As his character sheet vanished, so did Azmar’s hideous face, and all the world with it. Gunnar’s stomach lurched as though he had hit the drop on a rollercoaster, and the lush meadow disappeared.

Gunnar was floating.

Drifting.

Through an impenetrable blue haze, which seemed to flash past in a blur.

What the hell happened? he wondered. Did I…

“Gods! You haven’t died! You haven’t even started.”

Gunnar nearly leapt out of his skin. “Damn it, Azmar, you’re still here?”

He had hoped to be rid of the creature. The way he could practically sense Gunnar’s thoughts was a bit unsettling. I mean, it was convenient when those thoughts prompted a notification from the game, but with Azmar, it was downright grating.

Gunnar could faintly make out the creature’s dark wings beside him.

“I have the profound fortune of guiding you through the basic mechanics of this gods-forsaken game,” Azmar said sarcastically.

“What is this?”

“We’re fast-traveling. Pantheon is the most expansive game to ever be developed. Didn’t you know?”

Despite the sarcasm, the concept of fast-traveling sent a thrill through him. “You mean I can go anywhere in this world?”

Azmar chuckled darkly. “I can. I am an advanced creature with a vast array of skills. You are a peon with no skills to speak of.”

Gunnar gritted his teeth. “Yeah? Well, look who’s forced to guide who through the game, oh mighty Advanced Creature.”

Though the haze was too thick to make out the features of Azmar’s face, Gunnar knew his point had been made. Azmar huffed, then flew on in silence. The only sounds were the soft flapping of Azmar’s wings and Gunnar’s breaths. He was grateful for the silent journey.

He had often found that some of the worst assholes in the world were people in low-level positions who used their tiny amount of authority to ruin everyone’s day.

Perhaps Azmar was just an NPC (non-player character) programmed to be this way, or perhaps he was a fellow prisoner forced to serve in this mentor position. Gunnar didn’t know how it all worked.

But either way, he supposed guiding noobs into the game was probably mundane as hell. At any rate, it seemed Gunnar needed to try to stay on the creature’s good side for now.

“So…” Gunnar said after some time. “Where are we going?”

“Didn’t you read the description of the Maldan clan?”

More like skimmed, but he couldn’t give credence to the creature’s impression of him. “Of course I did!”

“Right, well, your people—the Maldans you read so much about—were displaced by a volcanic eruption. Maldan entry points are scattered across various port cities in the realms of Pantheon. We are traveling to the city of Thailen.”

Gunnar wondered where that was exactly, and at his mental prompt, an image appeared in front of his vision—a sprawling, intricate map with giant mountain ranges and vast seas, sprawling plains and stark deserts scattered in all directions with various cities and nations, decorated with icons of gods and beasts.

Quickly, the map zoomed in, focusing on a small bay near the eastern end of a large sea.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

[The city of Thailen lies on the eastern-most corner of the Altaean Sea, near the outskirts of the sprawling the Reddik Empire. But like most major trade cities in Pantheon, it is truly ruled by the Guilds of Luka, the Elysian god of commerce. As the patron of a lesser deity, it would behoove you to tread cautiously.

Unless, of course, you don’t mind becoming a precious sacrificial dove. Hey! You do you!]

The map vanished, and the surrounding haze began to dissipate as they neared their destination. Gunnar could feel the gravitational pressure of his descent tugging at his gut in a jarring instant.

“Damn, how fast are we—”

He nearly threw up as he lurched straight downward.

Azmar didn’t answer him.

The shadow of his dark wings was gone.

The blue haze of their fast-travel vanished, and Gunnar landed with a jolt in a new realm of Pantheon.

* * *

Gunnar stood at the prow of a small sailing vessel, which slowly drifted through a crowded harbor. It was the dead of night. Tendrils of fog hung over the dark water, but Gunnar could make out the pyramidal shapes of sails a short distance away. The long arms of cranes loomed along the shoreline like a row of gallows.

Gunnar was not alone on the deck of the vessel. Though he doubted it was more than thirty feet in length, dozens of people gathered on deck as they neared the shore. Most of them appeared to be Maldan, like himself. Though they all wore dark hoods, so there was no way to tell for sure.

A young man whispered beside him. “What a sight, isn’t it?”

Gunnar paused dumbly before realizing the man was talking to him. He glanced at the city through the fog. A few spires cut through the haze and rose into the night sky in the distance, but the night and the fog and the looming cranes of the loading docks didn’t exactly scream: Welcome to our illustrious city!

Their ship slowly veered toward an empty dock that looked in dire need of repair. “Er, yeah, sure.”

“After so long at sea, I was feeling grateful just to see land again,” the young man said. “But this city… makes you think our people might find a future again. I about lost hope after the eruption.”

“How long have we been at sea?” Gunnar asked. “I… lost track.”

“Nearly a month,” the young man said.

The vessel docked, and after tethering it, the crew set up a gangway, and a long stream of refugees disembarked with barely a sound.

For a moment, Gunnar thought the young man was an NPC about to help him orient to the new setting, but he hurried off with the crowd, and did not respond when Gunnar called after him. The man was quickly lost in the crowd of hooded figures.

Gunnar wondered what he should do, hoping his mental prompt would trigger some sort of guidance, but no notifications arrived.

Where’s the mind reading now? And where the hell is Azmar?

He scanned the gloomy sky for dark wings, but no such luck. A tall and angry-looking sailor approached. “Less yeh plan ter help us unload our cargo, yeh best piss off.”

“Sorry, I was just trying to—”

A pair of sailors hefting a huge crate from belowdeck rumbled past, nearly knocking Gunnar off his feet.

“I don’t care what yer trying ter do,” the angry sailor said. “We got goods ter unload, wenches ter bed, and a fresh shipment ter ferry in the morning. Trust me, yeh don’t want ter slow down a crew at the end of a long voyage. We saved yeh from that gods-damned island. Yeh paid yer passage. Now, our business is done.”

“Alright, alright,” Gunnar said, hands in the air. “I’m going.”

He followed the last refugees off the gangway, drawing his own hood. The Maldans proceeded along the docks and swiftly and silently dispersed into the city. He was about to follow their lead, when a hooded woman approached him.

A handful of people loitered in a small square on the waterfront, lit by a few dim lanterns. Most wore hoods like the woman.

“You just come from the island?” she asked, her voice faded with age. Or else a lot of smoking.

Gunnar nodded. He couldn’t quite see her face in the low light, but she seemed friendly enough. “You?”

“Name’s Sheira. Came on another ship a few weeks before you.”

Before he could respond, a cry rose up down the docks. Torches lit up the night and Gunnar could make out the distinct form of red-cloaked soldiers. Three of them, about fifty yards away, and they were shoving a pair of hooded refugees forward.

“Maldan swine!” shouted one of the guards. “Show us which ship you come on, or I’ll slit your bloody throats right here.”

“Shit,” Sheira muttered. “We’ve gotta run.”

As she spoke, another pair of Red Cloaks appeared around the corner of a street across the square. And one of them pointed right at Gunnar.

“Ey! There’s more over here!”

Red Cloaks dashed across the waterfront.

The old woman grabbed his arm and jerked him toward a narrow alley.

“Come on!”

A notification appeared.

Quest Alert - Safe Arrival

Quest Type: Common

Description: In case you haven’t noticed, you have arrived in Thailen illegally. The Guilds aren’t a bloody charity, and they have not taken kindly to the arrival of so many of you refugees. It’s not their fault about that damn volcano!

Objective: Escape the docks alive.

Reward: You stay alive!

Do you wish to accept? Yes / No

Do I have a choice? Gunnar thought. YES!