Father Clarence’s glare didn’t leave my back as I hastily retreated from the Church.

Honestly, how was I meant to know? I was speculating, nothing more. Kill a horse… No, don’t think about that too much, and just move on.

I pushed open the door of the church, and exited into the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon. On the porch, the well-dressed man from earlier waited on a bench, standing as I exited.

‘Bonjour! You are new to this town, yes? As I was many moons ago now.’ The man had an accent strong enough to cause an unusual pronunciation on some of his words.

‘Hello to you as well.’

‘As we crossed paths this afternoon, I said to myself, never have I seen this man in Oro City before. I thought, can I help a man such as this, yes? While it has been some time since I arrived from France, there is a shortage of trust.’ The man seemed an excitable fellow, with a warmth in his smile which reached his eyes.

‘People don’t trust you because you’re French?’ That seemed harsh, but then again, the reaction I’d been getting as an outcast led to the conclusion that this town had a ‘foreigners’ issue.

‘Non, c’est faux!’ he replied, agitated. No, you’re wrong.

‘Seems like a swift denial if I’m wrong,’ I told him.

He gave me a double take. ‘You speak the mother tongue?’ My blank expression drove him onwards. ‘Parlez-vous Français?’

‘No, I don’t speak French,’ I told him, replying to his French. Or… ‘Maybe I know a few bits and pieces, apparently.’ Goddammit. And yes, I’m aware that I’m literally sitting in front of a church as I blaspheme. But was this reality now? A string of bits and pieces of knowledge dropped to food craved by the starving. What else lurked in the recesses of mind waiting to spring forth?

The Frenchman gave me a look questioning my sanity before he took stock and replied. ‘Whatever your knowledge of the mother tongue, that is not what I meant. You have the look of a good person, a man of strong moral calibre, or is that moral fibre? Yet you are, pardon if I am wrong, an outcast?’ He rolled the last word off his tongue.

Shrugging, I replied: ‘What do you need help with?’

The man smiled. ‘I am Pierre Lacroix. I believe I can help you, and you can help me.’

‘Jacob Bosma.’

‘A Dutchman? This is a surprise.’

‘An Australian.’ There was conviction in my voice. It felt true.

‘An… a who?’ Pierre blinked in confusion. ‘Not that I am much travelled, you see. The name seems familiar, but there are many lands across far shores I’ll never set foot upon within my lifetime.’

Having no idea where Australia was, or what ‘being Australian’ entailed, I let the idea lapse.

‘You mentioned help you needed?’

‘Of course, of course, Jacob. Shall we get some food, and I shall share my story? You may decide after that, whether we can be of help to each other.’

‘I still need to find accommodation for the night.’

Pierre waved it away. ‘I can take you to the hotel after we eat. There is still much time before dusk when things become busy.’

I nodded. ‘In that case, I have a dinner waiting at The Dour Mistress.’

‘A fine choice.’

We walked the short distance to the saloon where I led us in. I was already starting to like the simplicity of the town. Need something, walk a hundred metres and you were there.

Kurt gave me his usual askance look as I entered, and I swear I could feel him forcibly restrain an eyeroll as the Frenchman followed me through the doorway. But his look shifted as Pierre placed a coin on the bar and ordered his own food and drink. Kurt gave me a jerk of the head towards a corner table, which I took as his way of indicating ‘food will come.’

Pierre plonked himself down on the seat with an exaggerated groan. He pushed a glass in front of me and took a sip of a dark liquid in his own glass as I watched. ‘Whiskey,’ he frowned. ‘I was hoping for something more extravagant of course, with more – sophistication. The wines of my homeland! The brandy! Instead, I have whiskey.’

I sipped at it, appreciating the warmth as it edged down my throat. ‘Could be worse.’

Pierre nodded. ‘This is true. If it were something from England…’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Old rivalries still run deep in my homeland.’

We sat companionably for a moment, sipping whiskey and waiting for our food to arrive. The saloon was quite busy, considering it wasn’t yet night. Waitresses hustled back and forth, delivering bowls, beers, or shots of spirits. The gentle hum of conversations filled the air.

‘So, Pierre, as a Frenchman you’re regarded as an outcast too, if I’m a judge of anything.’

‘Oui, you are correct.’

‘What brought you here?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

I interrupted him with a laugh. ‘That is how all stories start.’

Pierre smiled good-naturedly. ‘I will do my best to keep it short. I swear to you, this country is always in a rush. Where is the time taken to enjoy the finer things in life? To take pleasure…’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘Short, of course, of course. Then you need not know of my childhood, my youth. It matters not to this story. I will say that I arrived in the Americas when I was only fourteen years old. Travelling from country to country was, normal for me, but it was for the best, I understood this. I came to this land seeking shelter, seeking knowledge, but most of all, experience. Mama often spoke of the need to experience life. “Il faut voyager pour vivre,” she often told me. You must travel to live.’

‘Fourteen seems to be quite young to be travelling alone,’ I told him. What was I doing at fourteen? Where was I?

Pierre waved away the remark. ‘Mama would never send me alone. Two men accompanied me as we left from Bordeaux, but the journey at sea claimed one, or so a coughing sickness the ship’s surgeon said. And Henri? He died in a bar fight within three days of our landing in New Orleans.’

Not sure what to say, I let Pierre take a few moments to get his thoughts together.

He raised his glass in response, touching it to my own before we both finished our drink. I held the empty glass up to Kurt until he acknowledged me. Refills were coming.

‘I was younger then. I do not mean I was less old… my beliefs, my desires, they were the desires of a young man trying to prove his place in the world.’

‘What did you dream of?’

‘Of course, dreams, that is a fantastique way of putting it. My family…’ He sighed at the thought. ‘Mama and Papa were people of ambition. Strong-willed and set upon their course in life – the legacy of their past. Their dreams were not my own, even if they desperately wished it to be so. I had dreams of adventure, of the freedom that came from riding to the sunset, yes? At first, I came to see the new world, to live my life, but the allure of the horizon. Do you know of it?’

‘I cannot say I do. I’ve only known small towns.’ One small town in particular, and for one day.

Pierre nodded. ‘We all have different dreams, do we not? France has experienced turmoil for decades. The end of the monarchy and the horrors it brought. Napoleon, and the wars. When I left, France was in turmoil yet again. To ‘keep it short’, I will not speak of that, other than to say it was a good time to leave, a good time to see the far horizon. When I found myself in Oro City, I had no intention to stay. Just passing through, that is what they say, yes? I thought to myself, Pierre, just one night, and then further west, all the way to the ocean beyond these lands.’

He paused, took a deep breath, and continued. ‘On that day the canyons opened. I still remember it, I think you would say it is firmly etched into my memory, yes?’ He closed his eyes momentarily, appearing to relive the day in his mind. ‘Each person who survived this fateful day, we all have our stories to tell – stories of trauma, of sadness and loss, and death. I remember all those things, but I remember the sky, mostly. Brilliant blue, no clouds, and the sun was so very warm. A falcon, I believe, flew high in the sky as it drifted upon the warm winds.’

Pierre's voice took on a trembling quality. ‘You know the rest, yes? How the ground quaked in convulsions of pain, how the town itself swayed to and fro, and the roar of the earth as it rent. And then that night, they came at nightfall…’

He paused, downed his just renewed whiskey and pushed on with a distance gaze. ‘The death changed me, as it changed everyone. Those screams of the helpless, those condemned to the afterlife even while they still drew breath. I cannot bear that thought, any more today, than I could then. Of course, of course, I know I could have done no differently. They were beyond my ability to save. C'est la vie – that is life.’

‘I’m very sorry, Pierre,’ I told him honestly, all the while trying to restrain the part of me screaming in shock. What the fuck was happening in this place?

‘I could try to escape to France, to return on one of the well-guarded migrations. Who knows how far the canyons run? I have heard no word of my homeland’s fate, but I dream it not only lives still, but thrives. Perhaps no canyons opened in Europe… Perhaps no demons came… Part of me longs to return, and yet, something burns stronger. My élan, my spirit, it was beaten down, but it was not broken. So, I ask myself, was it fate, or serendipity placing me here on that day? Do I have a purpose that drew me here, one which I must yet find?’

Betty delivered two bowls of stew with a reasonable hunk of bread on the side. She glared at me, before throwing in a wink – which confused me – before swaying her hips away. With the benefit of hindsight, I’m willing to admit the wronging done to her before, but what did that reaction mean now?

My attention on the issue of Betty was forced aside, as the divine scent wafting from my stew tantalised my nose. Tearing the bread, I dunked it into the stew and shovelled it into my mouth. It was thin on meat, and somewhat watery, but had a nice salty flavour. The bread felt firm, but would only be a day or two, at best.

‘You eat like a man not familiar with food,’ Pierre commented.

‘It has been hard to come by lately.’

Pierre nodded, and as I devoured my meal, he gestured wildly with his spoon and continued his narrative. ‘The day the system blinked itself in my vision – it was defining, yes? The feeling when your life changed, and it scrolls before your eyes.’

‘I was shocked stiff,’ I mumbled.

Pierre nodded. ‘You started at Level 1, but I had certain advantages. When I opened my information, it was a strange quirk that I was already Level 3.’

‘You started at three?’

Pierre nodded.

‘But I’ve barely moved on Level 1. That’s amazing.’ Amazingly unfair. Was that the benefit of being around when the canyons opened.

‘My mother always said to me, ‘Pierre, you are touched by luck. Amoureux de Dame Chance. The lover of Lady Luck.’’

‘That’s a great name,’ I told him.

Something lurched in my body, and writing filled my vision.

You have given Pierre the title: Amoureux de Dame. +1 to both charisma and strength for as long as this title remains.

‘I accept! I accept!’ Pierre excitedly whispered. ‘Plus two? By the Lord’s couilles! This is an amazing ability.’

You have given Pierre the title: Amoureux de Dame.

* +1 to both charisma and strength for as long as this title remains.

Pierre has accepted the title: Amoureux de Dame.

* You have gained 25 experience for your first successful use of a skill.

* You have gained 10 experience for using a skill relevant to your class.

My mouth hung open at the title I’d given him, and the bucketloads of experience falling into my lap.

Pierre had a stunned expression on his face too. He leant in and continued in his whisper: ‘Amazing. What have you done? That is fantastique!’ Then he fell to the ground and started doing in a form of spasmic fit as his body twitched.

What the hell. A heart problem? Poison? I wanted to get to the ground and help him, but something was going drastically wrong – for both of us.

My tongue plastered itself to the roof of my mouth as bile simultaneously lurched into the back of my throat. My heartbeat staggered its way around my chest like a drunken brawler, as I clutched at the onset of pain in my chest. One more pounding blow reverberated within before my lights went out, and I fell face-first into my stew.