modern Earth is set up. Civilised bits, at least.”

Our entire debate was moot at this point, as the gate guard had already seen me approach. Only a single guard, I noted with some relief, which was another encouraging sign. Better yet, despite my dark-haired appearance, there were no bells rung, or rushed footsteps of the assembling guard to be heard. He also remained slouched at his post, giving me the same amount of regard he did to the woods behind me.

When Anetta’s knowledge had suggested I was about to encounter Elven-blooded people, I had expected the unrealistic standards of ageless beauty, long silky hair, and proud posture.

Unfortunately, reality often disappoints.

The guard’s blue eyes were indeed piercing and almost radiant, hinting at a shadow of greater ancestry, but the rest of him was far from the idealised image. His moth-eaten gambeson, patched so many times that its original colour was a mystery, seemed older than its wearer. The dent in his conical helmet was positioned straight forward, likely for symmetry, and even from a distance, I could see the black grime under his nails as he gripped his basic halberd.

He didn’t look to be a defender as much as someone just keeping an eye on things.

“Halt.” he called out as I approached, with an enthusiasm of a toll booth operator working overtime. “Travel permit.”

Luckily, dealing with overworked or lazy menial workers was something I have had to master ages ago. Hell, I have been one. I didn’t think the concept changes much, even between universes.

“Travel permit got eaten by dragons on my way here. I’d tell you the whole story, but I don’t want to burden you with my hardships,” I replied, flipping a silver coin from Velisza’s ‘care package’ in his direction.

The guard caught it effortlessly, barely glancing at it before making it disappear into his pocket.

“Aye, lots of dragons ‘round Sylvaranth woods,” he said, his gaze finally meeting mine as he flashed a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Just the other day, two of ‘em snatched Ms Lanea’s petticoats right off the drying rack.”

“Seriously though,” the guard continued, need to see some papers. They say there’s a war brewin’. My rear end may not look like much, but it’s worth more to me than a single silver Neris.”

“Tell Ms Lanea to keep an eye out,” I said with a smirk. “Dragons and werewolves might be working together. Petticoats could be just the start.” I tossed another coin his way, followed by a third.

The guard caught the second coin smoothly but almost fumbled the third. Once he had all three, he raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“I’m obviously a lost traveller,” I said. “Running around a battlefront isn’t good for my health. Mom made me promise to keep away from unhealthy habits. What can you tell me?”

“Sound’ like a sensible woman,” he murmured into his beard. He spat into the dirt beside him, brushing his fingers against his stubbled cheek, contemplating how much to reveal. “Can’t help you much, though—nothin’s official. Our little village isn’t exactly the capital, so news trickles in slow-like.”

He nodded toward the settlement. “The crier should pass through any day, give us the new details. Course, the marshals already passed through,” he grumbled. “Mobilised most of the good men and took all the best food. Jarkon, over at the ‘Fallen Leaf’, charges through the nose for a bowl of meatmush. And its wit’ half the meat his brother made it before. Look like it going to be a ‘Banalla bread’ sort o’ year,” he added with a sour expression.

If the village was scraping the bottom of the barrel to man the guard posts, it would certainly explain why I am talking to a man I wouldn’t trust to guard my pet rock, let alone the gates.

“’Fallen Leaf?’,” I asked, “Is that an inn I can stay in?”

“’Aye,” the guard nodded. “Straight from the gates, down the road, can’t miss it. Second biggest building in the village. Only place for travellers to stay.”

As I moved to get past the guard, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

I looked down at his calloused hand and cracked nails. This close, I could feel his warm breath on my face. I kind of expected an onion-breath, and alcohol sweat, but what I smelled was almost worse. The warm sticky odour wafting off of him reminded me of an active compost heap.

Damn, if this man has been given a position of responsibility, the village must have been damn near emptied of fighting men.

He leaned in even closer, making me work hard not to flinch away.

“Come to the barracks the next day, talk to Selara. She gonna give you some good papers. Have your coin on hand, tho’, it gonna cost you some.”

He glanced away, as if trying to remember if he missed something.

“And Jarkon, over in ‘Fallen leaf’, gonna try to sell you his roughbrew, don’t drink it. He puts…” He frowned, as if reliving a terrible drinking bender. “…Just get the ‘Ekerian stout’. He has to pour those from sealed barrels. Don’t water them much either.”

I nodded in acknowledgment and started down the dirt road toward the centre of the settlement.