The man before me was clearly a Hunter.

Excuse me.

Assuming the world still ran on the system present in Archon Online (it wouldn’t do to presume quite yet), the man before me was clearly a hunter. Bow and furs were the the distinct marks of a low level hunter. That's just how it was. That said, my brain kept sliding back to 'Lumberjack'. Not that he was wearing flannel nor carrying an axe. It was the beard. A brown, scruffy thing that seemed like it saw only just enough care to be presentable.

It was then that I realised my silence might be considered impolite.

"...T-thank you very much, sir," I stammered, which was about all I trusted myself to say at that moment. Though it was clearly the voice of a young girl, there was a rough edge to my voice, that lead to my naturally quiet, apologetic demeanor sounding forced and almost insincere, even to my own ears. His expression was what I could only describe as ‘Vexed’ as he looked to say something, then changed his mind.

"Six torments, girl, what are y' doin' oot here an'-an’ what was that?" he demanded with what I only hesitated to call a 'gravelly Brogue' as the Hallowed World had neither a Scotland nor an Ireland.

'That?'

"I, uh, don't know, sir, and I...uh...don't...know what you mean by that, s-"

"Enough with the 'sirs', lass, do ah look like a knight?" he asked, patience clearly waning.

I swallowed nervously. Right, this place actually had knights as a class. You were even addressed as such in-game if you took the class yourself. Which sucked, since I more or less called anyone older than me ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am’.

"My apologies, uh..."

I stopped myself twice. First from saying 'sir' again, then from asking his name before introducing myself. That was a serious faux pass classically, wasn't it? That, however, brought with it a conundrum. Who was I going to be to anyone I ran into? Unless I went with '100% truthful', I most certainly wasn't going to be 'Matthew', looking like this.

And I most certainly wasn’t going with 100% truthful.

"Ah, I suppose...It'd be best to use 'Aurum'...? Please, call me...uh....that. May I ask your name?"

I withered slightly under the weight of his entirely nonplussed expression.

"Fer some'un that looks like they crawled ootta Whitecliff's gutter, yer a queer stickler fer niceties, y'know? Malcolm Shields, Yeoman Rambler o' Brightsteel Point. An' if you call me by that, ah'm leavin' y'ere."

I blinked. So many answers to questions I hadn't yet asked...And yet, it seemed like I was only left with more. First and foremost, though his title meant nothing to me (which was a curiosity all of its own), 'Brightsteel Point' was where I'd been headed...But the idea that it might have...Whatever a ‘Yeoman Rambler’ was, was...I didn’t want to admit thinking it’d just be what I’d seen in-game after having seen evidence of so many other changes, but...Well, okay, I had kinda assumed that as a baseline. The idea of the Brightsteel Point in my memory lorded over by any sort of notable authority figure was almost laughable.

Who was there to even have authority over? The place had maybe five people living in it, tops.

Also rather notably was his implicit decision to bring me with him. That reflexively contrary part of me piped up with something about ‘presumptuousness’, but I crushed that terrible voice under a metaphorical boot until it shut up. He was going where I was already wanting to go. I wasn’t going to object to that just for the sake of arguing.

Not when I’m beaten up like this, at least.

"Sorry, Mr-"

"Just Malcolm 'll do, an' you were aboot t'explain what'ch were doin' pickin' a fight with a full pack o' Duskies?" he insisted with just a touch of exasperation. That he’d tunnelled on my immediate actions, rather than what I was doing before that was…good? It gave me more time to work on my story, whatever it was going to be.

"...Malcolm...Uh, well, I didn't. I came over the hill over there, waited there a little too long thinking they couldn't see me and...they took objection to my good health," I ended with an embarrassed half-smile that didn't seem to mollify the man.

"What, an' y' didn't jus' turn around n' leave? Light's sake, are y' mad?"

"...I was reasonably sure it was doable," I answered, my voice tainted by just a hint of a recalcitrant grumble. While I didn't want to be rude, but I had been perfectly fine without his intervention, thank you very much. I bristled at his skepticism, until he gave up the argument with an unspoken 'Fine!'

"...Well, y' ain't lackin' in nerve, even yer bloomin' daft," he declared- a laughable mistruth if I'd ever heard one-, "Well, if we turned oot anyone daft, we wouldnae have enough heads t' open a dungeon. C'mon, if yer leg's good. Y' can say yer piece once yer patched up."

* * * * * * * *

Like much of the landscape that preceded it, Brightsteel Point had little in common with my memory of it.

It was bigger for one, which was what I noticed first. Though both towns filled the same space from afar, the in-game representation had been warped and distorted, and shrunk in on itself as one approached. Though the town before me wasn't exactly bustling, it was a far cry from the glorified townhouse it was in-game. A concession to convenience and hardware limitations, I supposed glibly.

The same could not be said for the rest of the differences.

When I looked at Brightsteel Point, I didn't think 'Hamlet'. Ignoring Shakespeare, that was a word I associated with peace and pastoral bliss. No, if I were to describe my first impression of Brightsteel Point in a single phrase, it'd be 'Frontier Town'. Surrounded by a palisade wall and guard towers that seemed about the only structures given more than a week’s work, pristine, straw-thatched roofs had given way to all manner of wooden shanties and glorified tents, all with a distinctly uneven slant. I could've sworn half would've blown over with a stiff breeze. Its wide, dirt roads were sodden and empty as we walked down what I assumed was ‘Main Street’. Few seemed willing to stomach the cold and damp. I couldn't blame them.

I'd expected more probing questions along the way, to be honest. Not that I was complaining, so to speak, but I'd psyched myself up for them, even though I didn't have answers yet. No, instead he kept to quick walk that became a punishing pace with my injuries, which ached and stung whenever I pushed to keep up. In-game, I'd have been hale and hearty before we'd stepped foot in town but, of all the things to have suddenly changed from the game, my out of combat regen had dropped precipitously. Did that ‘mean’ something? What did anything mean at this point? I was quickly tiring of my complete lack of context for this place.

The crudely drawn black cross tilted on its side above the shack we were approaching was at once reassuring and worrying. On one hand, the universal 'healer' symbol from in-game told me all I needed to know about where we were going. On the other, its quality and that of the building it was attached to was telling. It was perhaps even more ramshackle than the average place we'd walked past, with notable gaps between the walls and both ceiling and floor.

As we entered the healer's office (or, less charitably,* 'shack'), Malcolm called out to someone in the back room.

"Sawbones!"

The man that emerged looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, dressed in black robes and a white collar that honestly seemed almost out of place. Short, mildly balding pale brown hair and a tiny pair of glasses completed the picture of a Pastor. It was a low level NPC-only class in game -a heavily gimped version of the Priest without any of the Divine Smiting, unique buffs or, really anything besides healing. That was more or less their point; they were there to top up low level players with free but slow healing and removal of death debuffs. All things priests could do, but they could be available in areas that would break if also allowed access to all the other utility an NPC Priest usually brought.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Eh? Malcolm? What's the emergency?" he asked, with a tone distinctly not in the mood for an emergency. The hunter gave me a gentle push forward.

"Found 'er oot in the foothills. Had a run-in w' the Duskies. Give 'er a once over,” he declared. I could’ve sworn there was just a hint of amusement to it, though it might’ve been my imagination.

There was an old, wooden bench I was lead to sit on, as the man retrieved an simple staff topped with little more than gnarled mass. As a priest you started with a better staff than that thing. As he channeled a trace of healing magic into it and passed it over me, my face was very deliberately blank. To be healed with Reknit -the least of all healing spells- stung my pride just a little. To need healing at such a low enough level that someone might use the spell was almost a mark of shame, even given the current circumstances. And also just stung in general; there was a horrible squirming sensation as my cuts closes and bruises vanished. Still, it certainly wouldn't do to be ungrateful to someone healing my injuries more or less out of the kindness of his own heart (or so I chose to believe, at least).

“Hmm, you’re lucky girl, you know that? If Malcolm hadn’t found you so quickly, you’d probably have died. There's a reason our Yeoman's the only one that scouts so far out, you know,” he said with that very typically condescending way Doctors talk to children.

“My apologies, Healer, but you have...made an incorrect assumption regarding the way the encounter proceeded. It was quite close to being over when Malcolm intervened,” I ground out, trying to avoid strictly voicing what I was actually thinking regarding that comment.

The Healer chuckled, “I know you’re still nursing your pride, but you shouldn't tell such obvious fibs like that, girl. I can't see your class, but you haven't the maximum health to have survived such an encounter long. Truth be told, I'd be surprised if you're beyond level five. Would you set her straight, Malcolm?"

He gave Malcolm a meaningful look. For a moment, the hunter hesitated, lips pursed like he’d just swallowed something sour.

“...Nae, while ah ain't gonna call her bright fer takin' that fight…It didnae look near as bloody as it had e’ry right t’ be. Not unless the alpha went an’ offed its pack itself. Whate'er witchcraft she pulled on those Duskies got ‘em but good," he corrected reluctantly, giving the healer a pointed look. I watched a series of emotions play across the man’s face as Malcolm’s po-faced expression refused to yield. Joking scepticism, to shocked disbelief, to ‘is this a joke?’ confusion. The two shared a short, silent conversation I hadn’t the context to follow, but it ended with the healer’s resigned acceptance.

He turned back to me, "An’ if y’know what’s good fer ya, Lass, y’ll keep that one in yer pocket. E’ryone in Brightsteel has somethin’ in the bank they’d rather nae talk about, but we ain’t no convent. Goin’ even with a full pack o’ Duskies, if any take yer word, it’ll raise t’ sort of questions that ain’t gonna go unasked.”

Accepting my hesitant nod at face value, the two men turned their attention to matters I cared far less to listen to. About certain happenings in town that I had no context for, and about people I’d never met. I tuned them out. It was surprising that I was being let off the hook like this, so to speak, but it seemed whatever Brightsteel was now, it wasn't exactly squeaky clean either.

Which lead me to ask the most terrifying question.

What now?

It was a question that had carefully gone unvoiced for years. Maybe ever. Was I scared of it for having gone so long without asking it, or had it gone so long unasked because I was a coward? Probably somewhere in the middle. Throughout my education, there'd been a carefully laid path for me. One that I'd never looked too far beyond and that had ground to a screeching halt with the end of university. For as long as I could remember, I had been as a marble left upon a gentle slow, and my life had been a slow, lazy slide down the path of least resistance. Back home, that path had ended in two minute noodles and twelve hour gaming sessions, which was a fate I was ultimately okay with.

In that moment, when I looked down the proverbial mountain I now found myself on, the drop was so far that I couldn't see the bottom.

I tabled the thought. Big ideas about my long-term future, whatever direction it might go in, could wait until the immediate present was dealt with. And perhaps I had read things incorrectly, but I couldn't help but suspect the man I'd been found by was something of a local authority figure, not the least of reasons being that title. To get his opinion on what would happen next...Well, it just seemed like the smart thing to do. After what felt like forever, as my health topped off and the conversation lulled, I found an opportunity to ask without being impolite.

"...So...May I ask what's going to happen now?"

Focused by the churning fear in my gut, I noticed the brief, imploring look shot by the healer that Malcolm answered with an equally brief dubious scowl, before looking back at me.

“We’ll put y’ up fer a couple days if y’ain’t in a hurry anywhere, enough t' find yer balance, but ag’n, we ain’t a convent. If y’ wanna stay here fer any time, y’ll need to pull yer weight,” he explained.

Part of me cringed at that, just out of habit.

“I...apologise, but I don’t have any marketable skills beyond my ability to fight,” I said,

“Yeah, well, lucky we always need scoots, ain’tcha? Ah’m nae too keen on sendin’ bairns int’ the wild zones, but they’d all hae a whinge if ah stopped ‘em. Y’ may s’well join ‘em. Ain’t like y’ can be any worse at it than ‘em an’ nae but Crows n’ Hares near t’ toon anyways. S’long as there ain’t nae ‘incursion’, y' shouldnae hae much trouble.”

Interpreting that, I nodded absently, thankful that I was fluent in Brogue. The scouting job didn't exactly sound glamorous. I couldn't remember much about any of the 'Crow' or 'Hare' monsters lines beyond a crippling weakness to damage. The sort of fodder enemy types easy enough to put in a tutorial without risk of alienating the unskilled. Still, I wasn't going to turn down a way to help, even if it seemed entirely like a waste of my talents.

"An' y 'll prob'ly wanna stash those pelts till the merchants come 'round next month, y'ken," he reminded me. A good thing too, as I'd forgotten about them entirely. Selling them for a pittance would've been my intention if I were still in game. Fur armour was universally based around Agility, which was of little use to a Tinker...But then again...

"...Might there be a use for them otherwise?" I asked leadingly. If those wolves were considered particularly dangerous round here (an idea I’d have found laughable if you’d asked me an hour ago).

“Use ‘em fer a bed, if that’s yer thing. If y’ want ‘em turned into Gear, it’s a week t’ Soldier's Drop an' y'll be makin' it alone. We ain't got a Tailor with t' levels, nor the time t' go oot n' find one."

...

...Uh huh...

I paused uncertainly, not sure of what to make of that. How big a deal was that piece of information? Crafting was one of the things that Archon Online didn’t really do. Not in the same way that many other MMOs did. Turning drops into equipment meant finding the relevant NPC in the nearest town, giving them the right materials and, hey presto, you had a new piece of equipment ready for use. It wasn't even like there was any difference between the NPCs' crafting abilities; they were all identically perfect. Was this proof that things had changed, or was this just a side of the system that'd been gated off...?

"...If I may, I'd like to begin earning my keep sooner rather than later, if it's at all possible," I said hesitantly, cutting myself off before I was lost in thought again, "I wouldn't like to impose."

“Ah’ll roster y’ in fer tomorrow night, how's that soond?" he asked. I nodded.

“Oh, an’ fer y’ own sake, think o’ something else t’ call yerself. ‘Aurum’ makes y’ sound like an elf.”

...Elf?!