“Ah, it pains me to have to walk past the inn on the way to the smith.” Yojoti said as we were passing between the Civic Center and Divine Hall, reaching with dramatic but not insincere longing toward the Knapping Gnoll.

“Yojoti,” I began, my tone as light as I could make it, “what is the word for an old man who drinks too much and pinches serving girls’ bottoms?”

“That would be a–hey!” Yojoti gave me a light shove as he registered the insult. “You can’t call me a lecher yet–I’m not nearly old enough! Hahaha!”

“That actually begs the question, how old are you?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve passed thirty-seven summers. Soon to be thirty-eight.”

“So you do not count your age on the day of the year when you were born?” I inquired further.

“Some richer or noble types do,” Yojoti mused, “but celebrating the day you were brought into the world isn’t something most people can afford. Ten years is the common period to show gratitude that you’ve survived that long.”

“I see,” I said.

“On that point, how old is Trevor?” Yojoti returned.

“I will be thirty four in about two months,” I answered, “though a month being only twenty eight days throws me off, some. How long is a full year?”

“Well, there are thirteen moon cycles, the same as a month, so whatever that adds up to.” Yojoti chuckled and added, “I can use numbers well enough for business, but they’ve never been my best friends.”

“Let me check, I haven’t had to multiply double digit numbers in my head for twenty years.” My calculator app said the total would be three hundred sixty four days.

“Huh,” I said, “That is just a day shorter than a year where I come from, except on leap years. But I doubt you have anything like that.”

“Well, that depends on what a ‘leap year’ is, my friend.” Yojoti said.

“In my world, a year is three hundred sixty five and a quarter days long. So every fourth year, we add a day to the calendar to even it back out.” I answered.

“No, that doesn’t exist here.” Said Yojoti. “But, how do you figure that extra quarter of a day each year? Who came up with that?”

“No one really ‘came up with it’,” I said, attempting to remember what I could of my general science classes, “it was just the amount of time it took for our–”

I broke off, realizing that I didn’t know the Ozryn word for “planet”, or whether there even was one.

“Um,” I started again, “this is kind of hard to explain. Is this world a…ball?”

Yojoti stopped walking to look at me. “A ball?”

“Ugh, you know–a solid, round shape like an apple or a melon?” I tried to clarify.

“I think you might be trying to say ‘sphere’?” Yojoti said hesitantly.

“Sure, a sphere,” I agreed, “So is the world here a sphere?”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, my friend.” Putting on his smile and resuming his walk, Yojoti continued, “I’m not a scholar or a priest, so I don’t know much about the way the world works. Questions like that aren’t relevant to hunting or tracking, so I think it’d be better to ask someone else.”

“Good point,” I said as I followed along. I can’t assume anything in this world, such as a standard level of education. Or even if there is a standard, that it would be anything near the same as on Earth.

The sun was approaching the tops of the Western trees, and we heard boisterous talk and laughter from the Knapping Gnoll as we passed. I caught Yojoti’s eyes turning toward it wistfully a few times, but he soldiered on toward his responsibilities.

The ring of the hammer with the smell of smoke and various chemicals identified the smithy long before I could make out the anvil on the sign board. We stepped up to a heavy wood table laden with a smattering of tools whose purpose I could only guess, interspersed with piles of horseshoes, nails, grain scythes, and belt knives. There was even a maille shirt on a simple t-shaped stand next to the table.

The smith was absorbed in his work and didn’t notice us. “Oy!”, called Yojoti.

He glanced over at us, stained cloth covering everything except his eyes, then put up a gloved finger in the–apparently–cross-universal symbol for “wait a minute”. A dozen or so more strikes with the hammer allowed him to reach a point where the glowing orange piece could be placed back onto the coals.

“Good ahftahnoon to yah.” The smith said, mopping his face with the kerchief that had been over his lower face.

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I was glad when Yojoti spoke up as leader of our expedition, as it were, since I could hardly understand the man. “Good afternoon Asak. We won’t take much of your time, we’re only here about a handful of arrows and bowstrings, if you have any lying around.”

“Oh ah thaht ah do.” Asak responded in that same manner of speaking. “How meeny do yah be needin’?”

Yojoti pondered for a moment, glancing at his pack and quiver on the sled, then said “Let’s go with a dozen blunt, half a dozen broadhead, and three bow strings.”

“Comin’ raht up!” Asak said before walking to a series of cubbies on a wall to retrieve the arrows, and then into a drawer to pull out a piece of oiled cloth, from which he removed the bow strings.

Returning to the table, he said “Whaht do yah say to fahv Asi fah the broadheeds, ahnd two fah the bloont?”

Yojoti winced a bit and said “Aye, five for the broadheads is grand, but how about one Asi and twenty for the blunt? And what about the strings?”

Asak slapped his thigh and grinned “Yah know I cahn’t help but trah to git the extree Asos, but thaht’s a deal. Fah the strings, I cahn’t go any lowah thahn two Asi each. Gaht mouths to feed, yah know.”

Yojoti extended his hand and they shook, then he pulled his purse from his shirt and counted out the coin.

“Raht, Ah’ll see yah next tahm mistah Yojoti!” Said the Smith, as we stepped away.

“Until next time!” Yojoti called back.

Once Yojoti had tucked the arrows and strings into his quiver and pack on the sled, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “What in the world was that?” I managed around some incredulous laughter.

“What, Asak?” asked Yojoti, as if there had been nothing odd about the man.

“Yes, Asak.” I replied flatly. “The way he speaks, I could hardly understand him!”

“Oh, he’s from up North, on the other side of the desert, near the sea.” Yojoti explained. “They do sound a little funny, don’t they? But you should get used to it before long–you speak with an odd accent, yourself.”

I furrowed my eyebrows at him. “I do?”

“Yeah, you do,” he said, flashing a grin. “Your consonants aren’t very hard, and you speak a little forward in your mouth. But you’ll get by! The only people who really care about ‘perfect’ language are scholars and overly proper nobles.”

I raised a hand and dropped it in incredulous defeat. “Well thank you. Now I will be even more conscious of my speech.”

“Don’t worry about it!” Yojoti said. “You handled yourself just fine with that clerk at the Civic Center, didn’t you?”

I just shrugged and kept walking, miming the sounds of the Ozryn language silently as we made our way back toward the center of town.

-

Yojjoti controlled himself better passing the inn a second time, but I definitely noticed the increase in pace crossing the road to the mercantile.

When we were about halfway across, there came a loud chime from the bronze dome next door. About half the people in the area immediately stopped what they were doing, and raised their hands to the sky until the ringing could no longer be heard. Those who didn’t raise their hands stood calmly while the faithful–I assumed–performed the ritual.

“Ah, is it that time already?” Yojoti exclaimed and glanced behind him at the sun, which was just touching the tops of the trees.

Yojoti increased the pace again while I called from a little behind him, “So that happens at the same time every day?”

“Yessir!” he said over his shoulder. “It signals the beginning of the end of the day, when the sun touches the horizon. There’ll be another chime when it’s completely over the horizon. Oh, and it’s a reminder for the faithful to give thanks for the day that has passed. It reminded me that we skipped midday, and it’s almost time for supper. Unfortunately that means we won’t be able to make introductions in the mercantile today, as they’ll be looking to close up shop. We’ll try it again tomorrow.“

We had arrived outside the handsome wood building with glass windows showcasing blankets, sewing tools, utensils, canned goods, and other sundries. I tied the sled at the other end of a hitching post from a brown and white horse, and followed Yojoti inside.

The interior looked exactly like every general store I had ever seen in a movie or video game. Shelves along the walls filled with things either too specialized or generalized to purchase from a farmer or local craftsman, and at the same time tables laden with sacks of flour, dried meats, woven baskets, and other things that could easily have been produced locally.

“Good afternoon!” called the clerk, squinting toward our silhouettes in front of the windows.

“Hi there.” Yojoti returned, quickly turning toward a section of shelving where I could see dried meat in various forms.

I moved toward where I could see a handful of garments stacked on a table. Lifting a rust-colored piece, it turned out to be a long sleeved shirt which tied at the collar, which looked much too small for me. The next item in the stack was an obviously hand-knit forest green vest, followed by some brown trousers made of the same wool as the vest, but undyed beige. The shirt was a bust, but it looked like the vest and trousers might fit me.

Turning around and holding the legwear against my waist, I asked Yojoti, “What do you think?”

His arms laden with dried meats, Yojoti turned to scrutinize me. “I think we’d better get you to an actual ______ for a proper set of clothes rather than some housewife’s spare time handicraft leftovers.”

“Get me to a what?” I asked.

Yojoti defined the new word: “A ‘tailor’, someone who makes clothes for a living. I can’t believe we haven’t talked about this already!”

“We may have, and I forgot,” I said, shrugging.

“Well,” Yojoti said as he stepped to the counter and set the armload down, “That will have to wait for tomorrow, just like introducing you to the owner of this place.”

“The owner?” the clerk chimed in. “That’s right, they’ve gone for the day. They hardly ever stay past midday when I take over the counter.”

The clerk counted up the total and Yojoti paid, without any haggling. It seems that’s something our worlds have in common. At an actual store, prices just are what they are.

We exited the store and hurried across the road, lifting our belongings out of the sled and stowing it next to the stable. The sundown chime sounded at the Divine Hall, but no one raised their hands like they had earlier.

“No praise at sundown?” I commented.

“Nah,” said Yojoti. “Now it’s just time to go rest. Which is what we’re here for!”

Yojoti opened the door to the inn.