Caleb didn’t hesitate. He took three loping strides and boosted himself over the stone wall. He heard the snarl of the dog as he crashed through the underbrush beyond. The shout of the dog’s owner, probably cursing the theft of the pair of trousers and shirt.

He pushed on through into a more thickly wooded area. A quick stop to lean against a tree trunk for a moment, listening for signs of pursuit. When he heard none, he slumped against the trunk. His stomach let out a growl of its own while his throat felt scratchy, parched.

Four lines of text flickered into being before him. They lasted only a couple seconds before fading away.

Novice-Level Quest: Find clothing before Abilities are further reduced by exposure: COMPLETE Beginner's-Level Quest: Attempt to blend in with the local Jaladrian society: ONGOING. Quest difficulty decreased to normal level Novice-Level Quest: Find food and drink before Abilities are further reduced by hunger: ONGOING Existing Debuffs: Abilities Now reduced 12% by hunger

“Well, that’s useful,” he grumped. “These screens won’t help me find something to eat, but they’re awfully helpful in showing exactly how fast I’m starving to death.”

With his options growing ever narrower, he continued along his path until he crested the next ridge. For once, luck was with him. The vantage point allowed him to get a good look at the town spread out before him.

To the left, in the very last rays of after-twilight, he made out a snug harbor with several small fishing boats tied up at long, wooden piers. Further along around the curve of the island, he made out the silhouettes of larger, sleeker ships.

Ahead of him lay the town proper. A warren of streets ran alongside irregularly-shaped houses made from brick or wood and topped with speckled red tile. The dwellings themselves ranged from two-story residences with inner courtyards to ramshackle huts.

Side streets or alleyways were unpaved, while larger streets had been laid out in cobblestone. The largest boulevard spanned the length of the town and curved up the ridge opposite him, to the north. At the summit sat a squat, crude building with sheer-sided walls. It had been partially carved into the hillside and topped with a two-story-high wall. Palisades bristled with spikes and torches. At the building’s base lay a massive door made of wood bound with iron.

Caleb worked his way downslope until he was a few yards away from the outermost set of dwellings. He watched a few moments longer. He heard human voices raised in revelry, the clop of horse’s hooves, and the rattle of wagon wheels on the uneven cobbled pavement.

Yet everything seemed strangely muted.

Few people were about, save for patrols of four or five men dressed in baggy black uniforms. Lamplighters went about with flaming wicks on long poles, lighting sets of large street lanterns on the street corners. The illumination finally gave him a good look at one of the patrols as it passed by.

Each of the four men wore a wide, curved scabbard at one hip. A cup-shaped handguard with a knuckle bow protruded from the top. On the other hip sat a pair of heavy wooden-handled pistols, one atop the other. The twin spurs of metal hammers glinted in the light as they went by.

Caleb forced himself to put his growing hunger and thirst aside. He sat and thought for a moment.

Unless he’d been transported to Jaladri’s version of a cosplay convention, he wasn’t in some futuristic world - even if he’d been reborn with the equivalent of a virtual reality screen in his head. He didn’t see any signs of automobiles or electricity.

Yet it wasn’t a medieval society either. The rigging on the ships in the harbor looked more modern than that. The scabbards and handguards said sabers or cutlasses to him. And the metal hammers on the firearms told him that they were flintlock pistols.

Wherever he’d ended up, this part of Jaladri had a strong central authority running things. The cobblestoned roads, public lighting, and patrols were evidence of that. Finally, the man he’d stolen his clothes from had spoken perfectly understandable English.

Or the damned pair of water gods had messed with his mind so that he now spoke Jaladrian.

Either way, he had quests to complete. He squared his shoulders, made sure that there were no patrols or stray onlookers about, and stepped onto the closest street. The cobblestones still held a trace of warmth from the day’s sun.

Caleb hadn’t liked the look of the fortress on the north side of town, so he headed down towards the docks. The closest sounds of merriment had come that way, and he preferred to lose himself in a group. Any group.

He’d just spotted the glimmer of water when a steady tromp-tromp-tromp and the sounds of cheering came from a tavern up ahead. It looked as if someone had torn the wooden door off the entrance to the building, set it on its side, and turned it into the establishment’s sign.

Whoever named the place had a pitch-black sense of humor. The hand-painted letters proclaimed that the tavern was called The Quiet Sailor. Underneath the name, the artist had drawn a recently beheaded body at the chopping block. Blood trickled wetly off the axe that was stuck in the block, as well as from the full basket next to it.

“Well,” Caleb admitted, “that’s about as quiet as a sailor can get.”

He walked through the establishment’s entryway, greeted by the smells of sawdust, sweat, and the overriding scent of burnt tobacco. The roof arched up on high beams, and he noticed that a couple of openings had been sawn in the roof to make crude skylights.

A few patrons lurked in the corners, trying hard not to be noticed. The cheering had been replaced by raucous laughter, and it came from a half-dozen men surrounding a table roughly in the middle of the room. They wore the same black livery he’d seen on the armed guardsmen.

That’s just great, he thought. The local bully-boys made this their watering hole for the evening.

Half-empty and drained mugs lay on the floor or next to their seats. Most of the men had clay pipes stuck in their mouths, bowls carved into grinning skulls and spouting fragrant smoke.

A boy dressed in a peasant smock lay on the table between the men, sprawled out on his back. He let out a pained groan as the leader of the guards – a tall man with silvery trim on his black uniform – slapped him across the face with a skin-tingling crack!

“Up! Up!” he urged. “Come on, you’re not done dancing for us!”

“You heard the Komtur,” another of the men shouted. “On your feet! Prove your loyalty, you damned clod-hopper!”

Caleb’s mouth tightened into a thin line as he watched the boy stagger to his feet. He didn’t like what the ‘Komtur’ or his men were up to, but he forced himself to turn away. The warning he’d been given earlier still rang in his mind.

Confrontation and violence usually result in death.

He made his way towards the far end of the room. The bar top there had been fashioned by simply laying a thick oak plank atop a pair of stout wooden barrels. A grumpy-looking older man with a greasy beard and a stained white apron gave him a suspicious look-over.

“Well, sailor?” the man finally asked. “What’s your gut tellin’ you it needs?”

Caleb squinted at a chunk of slate someone had propped up against the rear wall. It listed a number of drinks, but he didn’t exactly know what he’d be getting. The names shown included Bard’s Trousers, Beaver Humper, Ye Olde Dirty Sack, Bucket of Blood, Bucket of Bone, Bucket of Guts, and Lickinghole.

He scanned the area for bar snacks. Anything, even a bowl of mealy peanuts or stale popcorn would have been welcome. But he came up empty. Apparently, this part of Jaladri didn’t go in for such luxuries.

“I’m, ah, still making up my mind,” Caleb stalled. “I want…”

Then he thought about how close this tavern was to the harbor. Surely drunken sailors wandered in here on occasion.

He decided to take a chance on that.

“My brain’s still a bit muddy from last night aboard ship. My ship, that is,” he began. “I want…I want to know where I am, exactly. And what port is this?”

He got an amused grunt from the bartender at that. “Too much jingle in your pipeweed, eh? You’re not going to like what I tell you next.”

“I’ve had enough bad things happen to me today,” Caleb said truthfully. “Tell me.”

“You’re on Irongrasp. Deephold Port, to be precise.”

“That’s…that bad, isn’t it?”

“It can be, yezzir.” The bartender nodded over Caleb’s shoulder. He turned to look.

The tromp-tromp-tromp sound had returned, along with the raucous cheers of the guardsmen. The boy in the peasant smock did his best to dance a jig atop the table while the men stomped the floor, keeping time. Tears of fear and pain welled up in his eyes.

One of the men stood and dashed his drink in the boy’s face.

“You’re not doing the chant!” he shouted. “Chant, damn your eyes!”

The boy started began to recite a single line of verse at the top of his lungs.

Myr is my god! He brings me to my doom! Myr is my god! My soul is his to consume!

Each time he repeated it, more cries came for him to dance faster. Exhausted, the boy finally stumbled. He crashed to the floor and let out a moan as the men guffawed at his plight.

“You better show more enthusiasm, urchin!” another man guffawed. “Otherwise, you’ll end up with your soul drained in a single night!”

Caleb’s fists tensed. His memories were a blur. But he knew that he’d never liked watching people being demeaned like this.

“You better hurry up and order something,” the bartender said intently as the laughter reached the rafters. “You don’t want the Guard takin’ note of you. Not when they’re in such spirits.”

“I don’t have any money,” Caleb replied, in the same tone. “But I’m starving, and thirsty. Please, I’m asking for your help.”

The man’s face went pale.

“There’s laws against beggin’ and helpin’ beggars on Irongrasp!” He jabbed his finger at the door. “Get out, you filthy scrugg-all! Get out, before I call the Guardsmen on ya!”