John lay still, hidden on the slick roof of a brothel.  He dared to inhale, as the chill coastal breeze pulled at his tattered shorts and his stomach gurgled. Fuss lay next to him, the bond carried the boredom he felt. He sent patience, and a smile back through, and refocused on the conversations he could catch. He caught but words, not yet understanding. But he was close. Today it would happen. And it wouldn’t be long until he could make his way to New Brighton, to meet with Eli, to understand just what he had gotten himself into. 

Eli the Wise. His friend and redemption, the Wise Wizard, and Fuss’s savior.

Paltry. A list of skills, for his months and effort, it was a poor result indeed. But he had started with less then nothing, with a debt. A Price. Those voices that mocked and prodded, that seemed to know his mind, they made his soul shiver. For Fuss’s life, he’d pay any price. Compared to the alternative, he had come up ahead. But he was cautious, he needed to speak to Eli, to understand just what he’d done. He had not even known the name of the world when entering it. Nobody who had came, who visited would speak it. Afraid of a different Price. And John had heard rumors before; on forums and subliminally stated, of that snake, and he had feared he sat upon the scale. Wait.

Ask Eli.

Desperate and grieving; if it hadn’t been for Eli…But he hadn’t known the price. Couldn’t. And the one thing that could be shared, outside the realm, a meeting location for migrants, the Invitation. So John knew he had to make his way to New Brighton, to a mythic fountain of knowledge, of Nymph and a Satyr, Black and White, and Eli would meet him there. He would explain. John hoped.

Until then, John had to listen, had to find a way to communicate, to disguise himself because-

“Demons!” The skill had finally matured, and the Old English accent and strange adjectives were filtered through that skill, into comprehension, and what John had suspected he now understood. “The Gods, may they protect us, but demons walk amongst us. Can you explain it any other way? But for two years ago the world was a different place, and now what? Hows a man to raise a family in these times. I tell you, something has possessed these men, has driven them wild. The criers in ports warn. Good men throw salt and speak of strangers on the road, lost, but able to swing a sword like a soldier trained. Wanderers in the night that prey upon the weak, that sneak into the bed of a lass then through themselves off the roof or slit their own neck when caught. Stranger rumors still come from further away, of inventions that are like magic themselves.” The voice was insistent.

“What’s different? There has always been demons in the night. Sheep go missing, and daughters; I wouldn’t wish that curse on any man.” They chuckled, “And we’ve always known of magic. This is a good, God fearing town, we don’t allow those dark madmen here. We have an honest witch that can mend bones and help with a birth, but even she is scorned for all she helps. If a child shows the sickness, but it hasn’t happened, not in years... From time to time, we get wind or or a sailor smuggling a charm, but we are far. Very far, it’s why I live out here. Buy some land, farm, leave your craziness behind friend.”

“But the skies! They warp. Not even you can dismiss the meaning. Not a captain knew where he was that night, had we not been in port... Still we don’t know, new lands are being discovered. Man has changed, I’ve heard of bulls that stand upright and swing an axe! Sailors tell of tall men and beautiful women who live amongst the trees and sing! New wonders not even the bards can keep up.”

“Sailors have always spoken of such wonders. Of women in the waves with fins, of women in the clouds, they carve women onto their ships and swear they speak at sea, to guide them through the storms. Too many men tossed about in a box, it rattles the brain. It’s why I like the land. And so what of the skies, of new lands? They are always discovered, I remember when there was no pepper or cinnamon, when a man cooked his fish with salt alone plants he grew or didn’t. Who know’s how many times it has shifted, as a lad my gramps told me too of stranger things still. It’s but a cycle, one more war amongst the Gods.”

“I saw a level two.” The sailor said, his voice changing completely.

“What!? Keep your voice down.” He hushed, “How did you know.”

A Demon. John wanted to laugh at the absurdity, when he realized that he, cold and shivering, was in their minds that Demon.

But John didn’t chuckle or even shift his weight, because he didn’t want to die again. This was the longest he had made it, a full month, without feeling the bite of a knife or spear on his body, not bludgeoned to death. He shivered, thinking of the pain, the coldness of death. This wasn’t a game, for all of how it started. Not to him at least. He was no demon, he was just a man. Not even a child if you measured his worth in skills. Just the one, and just now. But levels, he wondered. He had not got experience yet…

But that was the world he lived in, he didn’t make the rules, he didn’t know the rules, he just…survived, eking out just enough to make it to the next day, hoping he could somehow grasp a ledge and stop his slide toward starvation, reincarnation, to wander the countryside again to search out a place he could survive until he had a shot. He felt shame, to be so helpless. But he could change that now, he hoped, he could make progress and stop just surviving. He could make his way to Eli.

Eli the wise.

And he hoped for real food, not the clams and crabs and unlucky fish that had sustained them thus far. John felt the bond between him and Fuss, saw it appear in the air as an intangible blue connection, the proof of magic, that it hadn’t been a dream that meeting with the Gods. He sensed no distress, just that bit of hunger. The bond was new, the reason he had started without the skills that others had, why it had been so hard. He could have, but Fuss had been his reason for being here. It was like an umbilical cord, it stretched but not far, he could feel it strain when Fuss was just a ways away. But they had adapted. 

He had his skill now, something that couldn’t be stripped from him when he died next. A new hope. And he had Fuss, who was always there when he materialized. But still there was a price there. The bond, it was weaker. Like a thread instead of a cord. And Fuss was a pup each time, losing the rapid growth into adulthood. John assumed if he had a level, it would also be gone.

So he wanted to slink off the roof and head back to the beach, to stretch, to wash the filth off and cry in relief. But instead he waited, breathing lightly, still trying not to make a sound, just listening. Learning the sounds of the market below. He was able to understand where he was, a glimpse of the lives about him.

He learned that he was in Crab’s Cove from a voice that claimed to have the finest nets. From another, he knew he could buy fresh fish for a copper. Another told him that if he was a sailor, there was a nice place to put his boat into port at the ‘Sailors Rest.’ And he learned that’s where he rested himself, above the pleasures of the flesh.

But it was a quiet town mostly, small, he knew from his moonlit loop around it when he had first resurrected on that dirt and shale road, with the squat rocky buildings and the crash of waves in the distance. He had seen the ocean, and that had been his saving grace. He had appeared outside a different town each time he was reborn, a different season and temperature, always caught, killed or chased off to fall predator to different privations, he had no idea how to survive.

He sent hope through through the bond, sharing his victory, their chance for a future. He felt the love, between them.

John waited for dark, for the last footsteps to fall away and the murmurs of voices to cease completely. He knew there was no perfect time, no actual absence of danger. He didn’t think he’d ever be safe again. But he weighed the threats now, with his fear, and his need to protect. And when he felt it was clear he slunk down off the roof, his shirtless body could catch the glow of the moon. Fuss was scooped up and carried, and John felt safe again as he headed to the abandoned shore.

It was beautiful, the ocean. He had never thought of it as more, but now, he knew it as the garden it was, a feast unclaimed. When he had first made his way down a deserted path of sharp and pitted rocks, slick with moisture and smelling of salt, he had hope. To be able to find food, to live long enough to think. And he had found it, he had survived on…

An awful flavor, he thought, sorting sand from sustenance with his tongue as he spit out the hard grit.

It had given him time, kept him safe, a ready source of food that he didn’t risk his life for. And he had used that time to build a shelter out of rocks, piling them up to keep the wind off, dried seaweed and grass insulating against the cold. He had laid concave rocks all about the area, and the drizzle of rain, for it sprinkled often, would catch amongst them, and each was like a cup of water waiting to quench his thirst. Fuss loved the place. Loved the food. Five Paws! He would say, if he could speak.

John was more circumspect, for though he wasn’t starving, and Fuss was happy, he didn’t have a thick coat of fur. He had a stolen pair of sail cloth shorts. And he was often cold.

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Baby steps.

John wanted to work, wanted to taste the rich foods he smelled circling on that rooftop. He wanted to earn. Even now, in this strange world, for all he knew now it was so much more real, realer then his last life, for here was Fuss. And Life. And Death.

But he was a ‘demon’, and the world was harsh. But John had hope now, he had knowledge, and could communicate, so he planned.

John worked on his back story, on his path to rejoin society and the comforts that were offered.

He examined his skills, his levels, but what could he train that would give him a chance? He didn’t know enough.

So he planned to lie, that he had been coming to the port to find work, that his family lived north of here, that they raised chickens and that each day, since he was six he had gathered the eggs and walked the miles to trade them for other goods. He had to explain his lack of skill in a trade. And he knew he was weak. In his mind he knew each house he walked to, he had based them off the other places he had been, the other places he had died. And what they gave him for the eggs - the things he saw traded for eggs in the market. A bundle of thread, fish, or a half a rabbit. And his family, they were poor, they all worked. And he wanted to earn the money, for a wife, his own future. So he had left for the wider world.

So he found himself, with Fuss in a wrap of cloth amongst a bundle of sticks and grass to hide his form, tied over his shoulder and slung like a satchel, announcing.

“I’m here to work.”

And every man who was listening, the whole dock it seemed, laughed.

“Dumb shit, fresh off the teet without a skill or a hair on his ass, thought you’d come down here and teach us a thing, I recon.” One of the men shouted. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble? Lord John, was it? To so boldly come and rescue us from this awful cargo?” He mocked, and the laughter got even wilder.

John was dumbfounded, confused as all hell. He had watched these men work, unobserved, and nothing had roused them. They laughed and they lifted. His plan felt like it was collapsing in front of him. He felt through his bond for Fuss, doe eyed and mouth agape he reached for the familiar, to keep him grounded as he said nothing. Fuss was quiet, still, he was resting, hanging there at his side. Fuss just sent back his normal, bored acceptance of his life with a bit of confusion, as to why everyone was being so loud when he was obviously trying to sleep. But the burly workers dove like gulls and John was the target.

While he had been focused on the shirtless brute yelling in front of him one had come from behind, grabbed his hips on each side, the grip like a vice. John lunged forward, bringing his arm down to break the grip, but it was too late. Too weak, instead it turned more into a bow. “I got a load you can take.” The man boasted, thrusting his pelvis into him, lifting him and bouncing him about, waving his arms to try to grab onto something until he was tossed aside, the warped planks slicing his skin and sending splinters deep. His hand smarted from the tumble, but all that was secondary. He focused, from the second he had felt that impossible grip, he guarded the bond. Fuss was scared now. John had walled off the pain, to protect him, letting only calm comfort wash over his brother. He pulled that pain into himself. The pain of his hurt and the pain the poor pup felt as he had also bounced off the deck. John’s eyes watered from anger. Fuss hurt.

But he wasn’t a bear, able to rip through a crowd to protect his cub, he was just a man. In this world he was closer to a boy, but if he was weighed by skills alone - he was a toddler. He had , and among these men, words were not weapons.

Still he had to fight.

He saw himself, charging the man in front, biting into his neck. 

No, he turned around, he kicked the queer in the balls, off the dock and into the water, then he gouged out the one in fronts eyes. 

Thats what he wanted to do. But it was the want of the weak. Instead.

John pushed off the ground, standing up and saw they were waiting for that weak punch, and instead grabbed a large sack of woven canvas filled with potatoes. And began to walk down the dock. He met no eyes, he didn’t walk with a limp, he didn’t wipe the blood away or his hair out of his eyes. He just walked, that big sack of potatoes weighing him down. And it was heavy, but he managed. His stamina fell as he lifted, but it wasn't a steady drop. Because he walked, balancing. It was at 70 now.

Defiant last stands? Maybe he’d get a punch in. But Fuss, already he had felt that failure. That reality. The bond carried pain, not just love. He wouldn’t be that selfish, he wouldn’t fail again. For Fuss, he could be humble. It was easy, the true burden not the sack, but responsibility that weighed him down.

So what he faced now. It was nothing. Nothing shameful, that was the domain of those who still had dignity. That was gone, too. A luxury like warm food, clean clothes, toilet paper.

Men are cruel. Men are stupid. John knew; he was one. Right now he was the weak one, the runt. He had seen it. He had played sports and wasn’t the best on the team, he was in the Army. So hazing, he hadn’t expected it, but he understood it.

So he walked, his head not held high in arrogance, this wasn’t an invitation. But he didn’t look down either, he just looked ahead as the others became obstacles.  They all still hooted and laughed. One guy his age and height, probably the runt before him, he had a crooked beak nose and buck teeth and loopy green eyes as bright as a feather- threw a rope across his path. As John lifted his leg over it he felt the rope fly up and slap against his thigh, his pants keeping it from reaching anything important. “Dance, Pussy.” He said. But John just adjusted his step, didn’t trip or rush, didn’t respond. Pussy. Nice.

Another had exposed himself as John approached, hands behind his back, revealing the tattoos that started on his neck, they went all the way down to where his shorts now rested on the ground. Before John could pass him, he had begun to relieve himself. A stream across the dock to block his path - the others howled. John reached his free hand out and barely squeezed his his thumb and pointer, took another step forward, and was moving again. This had cut off the laughter along with the water, there was the deep breath of disbelief, but the stumble and thump and cuss John heard behind him, and then  the loud splash brought it back again even louder. The fun continued, for them.

 The goal was in sight now. His focus, a cart where the other sacks were. He steadily approached. Many followed hoping to see more action, some stood in his way, either because they wanted to, or they didn’t care. But he moved through them. He felt hands slap his ass, the back of his head, his back. His nipples were puffy and red, he was whistled at and cussed, his balls ached from being checked and he thought he’d lose a toenail from the heel of a another's foot. 

But then the sack was pulled off John’s back by two lads his age into the back of the wagon, and added to the others, and the laughter for a second sounded more like cheers to him. It wasn’t. When he turned around many eyed him balefully, like hounds on a hare. He was a snack, a distraction. But John walked back through them, and it begun again. For five more hours he walked back and forth, a sack, a crate, a bag, a coil of rope. He grabbed merchandise and he walked, and it was taken from him or he was pushed to a different wagon, and it was loaded. And every trip he made he hurt more. But the bond was there, and he was determined, he was focused. He had Fuss, and a previous life of experience to draw on. This was just the worst of the old life, he could earn the best again.

So it was that John earned his foothold in the world, as he had before, in a different life and a different place. Each trip he made was accompanied by less laughter and more obstacles. But these were the obstacles of men about business, and John moved with them, he cleared the way for anybody with a load moving toward him, he made room for them to pass unimpeded. And the day bled into late afternoon, when the laughter and noise was just the new normal, and then it was over and John had found himself alone but for Fuss, sitting on a rock near his shelter, bloody torn feet relieved to feel the salt water of the tide pool, refreshing. They had feasted together, on rich chowder smothered over bread, his first earned meal since his arrival, of months and months ago. It was humble fair, but hunger was the best sauce. So it was perfect, and it satisfied, because;

John was humble, so the waves, they didn’t crash in apprehension.

And the wind, it didn’t carry a warning on it’s breath, instead, it just sounded…windy.

And the moon, it wasn’t gibbous, or a sliver. It didn’t portend great changes through strange phenomena.

But it would have been more realistic if it had, because this was a world of magic. And John, humble as he was - he was a wizard. A man who would shape the world, who had got his first taste of power. And in magical worlds, when a wizard puts their hands upon that item, the ring, the sword, the crown, whatever it was that opened that door, that split the viel, that would change the entire world, for good or evil, that key to power - the world was supposed to shudder.

But the world didn’t, because they didn’t know, and according to this world, John didn’t know magic. He was homeless, not a wizard. 

No. The moon just reflected off that copper coin. The wind pushed it a little, the waves ignored it, as he flipped it up into the air and caught it.

And John and Fuss stood up and went off to sleep. A coin closer to their goal, with a bit more hope.

For the future.

For Eli.

The Wise.

Was waiting.