Mark stepped back in surprise. The boy was human, brown-haired and light-skinned, wearing the same kind of homespun clothing as Mark. His face was streaming with tears, but whatever had caused them was probably forgotten because as soon as he set eyes on Mark, he looked scared enough to piss himself.

“AAAEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!” the boy screamed, his pitch custom-made to destroy eardrums. The kid turned and sprinted away from Mark, undergrowth crunching in his wake.

“Wait!” Mark called out as he raced to follow. Voices shouted in the distance in response to the child’s scream, both panicked and angry in equal measure.

“Boy! Where are you!” a man shouted in the distance. “Follow my voice, lad! Come here!”

“There’s a monster, da!” the boy shouted from up ahead. The voices of the boy and his father gave Mark a clear indication of their location, but it dawned on Mark that chasing the man’s son out of the bushes was probably not the ideal first impression if Mark wanted these people’s help.

Forcing himself to a stop, Mark took a deep breath. He needed to play this right.

Intelligence +1

See? Resisting the urge to hurl yourself into danger IS the right move sometimes.

A woman’s voice could be heard on the other side of the trees. “Gavin!” she cried.

“I’m sorry, mum. I won’t run away again!”

“You’d better not!” the man roared, although there was more than a little fear in his voice. “You could have been killed! Now, what did you see?”

“It was a wraith!” the boy cried. “Nate said they come outta the fog to eat travellers when they pee!”

“Nate’s never left Palmyre, lad. That’s foolish.”

“But his da—”

“His da’s never left Palmyre neither. Now, what was it, really?”

“Just a man!” Mark shouted before the boy’s imagination could run away with him. “A very lost and hungry man who has had one too many things try to eat him and would give his left nut to see another human again!”

Mark swore he heard a snicker before the man responded.

“Well, come out then; no need to be crass about it,” he shouted.

Mark took a step, then paused. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the bloody scrap of cloth that he’d used to bandage his leg and wrapped it around his hand, making sure he could hold his staff without any of his skin touching the wood.

With the magic of his staff hidden, Mark felt comfortable pushing through the bushes, emerging to find a shockingly well-built road. It was constructed of well-fit cobblestones despite being far from any apparent towns and was wide enough for two carriages with room to spare. The opposite side of the road consisted of a row of trees, perhaps a dozen deep, beyond which could be heard the crashing of surf. From the sound of it, the shore was well below the trees, leading Mark to conclude that they were on a bluff of some sort. To one side of the road a wagon had been pulled over, and it was attached to two of the biggest horses Mark had ever seen. Like, BIG big. They made Clydesdales look like ponies, with withers taller than Mark. And given the wagon they were attached to, it was a good thing they were so large. Not only were they hauling barrels of various sizes but also stacks of metal ingots of various types. The cargo was covered over with a tarp that domed over the entire load, anchored at the back by a curious contraption that caused the tarp to project into an awning that provided a place to sit at the rear of the wagon without getting wet from the rain.

As for the family, the father was a perfect match for the horses. Somewhere in his mid-30’s, he was of average height but wide, and he looked strong as hell—like, “World’s Strongest Man” strong. He carried a two-handed hammer that could probably have vaporized Mark in a single blow, and he was utterly unbothered by the rain despite it falling in sheets that poured off his oilskin poncho. The woman’s size, in contrast… zoinks. If these two were a couple, Mark didn’t even want to think about the mathematics of procreation in their relationship. She stood under the awning behind the wagon, utterly dwarfed by the size of the thing, and had her arm around her son, who was already taller than her despite still being a child. Mark’s best guess placed her at no more than 4-feet tall. Between that, her narrow features, and a set of slightly pointed ears, Mark was left wondering if she was human at all. He hoped so, because she was staring at him with such intense anger that Mark was growing worried that she was about to reduce him to ashes with a thought.

“Gods, lad,” the man said, pulling Mark’s attention to him. “You’re a sight, ain’t you? What are you doing in those woods? Damned close to the fog to be wanderin’ about.”

“It, ah, wasn’t by choice,” Mark said. Realizing that ‘I came from another planet’ probably wasn’t an ideal explanation, he decided to wing it.

“I was on a class quest,” Mark said, hoping the last message he’d received was part of a universal pattern in this world. “I had to go into the forest for something and, well, let’s just say it didn’t end up how I’d hoped.”

That seemed the right thing to say because the woman’s face bloomed with sympathy.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she said. “What kind of sadistic class sends a singl’d into the forests of the fog coast on their own? If the mists had rolled in, you might’a wandered into the mad fog itself!”

“Now there, Rosie,” the man said. “You know not to be askin’ a man about his class path. Whatever it was, I’m sure he realizes it ain’t worth it and will avoid such foolishness in the future.” He glared at Mark with an expression that left no questions about his own thoughts on the matter.

“Will I have to go into the forest when I’m Level 6, da?” the boy said, his voice fearful.

“Of course not!” The man said. “A blacksmith does his quests in the forge, not the forest.” He grimaced. “I wouldn’t want any class that forced me into forests like these. They’re a nasty place, infected with wraiths and carrids. Whole packs of them.”

“I thought you said wraiths weren’t real!” the boy exclaimed.

“’Cause I didn’t want you sleepin’ in our bed for the next month!” the man said.

“But—”

“Don’t worry your head, Gavin. You’ll be fine,” the man said. He looked at Mark. “You’ll be wanting a ride then, I’m guessing? If so, I’d like to know your name.”

“Mark,” Mark said immediately, his voice full of gratitude. “Mark Sullivan.”

“Sullivan, eh?” the man said. A hint of suspicion entered his tone. “Not a name I’ve come across, and I’ve come across most of ’em in Palmyre.”

Mark grimaced, his mind racing. “Yeah, that’s not surprising. My family is new to Palmyre. Truth be told, none of us have even been there before. I came this way without them because of the quest, which I think we can all agree was an exercise in stupidity.”

The man grunted in agreement. “You’re refugees then?” the man said.

“No, nothing like that,” Mark said, although it was something to make a note of. Refugees meant bad things happening elsewhere in the world—he’d need to make it a priority to get abreast of local events. “We just found ourselves in a situation where moving on would be better for everyone.”

“Can’t say that surprises me,” Rosie said. “Lots of folks come to Palmyre if they find themselves out of work elsewhere. Probably even seems like a good idea at the time.” She was about to say something else, but her husband waved her off.

“Now there, dear, he’ll find out soon enough. As for you, lad, you look like you could—”

“Enough with the questions, Darius,” Rosie said, patting Mark on the back. “Let’s get you in the wagon and give you a bite to eat.”

“That’s what I was about to say!” Darius shouted.

“Well, you didn’t say it fast enough!” she shouted back, whacking Darius in the leg even though she had a twinkle in her eye. “Lad, you climb into the back of the wagon. I’ll see what we can share.”

Mark smiled in thanks and headed to the back of the wagon, only to stop in his tracks when he discovered that the massive size of the wagon meant that the tail was at eyebrow level. How in the hell was he supposed to climb up? There weren’t even any ladders Mark could see, so he either had to make it up on his own or ask for a boost, but Rosie has specifically said to climb up, and the last thing he wanted was to seem like an incompetent burden on these people.

With a grim frown of determination, Mark tossed his staff onto the ledge and jumped up, flinging his arms over the ledge, barely managing to stop himself from sliding right back onto the ground.

Now dangling with his chin on the back of the wagon and his arms outstretched on the rough wood, Mark’s legs flailed wildly as he tried to swing a foot up onto the ledge. It wasn’t easy, but Mark eventually managed to get his right foot on the wagon tail. He pushed with the foot and was able to get almost all the way up, but his body wanted to swing under the wagon tail when he got to the lip, so he adapted by mashing his face into the wood and basically log-rolling the rest of the way onto the hard platform, flopping onto his back and panting wildly.

“You don’t look well,” Rosie said, sitting calmly beside Mark’s head. He sat up in surprise at her presence, just in time to see Gavin swing down a small ladder that was mounted to the side of the wagon before scampering up beside her.

Son of a…

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Rosie asked, sparking Mark out of his reverie.

Mark grimaced. “Um, four, maybe five days?” he said. “Could be more. I was, uh, unconscious for a bit of it.”

The woman sucked air through her teeth. “Five days!” She dug around in one of the crates and pulled out a small hunk of cheese and some bread. “Eat this. Not too fast, mind you. Otherwise, you’ll just throw it up. We’ve got some ale here as well to wash it down.”

Mark smiled thankfully and took the food. Unable to help himself, he immediately ripped a huge chunk of bread off with his teeth, only to receive a hard slap to the back of the head for his efforts.

“What did I just say!” Rosie snapped. “It’s our food. You want to eat it? You eat it like I tell you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mark said sheepishly.

She smiled and nodded. “That’s more like it.” She nodded to her husband, and he disappeared around the side of the wagon. There was a brief tilt to the vehicle as the large man climbed into the driver’s seat, then the wagon started moving. It couldn’t have been very comfortable for him up there in the rain, but he hadn’t seem bothered by it earlier. It probably helped that the wagon wasn’t being slowed down by the rain, thanks to the Roman-quality road they were on. It would have been murder trying to get a wagon like this down a dirt road in these kinds of conditions. The place would be a mudball.

The child tapped Mark on the shoulder.

“I’m Gavin,” the boy said. “I’m six years old. I’ll be seven next month.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “You’re only six? I would have guessed ten, at least.”

Apparently, that was the perfect answer because the boy beamed in response.

“I know! Everybody says I’m big for my age. I like it. You have to be big to get the Blacksmith class so you can use a hammer all day. And if I’m big, then I can have a big successful business with my da and we can work together until we both die and turn into worms.”

Mark blinked a few times and glanced at the boy’s mother. She simply shrugged as if to say, “eh, kids.”

Mark smiled at the boy and then refocused on his food, making sure to eat it in slow, measured bites like the woman had instructed. She’d only given him a small amount, so it didn’t take long for him to finish, but he felt full nonetheless. When he completed his meal, she handed him a waterskin, which he took gratefully. It held some kind of light beer that had an unusual consistency. Like a wheat beer but without the citrus taste. It was okay, but would take some getting used to. And Mark figured he’d have to do just that. Given the somewhat medieval nature of this world, a beer like this was probably what they drank instead of water.

Oh well. No matter how it tasted, a beer for breakfast was better than dysentery for dinner.

Mark smiled at Rosie and Gavin when he finished his meal.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “For the food and the ride. I honestly don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t run across you.”

Rosie smiled at him kindly. “That’s okay. It’s not an easy world out there. Us peasant folk? We stick together.”

She slapped him on the knee and continued. “See, in Palmyre, there’s only three kinds of people: The peasants, the criminals, and the Families—who are just another kind of criminal when you get down to it.”

“Mama, you shouldn’t say that,” the boy said. “What if he’s with one of the Families?”

Mark looked at Gavin and saw real fear in his eyes. Whoever these Families were, Mark didn’t want anything to do with them.

“Don’t worry, my love,” the mother said. “You know I could tell if he was.”

Mark looked at her and saw a sparkle of… something in her eyes. It was simultaneously off-putting and reassuring, which left him with an odd sensation. He didn’t know what it meant, but it did answer one question: Whatever this woman was, she was not entirely human.