It was dim inside the tavern, with only a small amount of light coming through the windows a few flickering oil lanterns on the three round tables filling the space. Some dozen people of various shapes and sizes were seated around the tables, and now that Samuel was really looking, there were some decidedly inhuman people there, too. There was a bearded dwarf, short and stocky, and a few elves, their pointed ears sticking through locks of silky hair.
The 'Lordling', who Samuel assumed was the person he was supposed to deliver the saddlebags to, was Oscar Esteban. He was in a heated argument with a tall barkeep. The man was enormous, standing at over seven feet tall. He had a grey mustache with braided sides reaching down to his chest, with a wrinkled face that spoke to years of hard work in the sun. The barkeep wiped his hands on a rag and threw it over his shoulder and placed his massive hands-on top of the bar, leaning over to peer down at Oscar the Lordling.
"I don't care where the Northern Reaches are supposed to be," the Lordling exclaimed, waving his arms around. "Give me a fucking quest!"
"I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about," the barkeep replied. "But I have the blue room available if you need a place to stay this fine evening. This is my Jolly Holly's Tavern, with the softest beds west of the Nevisen."
"OK, great! I’ll buy a room, you tell me about some monster threatening the village or a wolf problem and I’ll go take care of it,” Oscar shouted, exacerbated.
The Barkeep looked at the man in front of him, at a loss for words. He noticed Samuel standing in the doorway and called out to him.
"Samuel!" the Barkeep exclaimed, flashing a friendly smile under his thick mustache.
Samuel was surprised to hear the Barkeep knew his name and asked, "Me?"
“You!” Oscar shouted, recognition lighting his features. “I didn’t think I’d see you again!”
“The two of you know each other?” The barkeep asked.
“Sort of,” Samuel muttered.
"Samuel," the Barkeep said. "Come over here with those bags, lad."
Samuel walked over to the two men, but the Oscar barely paid attention to him, instead focusing on the barkeep. "Do you have a cellphone I could borrow?" Oscar asked.
"Afraid I’ve never heard of one of those," the Barkeep replied. "Samuel, my stable-hand, Ned, mentioned you’d be doing a bit of work for us tonight, is that right?”
Samuel nodded.
“Excellent. Could you please escort your friend Lord Oscar Esteban to the blue room upstairs? I'm sure he's tired after his long journey and could use some rest."
"Uh, yes," Samuel said. “Where is the blue room?”
The barkeep pointed a large finger at a doorway behind Samuel. "The stairs are that way. Can’t miss the blue room. It’s the one with the blue door if you’d believe it."
“You gave this guy a quest, what about me?” Oscar asked the barkeep, incredulous.
Samuel tried to pull Oscar to the stairwell to speak in private, but the man stood rooted to the spot. He was looking around the room, wild-eyed, like an overstimulated feral animal.
He locked eyes with Samuel and asked in a whisper, “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Samuel asked.
“The voice!” Oscar said, pointing at his own head, desperate.
“I didn’t…” Samuel answered honestly. He could guess, though, that it was The Core talking to the man.
“It’s telling me to go upstairs!” Oscar screamed, startling the Inn’s patrons, and laughing. “I’ve got a fucking quest!”
The barkeep placed a heavy hand on Oscar’s shoulder and gripped it tightly. Oscar yelped at the man’s strength and tried to pull away, but the barkeep held him fast with a tight grasp. The barkeep leaned in and whispered slow words into Oscar's ear.
Samuel couldn't make out the words, but he could feel something magic swirling around them, a pulsing aura of calming energy. Oscar's frenzied demeanor melted away and he slumped against the bar, his over-excitement seeming to dissipate like smoke on the wind.
"Yeah, okay," Oscar muttered, his voice slurred and dreamy.
"Samuel, the Lordling will follow you now," the barkeep instructed, releasing his hold on Oscar. "Take him to the blue room, see to his needs, and come back and speak with me, please."
Samuel nodded and lightly grasped Oscar’s elbow to lead him away. The man followed him without complaint.
“Odd folk about…” the barkeep muttered behind him as Samuel led Oscar up into the stairwell.
It was a tough climb leading a lackadaisical man in one arm and carrying heavy saddlebags in another, made tougher by stairs that were crudely built. Some steps were taller than others, some longer, and Samuel couldn’t help but stumble awkwardly on the way up, continuously catching a toe on a lip of a stair. Oscar could not have cared less, a look of boredom plastered to his face.
Samuel surveyed the hallway, taking note of the four painted doors that lined it. He made his way towards the one on the back right, its blue paint chipped and peeling and led Oscar into the room. It was a small space furnished only with a straw bed, a side table, and a small trunk.
"I think this is your room, Oscar," Samuel said, trying to hide his disappointment at the less-than-luxurious accommodations. If these were the softest bed west of the wherever, he was not going to be getting a good night sleep anytime soon.
Oscar could not have cared less and collapsed onto the straw bed. "How are your stats?” He asked, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall.
Samuel let out a sigh. "To be honest, I’d like to talk about whether you think this is real or not.”
"It’s real," Oscar said, a big yawn escaping his mouth. "Either we’re alive, and it’s real, or we’re dead, and it’s real. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters! That train didn’t hit us.” Samuel responded sitting down against the wall opposite Oscar. He let the saddlebags drop to the floor.
Oscar opened his eyes and looked at Samuel with a mix of disdain and boredom. "I don’t want to go home. I want to kill some goblins or some shit."
Samuel thought for a moment before answering. "That’s… an odd perspective.”
Oscar nodded, his eyes closing once more and a small smile forming on his lips. "The world is our oyster, dude.”
Oscar yawned again, a big one, and settled himself back into the straw bed. Samuel watched him relax into the straw bed and was confused. One minute Oscar was chomping at the bit to do some fantasy murdering, and the next he was taking a nap. A glint of metal inside Oscar’s saddlebags caught his eye once more.
“You mind if I look through your bags, here?” Samuel asked Oscar. “Look for some kind of clues?”
Oscar didn’t respond, fast asleep and snoring softly.
“Thanks,” Samuel said and pulled the saddle bags onto his lap.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
He withdrew a small dagger in a hardened leather sheath. It was finely crafted without being ostentatious. The blade itself was roughly six inches in length with a leather-wrapped handle adding an additional four. He pulled the knife free from its sheath to examine it closer. A small ridge led down the middle of the blade to an incredibly sharp point with a small pommel guarding the grip.
Samuel decided to keep the knife. He could steal from assholes. He tied it to his rope belt for easier access. It made him feel a bit better having some form of protection in this new world. A thought struck him then, and he summoned his Player Scroll. He looked at the equipped gear section. And sure enough, the dagger was there. The name made Samuel give a small chuckle.
[Bollock Dagger, fine.]
“That won’t do…” Samuel said to himself and dismissing the scroll. “Time for a bit of experimenting.”
Samuel looked at the dagger with all the focus he could muster. “I name you Nathan, may you help me stab my friends in the back.”
He resummoned his Player Scroll. And sure enough, the dagger had a new name. He smiled to himself.
[Nathan, fine.]
Samuel laughed, content that his test had born fruit.
Unfortunetly, that bit of humor opened the floodgates on the rest of his emotions. He had been plunged into this strange world, unsure of where he was or how he had gotten there. And now, with Oscar here, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were both trapped in this new world for good. He was excited, yes, but terrified to his core.
He sat against the wall, feeling lost and alone all over again. That same horrid feeling he’d had after his mom died slipped into his gut again and threatened to smother him. He wondered if he would ever get home, ever have the chance to visit her headstone again. Or his brother’s headstone next to her. The thoughts of his lost family and of never returning to the real world was almost too much to bear.
Tears welled in Samuel's eyes and this time he let them fall. He let out silent sob, careful not to wake Oscar. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to find some comfort in the embrace. He sat there for some time, marooned on an island of his own misery.
After a few minutes, Samuel shook himself out of it and stood up. He squatted, stretching his legs. He knew he couldn't just sit in the room and feel sorry for himself. There were too many unanswered questions. He tried to rouse Oscar, but all the man did was swat him away and turn over onto his shoulder.
Samuel walked downstairs.
Back inside the first floor of the tavern, Samuel was struck by the thick, heavy atmosphere that hung in the air. The dimly-lit room was filled with an array of strange and unsettling characters, all of whom felt like they were watching him with piercing gazes. He felt like he was being sized up, as if these beings were trying to decide whether he was a danger to them or not.
Some eyes dropped to the dagger fastened to his waist. Samuel unconsciously placed a hand on its hilt and took a step back. There was a shocking mix of humanoid creatures staring back at him.
The walls of the Tavern were decorated with the heads of terrifying creatures, the likes of which Samuel had never seen. Samuel looked at the sharp teeth of a bear with deep red fur and shuddered. This new fantasy world was suddenly feeling a lot more dangerous than he’d originally thought.
"Samuel!" The barkeep called out. "Come here, lad."
Samuel stepped over and took a seat on one of the tall wooden stools at the bar, not taking his eyes off the other tavern patrons staring him down. He rubbed his face with his hands.
"How is the lordling doing?" the barkeep asked, pushing a steaming bowl of hearty stew in front of Samuel.
"He's sleeping," Samuel replied, smelling the food, and feeling his stomach rumble in hunger. He picked up a wooden spoon and tentatively took a bite. Salt and fat and acid hit his tongue in a whirlwind of flavor. To call it the most delicious thing he had ever eaten was accurate, but Samuel felt it did the food injustice. Samuel let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure and the barkeep laughed.
"Tasty, yeah?” The barkeep asked.
Samuel only nodded, shoveling the food into his mouth. When Samuel had gotten through half of the bowl and became a bit more aware of his surroundings again, he felt the eyes of the barkeep watching him carefully.
“This isn’t poisoned, is it?” Samuel asked.
“No.”
“What… What did you do to Oscar?”
“I pushed him hard hoping that he’d fall asleep," the barkeep said. “The man was growing manic.”
“What do you mean?” Samuel asked, worry creeping in. He gulped down the bit of food in his mouth and set the wooden spoon down.
“What are you and Oscar up to? Why are you here?”
"What did you do to him?" Samuel asked carefully.
"I used a bit of Pacify on him. Well, not a bit. A lot. Weak minds don't handle it well," the barkeeper said with a wink.
"Pacify? What do you mean? Is that a spell?"
"You've never heard of Pacifying?"
"I've heard the word, yeah, but was it magic? Can you show me how you did it?" Samuel asked.
"Sure, lad. Seems like you could use some calming down too. Are you ready?"
"Wait, not on me!" Samuel nearly shouted, standing up from his stool in a sudden panic.
“Here goes,” the man said, gripping Samuel by the arm and leaning in close to whisper with a smirk underneath his mustache. “An Urük walks into a Teldian owned bar and asks, ‘Could I get some ale, I’m parched something awful’. The barkeep screams in reply, “It’s a talking Urük’!”
Samuel had no idea what the man was talking about, but he felt a pulse of calming energy wash through him. All the anxiety he’d been holding in his gut released at once and Samuel felt more at ease than he had in months. He eased back onto the stool despite the Barkeep’s firm grip on his arm.
“Wow,” Samuel breathed, forgetting all about the stew.
“Not as useful as you’d think,” the barkeep muttered. “Too easy to notice. Least how I learned to do it, anyway. It’s like calming someone down with a hammer. And you saw what happened to the little Lordling! The side effects are nasty business on the weak minded. Now, I ask you again, why are you and Oscar here?”
A thousand questions filled Samuel’s mind. Swords, sorcery, a fantasy world to explore. There was no smart-watch alerting him it was time to wake up for his shift or take his ten-minute break. He was giddy at the thought and freedom. Before he could answer the barkeep’s question, the tavern door flew open. A billowing wind and cold breeze carrying in swirling leaves onto the dirt-packed floor.
At the entrance, the stable master Ned clutched at a wound in his arm where dark droplets of red blood fell to the floor in a steady cadence.
"Jon," Ned yelled at the barkeep. "The bloody bastard bit me!"
"Who did?" the barkeeper, Jon, asked as he grabbed a wooden club from behind the bar and glaring a warning at Samuel.
“It wasn’t me,” Samuel said, throwing his hands up and edging a way from the bar.
“Ned, who did this?” Jon asked, enraged.
"I don't know who he was. I think... I don't feel well," Ned stuttered before stepping a few feet into the room and collapsing to the ground in a seizure. From across the dark room, Samuel could barely make out that the skin around Ned’s bitemark was bubbling. Yellow-white foam built at the corners of the man’s lips.
"Ned!" Jon called out, rushing to his friend's side.
Another man burst through the open doorway then; his body was covered in open sores that oozed fetid dark and purple pus. He was missing patches of hair and moved with a strange discordant gait, as if the muscles were slow to respond and then would snap into place. The man didn’t pause to take in the room, instead rushing straight for Jon and Ned, causing some of the other patrons to yell and jump back from their tables. A few of them even drew their weapons, the metal of swords and daggers glinting off the flickering lamp light.
Jon positioned himself between Ned and the intruder and faced off against the decaying man. He swung his club in a haymaker arc around his body, moving it so fast that the air displaced by the wood caused a whistle. It connected with the attacker’s shoulder with a deafening crunch. The club split in two against him in an explosion of splinters and sent the intruder crashing across the room a good five or six feet away.
Just how strong was Jon?
Jon knelt back next to his friend and scanned the room full of strangers. “Is anyone here a healer?” he asked desperately.
No one stepped forward.
Samuel stared, mouth agape, as the man Jon had hit with a club twitched on the ground and rose onto steady feet. Its entire shoulder was caved in, bits of bone and wood sticking through the skin. But there was almost no blood. No one else had noticed, everyone else’s eyes on Jon and Ned. Samuel tried to clear his throat to warn them, but he was too late.
The more-creature-than-man had leapt onto one the man closest to him and bit into his neck. Skin, tendon, and muscle ripped free inside the crazed man’s mouth as he tackled his victim to the ground. Dark blood sprayed from the man’s wounded neck as if a fountain.
Violence erupted in the room as the other patrons began stabbing the intruder over and over, blades swinging and gliding into the man’s flesh. The feral man kept going, biting into the poor man beneath him.
Samuel edged himself behind the bar, putting at least some kind of barricade between himself and the chaos.
One of the victim’s companions swung its sword into the attacker’s own neck and severed its head clean from the body. Finally, the body lay still atop its victim, Thick purple puss leaked from the neck like sludge as the head rolled to a stop some feet away.
The man beneath clutched at its wounded neck in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. Blood pulsed in spirts in cadence with a rapid heartbeat. Already on the ground, he spasmed as his two friends tried to help hold him down.
“Ned? Stop it, Ned! What in the bloody hell are you doing?” Jon yelled, drawing Samuel’s attention away from the other men and their wounded friend.
Ned had gone absolutely batshit and the mustachioed barkeep was struggling to hold him down. The smaller man’s jaw was snapping and spit was flying, but Jon was able to keep him from hurting himself or others.
But only barely.
“Oh, oh no,” Samuel whispered, horrified. “Zombies.”