“I know you're there, newcomer!” shouted a voice. “Stranger! Newbie! Come on, don't you want to survive? I traveled two days to explain things to you, so don't waste my time.”
Fran walked over cautiously until he saw a packed dirt road at the edge of the hill. The road was about three meters wide and reached all the way to the horizon on both sides. To the right, he found the shouting man, or at least the scarlet hooded robe that he wore. As he moved his arms, Fran noticed that his gloves were a deep red too, and made of the finest fabric. His own clothes were disgusting by comparison. Was he a peasant in this place? An escaped felon? A low-skilled bandit?
“Come oooooon! We don't have all day, friend. You know where you come from and so do I. Don't make me spell it out. Nobody else will help you here.”
That convinced Fran.
“I'm here!” He shouted, waving his arms at the stranger. He turned, a tall, slim figure with a white shirt, the robe and dark brown boots dirty with road mud and land.
“It was about time!” the stranger shouted, relieved. “I'm definitely not supposed to call out for you, I promised Merkes I wouldn't, but what's Mela if you can't bend the rules a little? Besides, we're supposed to be heroes, not hapless normies. What's the worst that could happen?” he said, opening his arms to welcome any danger that dared come his way.
As if to answer his question, a group of nightmare creatures leaped out of the forest and rushed to meet the traveler. Five goblins led the way with sharp, ear-shattering screams in a language Fran didn't understand. They wore long-pointy boots, green hats and held crude long knives with a wooden handle. The glint of the blades wasn't any less scary, though.
Behind them arrived a creature that Fran had seen dozens of times in video games. He was large, muscular but with a gut, wore fur-lined boots and wielded a huge scimitar. His seaweed-colored skin shone in the sun and his fangs were still tainted red with the blood of his last victim’s blood.
“An orc! Run, you have to run. I'll take care of this'
It was too late. The rushed attack was well planned. The goblins surrounded the scarlet traveller before he could react and the orc followed with his hungry scimitar.
Something truly unexpected happened: Fran's perception of the event changed without him doing anything about it. Suddenly, he could see the orc and goblins in greater detail. The large flat nose, the sausage fingers gripping the handle of his weapon, the red and while war paint on the orc’s cheeks. And his smell, such a horrid smell of rotten eggs and sewage. How could he smell it so clearly and see the orc so close? Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Fran damned his stupidity and his legs, but it was too late to slow down now. He threw himself at the orc's right hand and pulled, pulled with all his strength. The orc had been fully focused on his victim and had raised his hand to deal a fatal blow to the traveller, who now wielded two short swords, daggers almost, and kept the goblins at a distance with amateurish attacks and parries.
The orc's arm gave way to Fran's momentum. But he knew that it wasn't strength that would help now. Fran's fingers found the orc's thumb and pulled again, eliminating his grip on the weapon. The scimitar fell on the road and Fran rushed for it.
Acting on pure instinct, he held the sword with both hands and stabbed the orc as deeply as he could. The scimitar was made for slashing, not thrusting,, but it was well kept and its tip was sharp. The blade penetrated the orc's neck near the shoulders and a deep, gurgling scream resounded in Fran's ears. the orc's hands desperately tried to reach off the traitorous blade that was killing him. Everyone stopped. The goblins turned and looked at the murderous human stranger in astonishment. Then, as soon as the scream had started, it stopped. The orc's arms stopped moving and his body fell to the floor.
“Ambushrun!” screamed a goblin. “Bushrunnow!”
The goblins sped back to the forest like the scarlet man they harassed had never existed.
“When the rush bun, bum rush!”
“Today, today!” replied another goblin speeding off into the forest.
“You didn't need to do that,” said the stranger. His voice betrayed some wounded pride. “I actually told you not to. Remember that when we meet the others. I don't want any confusions.”
“I don't know what the problem is, but you're welcome, you know. That orc meant to kill you.”
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The stranger approached the green corpse and looked down. Eventually, he reached for the orc's loincloth.
“Nothing at all. Surprising, in an orc. Even the poorest orc carries some gold. It’s a question of pride.”
He looked at the forest intently.
“It might mean he's here with a horde. Shit! An orc would only leave his belongings in the care of a clan war tent. And even that is an unwelcome social obligation to most of them. They're not the trusting kind.”
“We need to leave, right?”
“Yes, my peers are close. We were all looking for you, whoever you would turn out to be. An orc killer was definitely off my bets, and I'm extraordinarily good at betting. What's your name, newbie?”
“Fran.”
“That's all? It sounds a lot like a punchy Melan name.”
“My full name's Francisco Robles Vereda. My friends call me Fran, my teachers, even my sister. Only my parents use my full name. They prefer it that way, it reminds my father of his own grandfather.”
“Got it. Well, I imagine you have the usual barrage of day one questions for me, but let me ask you just one first: Fran, how in Hixo’s name am I supposed to believe you're new here?”
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The red-robed stranger was named Alsu and deflected Fran's questions about his Earth name, although he assured him that he was 100% Terran born and bred. He also advise Fran against the use of the word Earth.
“Not that I necessarily agree, but the New Alliance has its suspicions and making a deadly mistake over something small is the worst kind of bet. It is possible that some parties in Mela, Imperial perhaps, or someone in the trading families, those morons, has figured out that adventurers from a strange place called Earth live in Mela, and that wherever we go there's trouble, that much is undeniable. Mela is chockfull of wonderful places, but an Imperial torture dungeon isn't on anybody's bucket list.”
Alsu raised his slim arm and waved vigorously.
“Hey Raal! Raal! Oh, Dalamaru's there too. Not quite whole gang, but close. Our fearsome leader cannot be too far.”
“Alsu, am I in a different world or is this some virtual reality? A video game?”
“Don't be ridiculous, Fran. Use your brain instead of asking every newbie's old rote questions. Next thing I know, you'll be asking me about levels. Too boring.”
“So, Mela's a video game. With levels and classes.”
Alsu turned to him and looked serious for the first time.
“No. And don't let brainless morons tell you otherwise. Listen, we'll answer your questions when we meet the group. It will be less tedious for me that way. I'll tell you this, though: The part about levels isn't too far off. We are blessed, us dreamers, and improve incredibly from everything we do, and never lose it even if we don't practice. Melans would think us superheroes, if they knew. Demigods, which you can find in abundance here on the outskirts of Empire. I'm sure many of the stories about demigods come from Terrans like us and not, say, the son of God Laucos and goddess Ashtar. Damn the fixed dice of a Baranthat casino, I can't stop thinking about that orc. Hey, Fran, understand. I'm not greedy. You got the guy and I would have conceded most of his possessions, pretty much everything. I'm that kind of guy. But it really irks me that an orc horde might camp this close to the Imperial borderlands. B… Merkes will definitely be interested.”
The stranger had expressive features enhanced by a thick mop of bluish hair barely visible over his red hood. His hands moved freely as he spoke and his steps were unguarded and free, his gait irregular.
“Alsu, your friends aren't anywhere. Do you sense them or something?”
“No way. I'm no magician, Fran. I’m, I hate the term, but I guess a rogue is the closest you could think of here at Mela. But I consider myself a free soul. A one person entrepreneurial pioneer, always on the lookout for opportunity, provided the next opportunity is as exciting as a well-shuffled deck of cards.”
Fran looked into his eyes nodded. Hopefully, that would keep this repellent charmer talking.
“My friends are about a league away. And yes, I can see them. I'm sure Dalamaru can see me too. So will you someday, if you train the right way in this blessed land. Are you a man of many interests, or would you rather focus on developing a single talent for years? I'm not talking about women, though maybe I am. Feel free to answer either way.”
He finished the sentence chuckling at his own joke.
“I'd rather be the best in the world at something than mediocre at a dozen things.”
“Are you the best in the world at something?”
“No.”
“Shame. You might have become the best at something here, if you hadn't been this late to the party. Hey! Dalamaru! He's with me, Dalamaru! The new one. Might even be the last one!”
Alsu was right: Fran saw two more people on the road now, barely dots on the horizon. A few minutes at a good pace, and their faces became visible.
One of them was a woman dressed in orange clothing. Her cape flew with the wind, revealing a body tattooed head to toe in orange glyphs that sharply stood out against her ashen skin. Her eyes were a fiery red that didn't stop moving slowly, like a magma river in a volcano, or like the liquid blue substance on the moon that stood behind her. The woman held a long ivory staff taller than her, one that culminated in what would have been the largest emerald on Earth. The woman, Dalamaru, looked at Fran with a relieved expression and her face showed the start of a smile. Was she happy to see him? Why?
The man next to her was anything but happy. He was almost two-meters, wore a wide metal belt like the ones wrestling champions wore and a lion hide over his back. He looked like a brown-skinned Hercules with eyebrows denser than the Amazon jungle and a beard just as thick. Most of his body was hairy, and much to Fran's surprise, he was barefoot. He looked relaxed at first sight, leaning on his long metal club and glancing with patient abandon. But Fran noticed his tense shoulders and the strain in his eyes. That was a man always on the lookout for attackers against his bodily integrity.
Fran swallowed and slowly approached the group to introduce himself.