Chapter Two – Old Friends in Old Places
Tara couldn’t describe the feeling that seized her after clicking that button. It was something between a rollercoaster and a whirlwind, an absolute loss of control that took her breath away. She felt that she should be holding on to something and letting go at the same time.
Before she lost consciousness, she had the vague idea that as uncomfortable as it was, death wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. The blackness that closed around her was drowningly absolute.
The first thing Tara noticed as she slowly regained consciousness, was that her head was pounding. Worse than the headache was the churn in her stomach. She felt certain she was going to throw up, and actually fought against her increasing awareness, preferring the nothingness. But the cold setting into her bones wouldn’t let her rest. There was biting cold and wet, soaking into her clothes and forcing a chattering groan between her teeth.
“Coming around, are you?”
The voice that spoke didn’t sound like Juliana’s, but there was something familiar about it. Tara struggled against her swimming senses.
Was she at the hospital? Where was she?
“Leave her alone, Wenrik,” said another voice, this time a harsh whisper. “There isn’t time!”
“Yes,” hissed a third. “They’ll be coming for us at any moment. I heard the bells from Regan Harbor. We don’t have much time.”
Tara’s eyes flew open. Her breath was gasping, frosting on the air. She was so shocked that at first she didn’t believe what she was seeing.
The shadows were deep and dark in swinging lantern light. Freezing salt water, several inches deep, slopped around the enclosed space with the motion of their ship. Being on a ship certainly explained the rocking motion that was making Tara sick to her stomach. What was less self-explanatory was the stench of human waste.
Tara doubled over, vomiting.
“Oh by the blue wings of the ancient bats!” exclaimed the second speaker. “This was already unbearable, and now it’s worse! This is the last time, Wenrik, I tell you. Never again—”
“Hush,” snapped the first. “Do you want the slavers to hear? Both of you, to your places. Let me see for myself if this one is fit for anything.”
In the dim light, Tara tried to focus on the people around her. There were far more than the three speakers, at least thirty bodies confined in a close, stinking space that must have been the ship’s hold. Tara doubted if they were all alive. She wasn’t sure if it was shock or cold that made it impossible for her to stop shaking.
The person who moved close to her was dressed in rags. He might have been tall if his legs weren’t hobbled. His limbs were long and lean, and his dirtiness didn’t disguise the line of muscle in labor-worn arms. His hair was loose, a wolfish gray striking compared to the man’s young, narrow features. His eyes were reddish in the moving firelight.
“I didn’t notice you before,” said the man. “Most of the prisoners on this cursed slave ship died after a few nights on the Winter Pass. Do you have a name, stranger?”
The second who had spoken scoffed, unable to suppress his disdain. His clothes were as poor as the rest, but he had thrown several additional rags around his shoulders, possibly taken from the nearest corpses. “What do names matter at a time like this?”
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“Pay no mind to Horon,” urged Wenrik, his smile showing hard teeth. “He’s a sour goat at the best of times, but tough. There must be some strength in you too, friend. Come, there’s no need to be afraid of us.”
Tara would have liked to believe him. As vaguely familiar as all of this was, she still couldn’t get past how incredible it was. Hadn’t she just been in her room, sitting comfortably in front of her computer? Hadn’t she been about to play Swords of Allerion?
It hit her suddenly, like a sack of rocks swung hard against her stomach.
“Wenrik,” she whispered. “Horon.” Her eyes narrowed towards the third speaker, by far the smallest and most curious figure, dressed in a thick coat and wearing goggles under her rush-woven cap. There was no doubt in her mind that this person was no human, but a gnome. That explained why of all the prisoners here, she was allowed comfort in keeping her belongings. Gnomes were intelligent, ingenious creatures valued by all peoples for their skill in crafting. No doubt the slavers expected a high price for this particular merchandise. “You’re Enita Rootwise.”
“You know me?” said the gnome, her head jerking from side to side to look more closely at Tara through her goggle lenses. “I didn’t think I knew any of the Borzerk, at least not well. My people do not have much to do with the surface dwellers of the Grayscape, and your own spend little time in the underbellies of the city-lands. Who are you?”
Tara didn’t trust herself to speak. The emotion inside her was difficult, at once overjoyed, uncomfortable, and confused.
“I’m Tara MacQueen,” she said at last, and really felt as if the name were her own. It wasn’t playacting or deliberate, or even funny. It was genuine, almost as if it wasn’t herself speaking. And in that moment, she had a vague understanding that she was Tara MacQueen, and this was the beginning, when all her stats were set at their base values for her particular class.
While her memories of the “real world” were painfully vague, she could recall her character details as clearly as if the creation screen were in front of her.
Character Class
Class Details
Base Stats
Borzerk
A human race primarily settled in the flatlands of Grayscape and the crags of the Windrake cliffs. They are a savage people who love war, and have been known to form raiding parties against the Skor, although they prefer to attack their nearest neighbors, the trolls.
Stamina: 150
Strength: 150
Intelligence: 80
Dexterity: 120
Magic: 30
Special Skill: Bloodrage - when a Borzerk succumbs to bloodrage, they are able to fight with +50 strength and sustain terrible injuries for a short period of time. Cost: -100 stamina.
The Skor—the dragon guardians and riders. Was it possible, in this incredibly vivid dream, that Tara would actually see a dragon?
“Then you are Wenrik, Horon, and Enita?” she asked, a little shaky. “I’m not dreaming?”
“She’s daft,” exclaimed Horon. “Please, Wenrik.”
“Daft, but fascinating,” said Wenrik, amused. “There is something curious about you, Tara MacQueen. You know who we are, but you are a mystery to us. Perhaps you even know what we’re doing here in this miserable ocean.”
Tara tried to think. It was hard to focus on the past when it felt in a strange way as if her life had just begun. What did she remember? She saw her bedroom again, and Swords of Allerion floated to the surface of her thoughts. Of course she knew these two men and their gnome companion—they were the first characters every player met in Allerion, who guided you through the tutorial quest.
“You’re going to take the slaver’s ship,” she whispered, focusing. “That’s why you’re here. That’s what you always do, letting slavers capture you so you can trace them to their ship and free their captives, and receive the reward from the Grand Burgher in Empyria. And I’m supposed to help you.”
“Supposed?” said Horon, alarmed. “Is this some kind of trick? What do you mean, ‘supposed’? No one’s forcing you.”
The gnome hushed him with an imperious gesture of her miniature hand. She moved closer, and Tara noticed that her ankles were weighted with iron manacles.
“This one isn’t usual, Wenrik,” she warned. “She has the appearance of a human, but I believe she has the gift of foresight. That is a rare gift, even among the elves.”
“Then does she know if we’re going to survive this?” asked Horon grumpily.
Tara could see how unusual this looked from her companions’ perspectives. The other, huddled captives, those well enough to understand, were looking at her with mingled fear and awe.
Even though her face and fingers were numb with cold, and her stomach was still rolling, Tara knew what she had to do.
“Yes,” she said. “You are definitely going to survive.”