The elven lady had a mission now that didn’t require chatting with her companion, and her two bag-toting followers struggled to keep up. They “chatted” among themselves while the woman said presumably encouraging things from the lead position in this powerwalk.

“We were having a nice leisurely stroll. She knows my agility is low.” Tyrus complained softly in the direction of the foreigner.

“I know what a dog feels like now, I think.” The stranger replied, pretending that this was a conversation too. “Being pulled to an unknown destination with no idea why.”

The mage peered over at the red-haired foreigner. “You really have no idea what I’m saying, do you? What if I change language?” Tyrus did as much, with the foreigner staring back at him, a polite smile plastered on their face.

“Maybe not a dog. A bull. Wait, no bulls don’t tow things. An ox. Do those still exist? Ox. Oxen.” The stranger watched a horse and cart pass, allowing for a moment of revelation. “Horse would do. Should have said horse first.”

Stella glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? We’re almost there, so stop whining. I know you’ve walked farther than this on your grand journeys.”

Tyrus was musing aloud now, no longer concerned with whether his unusual companion minded participating. “If it’s a curse, then there should be a way to break it or satisfy conditions for it to be removed. How would one acquire such an extensive curse? A rules mage couldn’t make a binding that covered all languages on the continent.”

In another world, Tyrus would love the rubber duck method of problem solving.

The stranger was feeling a bit bolder given how enthusiastically the mage was responding, even if comprehension was lacking. “She’s really pretty. And seems nice? I don’t know how to interpret this.”

They paused, looking over at the mage with a little embarrassment coloring their cheeks. “I mean. You’re pretty too. Handsome, sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” The stranger stared into the distance, contemplating this new body and its preferences. “Is that just because I liked guys in my last life? Or do I like them now?”

Oh, there was too much to think about and they really didn’t want to deal with this. After they had shoes on, they could contemplate sexuality in this fantasy world.

The stranger pointedly fixed their gaze back on the woman, forcing themselves to wonder what business her uniform was for. Their eyes were open unnaturally wide as they desperately tried to avoid the terrible embarrassment they felt, suddenly grateful no one could understand.

The mage Tyrus was deep into a discussion about if a rules mage could limit one’s ability to interpret vocabulary, such as removing a single word from existence, and if that could be expanded infinitely to include all languages. He could not care less if the foreigner was grappling with an unfamiliar surge of hormones and feelings.

Both followers nearly ran into Stella when she stopped in front of the leatherworker’s shop. She ducked inside the storefront to flag down the shopkeep and lead him to the warehouse behind.

The stranger immediately knew this was a tannery, as there was the unmistakable smell of hide and chemicals. They were instructed to leave the bag on a table and then pointed in the direction of a bench across the street, away from the stink. The mage and the woman had to negotiate, given how animated their gestures were to their wares, so the functionally ignorant foreigner waited elsewhere.

They stood on the cobblestone street, looking at the brick-and mortar-shops lining this side of the market. The tannery was by the pond – which turned out to be a river, the inlet was concealed by a bridge in the distance.

The stranger remembered in a video game somewhere that the riverside of medieval-fantasy cities had loading docks because ship-based travel was so important. Maybe that was true here. If so, other processing stores should be along the river, like blacksmiths or metalworkers, maybe even food storage.

It was all a guess. There were hanging signs above and by doorways or displayed in shop windows. The lettering was wiggly wingdings to the stranger, like having a really intense form of dyslexia, so they didn’t stare at the signage for too long.

The leatherworker had a fake wooden hide, complete with attached wolf’s head, as their sign, text faux-branded into the hide. It was clever.

The stranger was distracted, absorbing all the details, so they failed to notice an approaching carriage and accompanying knight-guard. They stepped out of the road rapidly to avoid a collision – a flashback of the bus and its too-close headlights seared the stranger’s mind. They couldn’t die again this way.

In their confusion, they bumped into another passerby who was watching the gilded carriage ride through the city.

These were the heroes, escorted by trusted advisors of the Crown and given a grand tour of the capitol of Amnasín. Behind the curtains of the carriage, the four heroes were dressed in fineries appropriate for their new station. Silks, brocade, decorative armor, jewels. Anything the heroes could need, they were given access to.

The sore, shoeless feet of the stranger stumbled over the uneven cobbles; they bounced off the citizen, who shouted in anger, and they twisted rapidly to avoid a direct collision with the side of the carriage.

Still, they tripped and suddenly faced a rearing horse in armor and regalia, a knight on its back. The stranger barely darted out of the way, finding themselves trapped between the lines of horses, now irritated by the human in their midst.

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Panic set in. Nothing could prepare them for how to dodge four armored horses with their stomping hooves and flaring nostrils. The stranger tried to escape, throwing themselves to the other side of the street, anything to get away without taking a hoof to the foot or chest.

They were successful in avoiding the horses, but the street was bordered by a narrow walkway of planks… and a sheer drop into the river below. The stranger gasped as they hit the water, struggling to get their bearings.

It was deep at this point, deeper than they thought. They could swim, so there was no real fear of drowning, but the shift from hopeful waiting to near-death experience to frantic swimming was not the most pleasant of transitions.

They struggled to find a way out of the river. Someone above peered over and shouted, pointing in the direction of the bridge.

Must be that way, then. The stranger felt their exhaustion begin to sink in, now. Before it was tolerable. Just walking was okay. In the cold water, it all caught up to the stranger. The lack of good sleep and food for at least three normal meals, constant walking, the ache from poor arch support and rocks.

The stupid carriage! It was gaudy and dumb looking.

A few minutes of breast strokes and the stranger reached the bridge, yet they failed to see a ladder or walkway up. There were a set of very, very narrow arches under the bridge where a person or creature could pass. It was claustrophobic.

It was the stranger’s only choice.

They paddled under the arches, feeling their heels and toes clip the algae-covered stone of the bridge under the water. The ceiling was only a few inches above their head as they moved through.

Terror, panic, dread, hunger, exhaustion. These things were taking root in the stranger’s soul.

Maybe the elf lady and the mage could help. The stranger focused on that optimism, struggling out from under the bridge to the other side.

There was a ladder here. They clambered up, feet and hands slipping on the wet metal and algae-covered wood.

People in beautiful clothing watched the sodden creature climb out from the river, covered in duckweed and algae, panting hard.

It was probably called gryphonfeather here or something equally pretentious, but duckweed was universal, it seemed.

The onlookers avoided eye contact, whispering among themselves as the stranger took stock of the situation. The bridge went back over the river, but more than one building blocked access to the tannery, which was within eyesight but not close.

It would have to work. The stranger crossed the bridge slowly, dripping wet and limping slightly from a cut on the sole of their foot. They hoped tetanus shots existed here.

The walk did not improve. The stranger followed the road and turned right where they thought would lead back to the market, but it didn’t. More than once did they hear the sounds of a crowd, only to seek it out and find another little market or gathering of locals outside a tavern.

It was with a heavy heart that they conceded that they were well and truly lost, standing outside the wrought iron gate of a private garden. The stranger recognized carrot tops and fennel through the bars, just out of reach. Yes, they were considering thievery at this point.

The locals of this area were not only glaring daggers at the stranger but were actively antagonistic. If they had to endure broom handles and buckets of who knows what being dumped on their head, then the odds of finding a meal were incredibly slim.

The stranger didn’t even know how to get back to the city gate. They would rather go to the forest than be yelled at or chased off, like… like a mangy dog.

Fuck this world and whatever brought them here. They wished this still felt like a dream. It was solidly in nightmare territory, now.

An angry sound alerted them to a presence. Three men, closer to boys, were approaching. They pointed at the garden and to the stranger, saying loud things.

The stranger held up their hands in what they hoped as a universal gesture of innocence.

The hand of one man slipped down to grab at the hilt of a sword. No, this was going terribly. Fuck.

The stranger decided to run, darting off in the opposite direction of the men, trying to escape. The men followed. The pursuit was regrettably short, as the stranger had an injured foot and no clue where they were.

Like a rabbit chased by coyotes, the stranger found themselves cornered, at another closed gate surrounded by stone walls.

“Please, I just want to go home,” they begged.

The men yelled more, then laughed and joked like there was something fun about the situation. The stranger could only guess what slurs and insults were being hurled their way.

“I don’t want to fight,” they said quietly, pleadingly. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

They were terrified, because in their old world, this situation would have produced a much different fear. One not only of bodily harm, but of bodily abuse and torment. That fear lingered still, unable to be dismissed after only two days in a new form.

Two of the men approached and shoved the stranger into the door of the wooden gate, pinning them down. The third checked the pockets, finding no money or stolen goods or whatever else they were searching for.

He scoffed and spat at the stranger’s feet, an unbecoming gesture for what was clearly a young noble.

“I told you, I have nothing!”

They were punched, hard. They felt their nose crack and it became very difficult to see, flashes of pain and light obscuring their mind. It was all the same, as other attacks came quickly. The men were practiced in the art of scumbaggery.

The stranger protected their head, yet wood-heeled boots stomped on their side, kicking into their ribs. The men dragged them into the lane by their shirt collar, their leader pointing a sword at the stranger.

They tried to focus, but it was hard. They were on their back, looking up at the swordsman behind them, half pinned by the boots of the other men. Aching and confused and disoriented.

The swordsman jabbed toward them to make a point, slicing a cut from the edge of their mouth vertically to their chin. He said something; the stranger just nodded as enthusiastically as they could spare, trying to agree with whatever the man said.

The sword was sheathed, thank the fates.

Then the man reared back and kicked the stranger in the head. That was the last thing they remembered.

They were in and out of consciousness for a ride in the back of a cart, hearing jingling money exchange hands. They fell asleep from sheer exhaustion during the cart ride, uncomfortable but at least the fighting had stopped.

Hours later, they awoke and missed the gazebo with such fierceness, one would have assumed it was their home.

They’d been dumped in a patch of thorn-bearing plants. Every movement was painfully delayed by thorns hooked into skin, forced to press their palms into the spikes to have even a chance of escaping the bush.

They couldn’t process much of what happened next, only going through the motions without complex thoughts.

In an effort of self-preservation, they looked for the castle in the distance – a structure they’d been doggedly ignoring, in favor of maintaining the dream delusion – and walked back toward it.

The city had been cruel today, yes, but fuck knows what the wilderness held, or how many miles spanned between here and the next town.

It was risking civilization or death by beast.

The stranger chose the first option, but more reluctantly than the choice should have been. Maybe tomorrow would be better.