I have no trouble retracing my steps to where I battled the rabid squirrel and lost, and where my equipment (all two pieces of it: board-with-nail-hammered-through-it and charisma bracelet) is indeed waiting for me in a neat pile, and I do it without the aid of the overworld map, which I consider a small victory; although, truth be told, all I really did was take road out of the village in the right direction and keep going.

I pick up my equipment with pride and re-equip it.

I continue onwards, this time keeping eyes and ears alert to any wildlife sounds, and when I hear anything—or even think I may be hearing something—I dash away to safety. This, I decide, is one of the adventurer’s basic skills. I call it: fleeing in the opposite direction. I am bad at combat, so whatever keeps me out of combat should help me survive. “Isn’t that right, Randy?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I can’t read your mind.”

Oh. “Because sometimes I swear I’m thinking something and you comment on it, usually snidely.”

“Two observations, Suckleslav. First, snidely? I’ve heard you brag about how many books you’ve read. Were most of them thesauruses? Because I bet you’d die of cowardice if you ever met a real, live thesaurus.”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘real, live thesaurus.’”

In as much as a ring can sigh (and if it can talk, why can’t it sigh?), Randy sighs. “I keep forgetting you haven’t been places.”

“You’re just trying to make me crazy by telling me that crazy things are real.”

“Second, you have an unconscious habit of either talking to yourself or to some imagined audience, so you may think you’re only thinking when in fact you’re also talking. That’s when I make snide comments about your so-called thoughts.”

I don’t do that.

“I don’t do that,” I say.

“No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

“They left.”

“Yes, no wonder.”

I reach the top of a small hill and look at the surroundings. Sure, it may just be a few fields and some mildly untamed woodland, but to me it’s freedom, the call of the unknown. (“See, you’re doing it again. You may have a narrator complex.”) I ignore that. The sun warming my face, the wind carrying the scent of the exotic. (“It’s dung. You’re smelling cow dung from the cows over there.”)

“You can’t see,” I say.

“Apparently neither can you if you believe you’re smelling ‘the scent of the exotic.’”

“You’re a ring. You don’t have eyes.”

“I don’t have ears or a mouth either—yet here we are, talking to each other.”

“Let me have this.” As I was saying: the wind carrying on it the scent of the exotic and the promise of distant realms. And the most amazing part of it is that I’m not scared. I have left home and I am happy to be wandering on my own.

“You’re like ten minutes outside your village.”

“I said, Let me have this.”

“Ever consider that maybe you should think about where you’re going? You have a quest to complete. You were supposed to talk to your parents about that. Then you forgot, and here you are enjoying the smell of dung.”

I did forget. “I’m getting acquainted with the act of solo travel,” I say.

“Then again, it’s not like it matters. You were never going to catch that blacksmith or find that sword. The moment you accepted the quest, Fate thought, ‘Thanks, I’m done here.’”

If I was Eduard, where would I go? Would I stay on the roads or go cross-country? I mean, it’s not like anyone other than me is looking for him, so I don't see why he wouldn't choose the roads when they're easier and faster to walk along. However, roads by definition run in opposite directions, and sometimes they cross or split into other roads, so, even if Eduard did take a road, I still don't know where he went. The next time I come across someone, I'll ask if they've seen him. If they say Yes, I'll know I'm on the right track (unless they're mistaken or lying); if they say No, that won't tell me anything. *Gah*, how I wish I understood how anyone gets anything done without a perfect understanding of the situation they're in! Like, couldn't there simply be an arrow hovering in the world, pointing in the right direction?

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

(Nope, there isn't one. I checked.)

In the absence of a reasonable plan I continue walking in whatever direction seems most interesting. The sun goes up, gazes down at me from directly above and starts to come back down. Afternoon becomes late afternoon, and late afternoon turns to evening. Shadows stretch across the brightness of a beautiful late summer day. I start to feel hunger, eat all my mom's cookies and realize on a satisfied stomach that it's already gotten dark. I hear crickets, and based on how loud they're chirping I imagine they're the size of horses. Maybe a thesaurus really is a living creature. I'm somewhat tempted to get into a battle just so that I can be defeated and spend the night in my own bed.

But I don't—because just as I begin to daydream (eveningdream?), I spot a campfire ahead of me on the edge of a small wood.

I drop to the ground, crawl forward, peer.

I hear voices—men's voices—but what I see appear to be two children sitting near the fire. As I get closer, I conclude they aren't children but small adults, not dwarves but seemingly not humans either. I am in the process of deciding whether they'll attack me when one of them says, “Hullo there!” Me—does he mean me? “Yes, you, down in the dirt. We've seen you crawling this way for the last quarter of an hour. You're welcome to get up and join us. We've good elven bread.”

I get up. “Thank you! Very kind of you. I myself had cookies but ate them all recently.”

The pair have kind faces, but they really are very small. One is fairer than the other, with dark, curly hair and a cleft in his chin. The other eyes me with some suspicion, and I can't tell if that one is the first's servant or if they're simply friends. The fair one invites me to sit with them beside the fire and hands me what is apparently elven bread. I must say it tastes rather delicious. “What brings you to these parts?” I ask, chewing.

“We're on a quest,” the fair one says.

“Me too! My first.”

“We haven't been on any quest before either. My uncle has, maybe you've heard of him. He's written a fine book about his adventures.” He tells me the name (of both the uncle and the book) but I'm not familiar with either, which is strange given how many adventure stories I've read.

“What's the goal of your quest?” I ask.

The fair one is about to answer—when the other butts in: “Don't tell him, nor our names no either. For all we know he could be a spy.”

“Oh, Sam,” the fair one says. “He's not a spy. He's just a boy on an adventure.” Then he says to me, “Please don't mind him. He's as good a friend as anyone could ever want, and everything he does, he does out of loyalty.”

Sam blushes.

“As for our quest,” the fair one continues, “we've been tasked by a council with taking a certain ring and throwing it into volcano.”

“That sounds quite important,” I say.

“Yes, but it's possible we've taken a wrong turn because we're rather hopelessly lost. What's your quest?”

I tell him. He considers for a moment. “Sam, didn't we pass a man matching that description earlier today? Or maybe it was yesterday. Or the day before?

“Today,” Sam says.

(“Psst!”)

“Quiet! What was that?” says Sam.

(“Hey, Gromislav.”)

“That is Randy, an annoying ring with which I find myself unfortunately equipped," I explain.

“It talks?” asks the fair one.

(“May I meet their ring?” asks Randy. “Please.”)

"Ours doesn't talk," says Sam.

Hearing Randy be polite makes me question my actual sanity. It is sickeningly sweet. I don't like it. “He wants to meet your ring, the one you're going to throw into the volcano,” I say.

“Absolutely not!” says Sam.

(“May I just see it? It's been so long since I've seen another ring.”)

“He just wants to see it. I think he's lonely.”

("I am not lonely. Just curious.")

“A brief look shouldn't cause any harm,” the fair one says, and reveals a golden ring hanging from a chain around his neck; but as soon as I raise my hand so Randy can have look—he nearly breaks my wrist trying to get away from it!

“That is a bad ring. A very bad ring. Take it away! Take it away, I say!” he yells.

It takes him a while to calm down, and even then I feel him trembling on my finger.

“He's not wrong,” says Sam.

I'm guessing that is precisely why it must be destroyed.

As for my quest: “You said you saw a man matching the description of the man I'm after. Do you remember which way he was travelling?” I ask.

“The opposite of us, so that way,” says the fair one, pointing. Then he asks me if I've heard of the place to which they're going.

“I'm afraid I don't know where to find one door around here, let alone more,” I say. This appears to confuse them. “But I'm not an expert on the geography of the area, having only left my village this morning.”

It's uncanny how much like characters from a book they seem, almost as if they'd appeared just to keep me company on my first night alone in the wilds, the way a good book might keep one company.

“Perhaps you're right and we took quite the wrong turn, Sam,” says the fair one.

“Don't you worry. We'll find our way again,” says Sam.

“What's the last thing you remember?” the fair one asks Sam, and the both of them—they appear to flicker like the campfire flames. “Why, making camp and settling in for the night,” says Sam, “but, funnily enough, not here. Not here at all.” And, “Is it possible we're dreaming, that this is all a dream?” asks the fair one. “Oh, I am very real,” I comment but I don't think either of them can hear me anymore, or maybe I them, because all that elven bread and walking and fresh country air has me very sleepy and, “Goodnight,” I manage to say as the two funny little men on a quest to bring a ring to a volcano fade out of view—and existence—and the next thing I know the fire is long out, night has ended and I am waking up, lying alone by the side of a small wood.