There was an abandoned farm to the east of town, razed a couple of years ago in a raid of some kind. The house was a ruin, blackened beams and crumbling brick, but the barn still had most of its roof.

It was to this barn he headed, crashing now from the earlier stamina potion usage. It was a 15-minute walk, and each step was like trudging through molasses. Fuck, he was tired. He found his usual seat, tucked away at the back in what probably used to be an animal stall and relaxed, sinking into the vague grass pillow he’d arranged on a previous visit.

From his satchel he drew out his water skin, recently filled, and took a swig. A hint of iron. He moved a plank on the floor to uncover his stash. Within was a pipe, a block of compressed dark green herb and a tinderbox.

He missed home. A lot. It hadn’t been the best life, he was - had been – a generic warehouse worker for a generic company. But he’d had a few good friends, computer games and luxuries he’d taken for granted - like comfy mattresses, proper heated showers and goddamn lighters.

Another swig of iron water. Man, he missed soda. And cigarettes. Shit, he’d never in a million years guessed he’d quit smoking like this. He hadn’t had any nicotine for three months now, all it took was some good old Isekai bullshit. It sucked. He carefully packed a small wad of the herb into the pipe.

When he’d arrived in town, beat up and afraid, he’d hung out at the tavern for a bit, trying to work out what was going on and what to do next. He’d been very careful about not revealing he was from another world entirely, though he’d had to pull some extreme evasive conversational manoeuvres to pull that off. He figured that if he unleashed the truth of his situation, they’d think he was mad. Hell, he kind of thought he was mad.

He’d made a friend, Eli, maybe a few years younger than Mark’s 30. Chatty guy, didn’t ask too many questions. Good people. The guy was a journeyman herbalist, off out in the nearby woods most of the time. Eventually, Eli had introduced him to this Sagebane plant.

He’d really needed something to take the edge off. Some people are born cheerful, they never even opened Pandora’s box, never felt the need to rifle around in the workings of philosophy. Some are born hardy, they open the box and they weather the contents, getting stronger like a tree on a windswept hill. Some, like him, were born confused and curious, opening the box and suffering the consequences, unsure of how to pack it all back in.

Sure, he had good days and bad days. But since he’d landed? Arrived? Teleported? here, every day was pretty much a bad day. This situation, it was a lot to process.

Man, he missed lighters. He finally got a small flame going in the tinderbox, using it to light a small stick and applying the flaming wood to the top of the pipe.

Inhale. Fuck, that’s good. A small wave of dizziness passed through him, resolving into a protective bubble around his mind. Slow thoughts, less doubts. He sank further into the shabby pillow, watching the wisp of smoke curl up into the broken rafters.

He pulled stick of charcoal from his pocket, adding shapes to the doodles he’d scrawled across the nearby walls. He wasn’t a very good artist but lacking a phone to play with he had to do something to stay busy, to keep the thoughts at bay. He was on his tiptoes drawing an elaborate whorl at the top when he heard a sound from outside, a rustle in the grass.

Shit. What was that? He hid the still smouldering pipe behind a loose plank and faced the door. It was probably the cat. There was a massive black cat that haunted these parts, and by massive, it must have weighed at least 15 kilos. More like a panther than a cat.

A knock on the door. Shit. Not the cat then.

Fuck, the barn stank of Sagebane. He dawdled for a second in the middle of the barn, undecided on a course of action.

An anxious moment later, the door opened to reveal an armoured man. A spear was held in his off hand, his other hand propping open the door. A guard. Fuck.

Now Sagebane wasn’t exactly illegal, just, well, frowned upon. There was a reason he went all the way to this disused barn out of town, after all. And the stuff stank to high heavens, a sweet and pungent odour that carried on the breeze.

“Er... Ummm... Hi.” Mark greeted the intruder lamely.

The guard raised an eyebrow, addressing Mark with a stern tone. “What are you doing out here, citizen?”

Mark gestured widely to the doodle that took up a large chunk of the wall near the seat he’d created. “Just... Uhh... Practicing my drawing a little. Yeah.” Shit, did he say that yeah out loud?

The guard was a youngish man, in his early to mid-twenties. He had hawk like eyes and a big squashy looking nose, under which a sliver of a moustache rested. The moustache twitched as the man suppressed some kind of emotion. He sniffed the air.

Mark nervously bounced from foot to foot for a second before forcing himself to be still. Man, he was about to get reamed out, wasn’t he. He’d just have to take it with grace. He scrambled around in his mind to try and conjure his best repentant - I’m sorry officer - kind of expression.

As his expression writhed dementedly, the guard fixed him with a stare that made him feel like a deer in the headlights. He froze, relaxing his facial muscles and probably looking like the deer.

A long moment passed, before the man spoke.

“Mind if I get a puff on that?”

It took Mark a confused moment to realise the course of this encounter was rapidly unaligning with his expectations.

“Uhh... Umm... Sure?” He replied, hesitantly. He took a few steps back and dug the pipe back out from where he’d hidden it. It was still smouldering, and without a word he proffered it to the guard.

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The man leant his spear against the wall, taking the pipe. Mark watched as he sniffed the air above the pipe before giving a small nod of approval, his wisp of a moustache raising with his smile.

“Smells like the good stuff.”

The man gave it an experimental puff. Seemingly satisfied, he took a long draw before handing it back to Mark.

Through a small cloud of the pungent smoke, the guard addressed Mark. “I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? You’re the lad who took over from Tommens working with old Miggins, right?”

Mark nodded. The guard moved to half sit, half lean on a beam of the stall, removing his metal helmet and placing it on the end of the beam. The silence after stretched on for a long moment before the man handed the pipe back and continued.

“Shame what happened to Tommens. He was a good lad, by all accounts. Didn’t know him well myself, but he was a friend of a friend.”

Mark examined the guard, curiosity finally outweighing his anxiety. His armour was mainly leather, with metal plates sewn in to protect critical spots. The edges of the metal were rusting, and the man’s boots looked like they were about to fall apart.

“So, uh, what did happen to Tommens?” Mark asked.

The guard shrugged, a couple of metal plates clanking with the movement. “No one really knows. He went into the woods to get some firewood and never came back. We did a sweep through the woods but didn’t find even a trace. Probably wasn’t Gnomes or wolves, they’re messy bastards. So cultists most likely. Not the first, won’t be the last.”

The Sagebane was well into his system now, and he felt a little groggy. This talk of interesting ways to die was weighing on his addled brain. He stared at the guard's helmet. A sudden thought struck him, and it spilled from him before he could think it over.

“Aren’t you supposed to be, uh, guarding something?”

A guilty look flashed across the man’s face, and Mark regretted the words. He threw the man a line. “I guess you came out to investigate the smell? When I first saw you here, I thought you were going to apprehend me or something.”

The guard perked up a bit, his eyes now red rimmed and bloodshot from the Sagebane.

“Heh. No one would nick you for a little smoke. Not unless you were puffing away on the main street or something like that. There’s the watchtower just to the east of here, that’s my post for the night. Don’t worry, my partner is still there keeping watch. It’s not often that this barn here is downwind of us, but tonight is your unlucky night.”

Anxiety rose in Mark again as the silent moment lengthened. It obviously reflected on his face, as the guard grinned wickedly and continued. “Because now you’ve got to share.”

Mark relaxed. “Fuck, man. You had me going there.”

The guard puffed out a heady lungful of smoke and laughed wholeheartedly at Marks reaction. The sound was pleasant, and soon Mark was laughing with him, heedless of that fact that it really wasn’t that funny.

The pair laughed until the laugh fell to a giggle, then they laughed some more. When the fit of hilarity was over and they’d sat for a minute nursing aching ribs, the guard broke the silence.

“You must be from far to the west then, they take Sagebane and the like far more seriously there.”

Mark scrambled around in his vacant mind for a way to move the conversation away from his origins. He handed the almost empty pipe over to the man.

“Something like that. Hey man, you never told me your name. I’m Mark.”

The guard let out a billow of smoke before replying. “Well met Mark, I’m Cheech.”

Mark tried, but failed, to suppress another giggle. Cheech looked a little upset at this, so Mark tried to explain himself.

“Sorry man, no offense meant, it’s a fine name. Is your partner in the watchtower named Chong, by any chance?”

The irritation on the guard's face morphed into confusion. “No, he’s called Grumm. Why?”

With a slight shrug, Mark replied. “It's a sort of local legend where I’m from, a couple of, um, heroes, I guess. Couple of dudes who go on adventures.”

“Ah, I see, I think.” Said Cheech, mollified. “What’s a dude?”

Mark laughed as he replied, “It’s a cool guy, you know? Someone who’s chill?”

Confusion once more settled on the face of Cheech. “Are they ice elementalists, or people of the tundra perhaps?”

Mark grinned. “Sorry man, guess that was lost in translation. We have a lot of slang back home. It’s someone who doesn’t panic when bad stuff happens, a good guy to have around when the shit hits the fan – uh, when things get bad. That’s cool anyway. A dude is just another word for a cool guy, really.”

Marl could see Cheech trying to process this with a brain full of Sageweed, and quickly changed the topic once more.

“Anyway. You’re a guard then, right? How’s that for a job?”

Cheech nodded as he thought up a reply. “It’s alright. Pays alright. Not too dangerous here, really. The adventurers up at the Point keep the area reasonably clear. So, most of my job is training and waiting, really.” He chuckled to himself. “Sometimes we do both at once.”

Mark nodded sagely. “As long as it keeps you out of trouble, eh. If you don’t mind me asking, have you got any skills?”

The guard appraised Morgan for a moment with his increasingly bloodshot eyes. “Kind of a personal question. But hell, I don’t care. Got a couple of wood carving skills and few that I've gained from the guard job. Here, check this out.”

With this, Cheech rose from his seat and hunted around the crumbling barn for a moment. He picked something up from the floor and turned back to Mark. It was a small hunk of wood, half a hand by a hand tall, broken from a larger beam, most likely. He held it up and said, “Sand faces. Bevel.”

The block changed, morphed in front of his eyes; jagged torn edges softening further and further until the whole block was smooth. Cheech handed the block to Mark.

“Whoah!” exclaimed Mark. He took the block, marvelling at its smooth sides and perfectly bevelled edges. “Dude, that’s neat”

Cheech grinned proudly, as he rummaged around in a pocket. He pulled out a small, half complete figurine of a cat. It sat on his palm proudly, its upper body well carved, its base still a rough cut-out. He offered it to Mark, who took it to inspect.

The head was the most finished part, feline features well captured in the wood. A scar ran down from its left ear to its eye.

“Wow, Cheech man, you got a real gift for this. Nice whiskers. How did you get it to look, well, hairy?”

“Thanks. Keeps me entertained at work. As for the hair, that’s a trade secret.” Cheech grinned proudly.

Mark weighed the piece in his hand before handing it back. “Is this the cat that roams around here?”

The guard nodded. “Near enough. It keeps coming to scratch its claws on the base of the watchtower. Big old cat. Fucker always puts me on alert when he’s rustling in the bushes nearby. Speaking of which, I’d better get back before Grumm wakes up.”

Mark held out his fist for a fist bump before his mind caught up with his actions. It turned out the gesture was universal – multiversal? - as Cheech responded in kind, saying, “Thanks for the smoke. Be frigid, my friend.”

Mark laughed, “Frigid?”

The guard zoned out for a split second before responding, “Oh wait, uh, be cool, or chill, whatever works.”

With a face splitting smile, Mark replied, “It was great to meet you, Cheech, Stay frigid, brother.”

The guard smiled warmly and gave a casual salute. After picking up his helmet, he wandered out into the night.

Mark watched him go. That was cool, it was good to have a bit of company. Maybe the guy would be back another night. After a moment sat reflecting on the encounter, he refilled the pipe and grabbed his charcoal. He’d go back and get some sleep after this.

Long day tomorrow after all.

They always were.