With real, tangible progress under their belt – they had a belt now! – the stranger felt a weight settle on their metaphorical shoulders.

They needed a name.

Abigail had been – was? – a strong, independent woman who could drive a car, do her own taxes, clean the house she rented, cultivate a garden, and navigate the sunny, yet humid city around her without resorting to Google Maps. She was great at Stardew Valley and life sims, easily engrossed in the day-to-day planning, but any RPGs with skill involved were solely enjoyed via someone else’s efforts.

The stranger was so highly dependent on the whims of others that it was a constant source of worry, one that they couldn’t even voice.

Fern seemed reasonable. They wouldn’t expect her to hand-hold and soothe anxiety, but even the ability to convey a desire to pay rent and earn their keep would help the stranger immensely.

In Fern’s breakfast spot, they left a stack of 20 copper on a scrap of paper with a doodle of a bed and fork/knife combination. It probably wasn’t enough, but it was symbolic of their appreciation.

It cut significantly into their coin purse, leaving less than 10 copper behind.

They didn’t own a weapon, really, but while perusing the wall of armaments in the blacksmith’s shop, they spotted a mattock leaning against the wall. It could be a weapon, if it had to be, but the stranger was much more interested in the functional combination of axe and hoe for quests.

The mattock turned out to be exactly what they needed. The stranger picked a few more plant-based fetch quests with some assistance from Fern, one of which proved to be the end-roots of a small tree. The trees were rare, so the stranger spent a day hunting for one, then it took hours to dig up even a single carrot-like strand of these roots.

Six forearm-length root-carrots provided the stranger with 10 big copper coins and 1 silver coin with the head of a queen on it.

This was the way to go, honestly.

The cost of their new equipment – a mattock, belt, set of leather armor, a sketchbook, travel pen, and ink – left them feeling poor. The rent given to Fern had been a significant chunk of their money.

But now? A big silver had to be worth way more than any copper.

The stranger was observant, as it was their sole form of entertainment. They watched money exchange hands in the market; only a prized ring or a set of full metal armor warranted even a glimpse of a silver coin.

Fuck, with money no longer an issue, the stranger really couldn’t delay choosing a name for much longer.

At the southern edge of the market closer to the wealthier part of the city, there was a café, a teashop even. It was frequented by locals, though not often by brutes such as the stranger.

They didn’t smell (today) since the bathhouse only cost a few coins to enter, but it was their equipment that felt out of place – armor, a tool-weapon on their belt, simple clothing. The stranger politely sat outside at a far table, trying to keep out of the way of the gentry.

They ordered something unknown, presenting their metal card with the note to the waitstaff first, then showing the kind person the variety of copper coins they had on hand.

The staff gossiped about this in the back of house; while they had rare imports that could cost one or two targets, those were full-service meals with luxury tea and ingredients. The waitstaff spent a few minutes observing the red-haired adventurer, who pulled out a pen and book to work.

Ah, a tea set, not a full meal, then. A smattering of loafs, at most.

They wanted the adventurer’s money, but they didn’t want to put him out of house and home by presenting a meal made for nobility.

The stranger was working on a guide for their own benefit when the tea set arrived, a pastry on the side. It was black tea with the smell of gentle citrus. The stranger was pleased to note that it tasted a bit like earl grey, without the exact palette of bergamot.

They used the teaspoon to drip a few drops onto the corner of their sketchbook paper, as if to journal today’s events.

On the page, the stranger marked down important information. Sketches of coins, tally marks and ✖’s to indicate currency value. 30 small copper equaled 1 big copper. The silver was still a mystery, but given the copper-copper exchange rate, the stranger guessed it was at least 30 to 1.

They marked down a list of symbols, feeling a bit like they were playing that phone app for brand icon recognition.

The tannery’s signage. The tailor. The blacksmith. The mysterious business they now worked for.

Fork and knife. Teacup and saucer. A mug of beer. A toilet. An approximation of a bathtub.

This would make conveying information a lot quicker and easier, if the stranger could merely point to the symbol they needed.

They focused on their pastry and tea, people watching until the ink dried. Killing time. Avoiding their next task.

They couldn’t be Abby anymore. Nor Abigail.

They didn’t want to pre-determine the state of gender and normative naming systems in this fantasy world… yet, humans loved naming conventions. There was probably a cultural guideline for what was appropriate.

Besides, it made their brain hurt to think of themselves as Abby. Maybe it was magic or sheer time, but Abby’s life felt far away. The stranger remembered pop culture and food and games with all the same nostalgia that they felt for nursery rhymes or plots of books.

As if it happened to someone else, someone fictional.

They felt a heavy burden for the memory of Abby, one that neither language nor consideration would solve. Only time.

The bus was her cause of death. That was an undeniable fact now, not the shudder of a bad dream. She was dead.

But Abby – the stranger – was the one who chose to step in front of it, with full understanding of what would happen next.

It wasn’t the failed test, nor the aggravating messages and insistence from her mother. It wasn’t her dad’s recent death, the pressure of the will and inheritance, the endless fucking squabbles from lawyers. Her siblings gripping tighter on dad’s money and house while her mother tried every avenue she could but the physical to choke it out of Abby.

They got what they wanted. They could have the house and dad’s things.

With a sigh, the stranger turned back to the blank page.

They liked video games with medieval, renaissance time periods, so it wasn’t as if the stranger had no exposure to those naming conventions. It… Look, Abby knew a lot about plants and animals and swamps and what to rub on your skin so the mosquitos fucked off. She spent very little time reading historical fiction, aside from the occasional dusty romance novel left in watchtowers and observation stations.

Even in video games, Abby was more likely to hit randomize a bunch, delete or add a few letters, then call it a day.

They wrote down names from their past life that they liked from fiction or people in Abby’s social group, then played a bit of syllable association until something started sounding interesting.

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Gavin. Harland. Harvey. Nazar. Allan. Aster.

Okay, so two syllables were the clear preference here.

Gav-ey. Naz-an. No.

Astar. Ass-star. Ugh.

Harver. Harvar? Goofy, not quite there.

Halvarn? That felt better. Appropriately medieval, and nothing near Abby.

They played with letters until the name was right. Hallvar.

It was sturdy, with some punch as the stranger imagined it shouted out.

Well, no one was asking for their name, nor would anyone say it until this language problem sorted itself, but they were Hallvar now, for better or worse.

The waitstaff were helpful as Hallvar negotiated the purchase of a few ounces of nice tea, for Fern. They remembered she enjoyed a kind with pale leaves that curled into thin strips, almost like pine needles.

When Hallvar drew it on the page of their notebook, the waitstaff immediately identified the variety, but they required more Pictionary rounds to understand Hallvar wanted it to take home, not brewed in a cup.

They left the parcel near the storage jars for Fern to find, as a treat, a few small wildflowers tucked under the twine.

Over the next few days, Hallvar filled up several pages of the sketchbook with drawings. Some were full-effort attempts to render people, flowers, animals; others were doodles, goofy cartoons, sketches of things to figure out later.

This world was so isolating. Hallvar found that verbally expressing their thoughts and opinions only served to deepen their distress. No one was listening because no one could listen. There was no real point in talking.

But, drawing genuinely helped. It gave Hallvar a sense of independence, a little glimmer of self-expression to ease the burden of not-knowing, the inability to know anything in this world.

The sketchbook became a journal, detailed pages with the order of events.

The staff at the ax-and-sword business didn’t seem to mind if Hallvar lingered on the armchairs for a while after picking their next quest. If that place was too loud or crowded, they sat in the courtyard at one of the stone tables. In the early morning or late night, Hallvar was in the shared kitchen.

Fern watched them draw, sometimes. Over a week of pages, she featured more than a few times as a constant in Hallvar’s life.

The little curls that framed her forehead became easier to draw, as did the two thin braids that hung in front of her ears. Her brown hair was coarse and wavy but not textured, so Fern pinned it back under a headband. It gave her a cute little bob hairstyle that showed off her other features.

Hallvar flushed with a tinge of embarrassment when Fern looked closely at the drawings. They weren’t perfect. They did capture her likeness, but Hallvar could do better. A lot better. Maybe another day, Hallvar would draw her correctly.

Fern just smiled as she peered over their shoulder or across the table. Sometimes, she would rest a hand on their back as she looked. Hallvar tried not to read too much into the gesture.

Other people were in the sketchbook too.

One day while Hallvar was sitting in the courtyard, two mages approached an open patch of land behind the building, standing and talking together. They didn’t seem to notice Hallvar, who had a perfect view of the pair between a set of columns.

The mages began casting spells, taking long lengths of time to argue, then cast the same spell again. The grassy patch they were aiming at soon became frozen solid, the plants turned to ice and frost. They were experimenting, Hallvar guessed, or maybe competing.

Regardless, they were perfect subjects for a sketch.

The first mage was the one Hallvar met ages ago, delivering goods with Fern to the tannery. He had long thin locs with beads and metal decorations on them which framed his large, round glasses and thin face. Thin everything, really.

The second mage had big hair, natural curls dyed green, unless Hallvar seriously misunderstood how genetics worked in this world. The hair framed their face like a lion’s mane, though a brown mustache and goatee told the truth about the coloring. They had a very large scar on their left cheek shaped like a splatter. Maybe a spell gone wrong?

Hallvar drew the pair from the waist up as they argued with animated hands and pointing staffs. Staves?

It made them chuckle as they glanced between pages. On one page, lovely flowers and plants as if taken from a botanica book, yet drawn from life; on the other, two bitchy mages, spittle flying.

“They are rather enthusiastic, aren’t they?”

Hallvar left a blot of ink on the paper as they flinched, glancing up to see the looming man to their right. They narrowed their eyes at the man, much more confident now that they had money and an outlet for thoughts. He could at minimum bother to cough as he approached.

The guildmaster tilted his head, amused that the whimpering foreigner who was found half dead in this exact courtyard had grown enough to deliver a sass-filled gaze.

“May I see?” Viktor pointed to the sketchbook, presenting a hand palm up as he waited.

Hallvar didn’t mind letting the odd man look at their journal, yet they hesitated. They didn’t know anything about this man other than that he was the boss of this business, and everyone took his words seriously.

That should scare Hallvar. But ignorance was bliss, as they said.

They passed over the sketchbook and watched as the man flipped through the pages.

Hallvar suddenly remembered a series of gesture drawings they made of the looming man, trying to figure out how he loomed with such realistic and normal proportions.

The capelet helped, adding a visual weight to one side and unbalancing the, uh, design of the looming man. Design was appropriate in this circumstance; Hallvar felt that this man was aware of how he was perceived and used it to his advantage.

Viktor examined the sketchbook from cover to the first blank sheet, idling for long stretches of time on a single page.

To Hallvar, this was nerve wracking. There were no emotions on the man’s face, no hint as to his thoughts.

Viktor, however, was having a delightful time.

He didn’t know what to expect from a hero that lacked verbal communication skills and access to the system. It was inconceivable, really, to have a hero in such a state.

On the first day, in the first hour after the summoning, a system mage would analyze the heroes’ strengths and weaknesses, giving immediate advice for good class options.

Perhaps Viktor had not been alive for the last dynasty’s summoning, but it was common sense to determine the skills of heroes, people summoned to fight on the kingdom’s behalf.

This foreigner was a blank slate, for all Viktor knew. Child-like stats, nothing special to them.

But the sketchbook suggested otherwise.

The easy access list of symbols and currency chart showed foresight, a sense of dedication and planning for the potential future where the hero gained no language skill whatsoever.

Viktor politely ignored the portraits of Stella, as they grew more intricate and detailed over time. A fern coiled out behind her in the most recent drawing.

He was, however, impressed with a sketch of himself. Not necessarily in the accuracy of proportions, but in the small details. The hiwode brooch was positioned on the appropriate lapel and the beads on it were correct in number, but not in shape. Still, in a four-inch-tall drawing, it was a feat.

A korekun lurked in the corner of a page, reptilian eyes, pebbled skin, and back fin visible. They were rare beasts found in the marshes, and they did not like to be in the presence of humans. To not only spot one but observe it long enough to replicate on paper was lucky.

The plant life was naturalistic. There were creases and veins in the leaves, soft curves of unique petal shapes.

The feathergrass was detailed, each blade branching off to make a plume with a natural eyespot near the end.

Viktor raised his eyebrow at the illustration of a three-spotted feathergrass.

The plant was essential to most herbal remedies as a binding agent and thus was sold in large bundles for a low price, but a single three-spotted strand paid triple the rate of a full bundle.

Interesting.

The illustration of the vetta tree was accurate as well, but Viktor already knew of that quest’s fulfillment. These quests were generally reserved for vetta hunters, as it was incredibly lucrative, enough so that adventurers would specialize in the finding and harvesting of the roots.

New adventurers rarely saw vetta trees. They were fickle things that died after too many harvests; the system grew new ones elsewhere. For the foreigner to find one – someone who was incapable of learning the typical range and growth preferences of the plant – it was remarkable.

Viktor made an internal note to send a strongly worded letter to the vetta hunters. They were worse than assassins when it came to discouraging new blood in the business.

The sketch of the mage brothers – Tyrus and Markus – was certainly amusing. The foreigner was careful to add the rings on Markus’ fingers and the book holster Tyrus wore as a cantor mage. So much detail for a silly moment captured by ink.

It was the guildmaster’s turn for experimentation.

He returned the book to the foreigner, waiting for the man to place two thin pieces of wood around the still-wet page.

With a series of gestures, Hallvar received orders to leave their book at home and meet the looming man at the front door of the business. Aside from their knife and their coin purse, Hallvar was practically naked, no equipment, no armor. It felt weird now that they were used to being more outfitted than their first day in this world.

The looming man tossed a dark green cloak at them before giving an indication to follow. The pair walked into the city, the man leading, Hallvar trailing behind in confusion.

This lack of understanding grew further as the man spoke to a stablehand, who ran off and returned with a carriage and driver. Oh, something was happening.

They rode for some time, until the smell of salt air was strong on the wind, then exited in front of a beautiful building. It had spiral staircases on either side, women lounging on the upper floor and eyeing the newcomers and—

Oh. What, no. This. This couldn’t be a brothel, right?

Hallvar’s nerves grew more unsteady, failing to settle even when their path went downstairs into a basement instead of up to the boudoirs.

They experienced a flicker of normalcy as they waited at a small door while the looming man discussed something through an open panel. It took more than a week of time around this man’s business to realize Hallvar was actually taller than the looming man, by a few inches.

Coins exchanged hands, then coins exchanged hands, and the pair was allowed in.

It was a dark room with food and drinks, servers nimbly navigating the packed floor, flitting around tables where people of all shades and genders were gathered. Smoke rose in some spots, an herbal smell mixing with that of strong liquor.

The nervous Hallvar turned to look at a familiar sound, a rattling of bone against wood.

Dice.

This was a casino.

“Oh, fuck,” Hallvar grumbled.

“Good luck,” the Guildmaster said with a hint of a smile.