“Dad?”

His father looked up from the cow he was milking. Bessy was her name, and the sound of her content moo along with the sweet smells of ripened hay and the earthy aroma of healthy manure was somehow both disconcerting, and a comforting host of scents he had known all his life.

But when he swallowed the odd lump in his throat, gazing at a man who was as dear to him, somehow, as the father he had last seen a lifetime ago, the boy who spoke was all Jack Cypher.

“Good morning, son, the cows are waiting.” The surprisingly robust middle-aged mad moved with the fluid grace of a warrior in his prime as he finished tending to Bessy before flashing a warm smile for his son.

Jack smiled back. He could only hope he would age as gracefully as his father had. No one would believe he had even hit his forties, were it not for the dash of grey in his hair.

“It’s good to have you by my side as always, Jack, but you’re free to take the day off. You’re mother insisted. Old Barney will be by soon to help with the chores, which is only fair, since we’re letting him take a double portion of the feast goods for his family.”

Jack nodded. The town looked out for its own, and though he had lost his farm and several fingers to fire and tragedy, Barney could still work with the best of them, everyone happy to help out til the man got back on his feet.

Jack quickly shook away the odd bit of memory coming to him like a flash of deja vu, or perhaps the reverse, since he knew he had had no memory of Barney whatsoever until his father had mentioned him now.

He took a deep breath, gazing intently at his father. “Dad? I’m awake.”

His father grinned. “I know you are, son. And as long as you’re awake, you might as well help me with the chores.”

Jack shook his head. “No, father. I mean, I remember.” His father stopped milking, giving Jack the strangest look. Jack hurriedly spoke on. “I mean, I remember who I was… before.”

“Before?”

“Before I woke up.”

His father grinned at that.

“No, I don’t just mean yesterday, I mean… my life before this one.”

Jack flushed under his father’s suddenly probing gaze, wondering if he had just breached some sacred rule with his confession.

The eyes looking at him belonged to no simple farmer, and for a heartbeat, he feared he might have made a terrible mistake.

Then his father who he had known all his life sighed, giving a sad shake of his head. “It happens, sometimes. It’s rarer now than it once was, and I was hoping… well, I never wanted that to be your burden, son.”

Jack frowned. “So, wait, you know what I’m talking about?”

His father nodded. “Almost every collection of books and manuscripts have at least a few accounts of adventurers claiming to have been reborn. The the kingdom this duchy used to be a part of was founded upon one such adventurer, you know.”

“Really.”

“Indeed. His strength and battle prowess were nothing short of legendary, according to the records. And he attributed all of that to his ability to grow in potency through adversity, A gift he was given, he claimed, for what he and those like him had endured.”

Jack nodded. It sounded like the former ruler was talking about leveling up.

“What ever happened to him?”

“No one knows, sadly. But he didn’t die, at least not that we know of. He just handed the reins of power to his firstborn and said it was time for him to go. His beloved wife had just passed on, and though she had been claimed by old age despite all the ministrations of court mage and alchemist, he had not aged a day in all the time he had been known.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “But the adventurer. I mean, our former king, he never aged a day.”

“Correct. Though he is no longer any king of ours, though we revere him historically, back when Velheim was the pristine uncorrupted ideal any paladin could be proud of. Sadly, this state of affairs didn't last more than a handful of generations. In point of fact, our duchy gained its independence when Velheim's corruption grew so bloated as to be beyond tolerance, thanks to another group of adventurers, though the trail they blazed through life was a far darker one than any I'd wish for you."

Jack's eyes widened. "Really. Is this about the Four Horsemen?" Jack could only wonder why he and his father had never had this conversation before. In all of his mother's tomes, he had only uncovered a few brief references to the handful of adventurers who might, or might not be responsible for their duchy's present independence, for all that they were painted in a monstrous light, which of course had made them seem all the more fascinating to him.

His father’s gaze grew concerned. “Son, are you sure? This is actually quite important. You had always seemed quite content with the life of a farmer, though your mother and I were hoping that perhaps Phelp would open your eyes to the life of a traveling merchant. Such a lifestyle would allow you to see the world and expand your horizons, so that if and when you did come back home to us, it would be free of any regret for missing out on all of life's opportunities."

Jack grinned. "Because if I'm destined to spend a year away from home learning useful skills, it might as well be ones that I have a knack for, right?"

His father nodded. "And you made it clear you have a gift for sweet-talking merchants since the first time I took you to town to buy supplies as a small boy, convincing old Arnaust to sell us the freshest feed and throw in a couple slices of his wife's apple pie." They both shared a smile at that. "And if you did choose to come back home after a year away, as we hope you will, the town would value you all the more, if the knowledge and skills you gain while away assure that visiting traders can never take advantage of our community. But if you’ve been struck by visions from a past life… I’m afraid most merchants would find that quite a troubling revelation.”

“Why’s that?”

His father sighed. “Because prosperity and peril both follow in the footsteps of adventurers, and one never knows which blessing a reborn soul will have before it’s too late. So if you want my advice, son, keep that secret close. The fewer who know, the better."

Jack winced. “Ouch.”

His father chuckled. “So we won’t say a word on it.” His gaze grew strangely intent. “So what’s it like, having the memories of two different lives echoing inside your head?”

Jack flashed a sad smile. “It’s strange, dad. I’m as much a young man who lived in a world filled with automatons, thinking constructs, and glass-paned devices that work much like a wizard's scrying globe as I am the boy who played just outside our house for countless hours. I remember how to ride a motorcycle even better than I can ride a horse, I can type on a keyboard dozens of times faster than I can write prose with ink and quill, and I know what it means to fall in love.”

Jack's features paled as he shook his head. “I know what it means to lose someone as well, and I can only hope their remnants live on, somewhere, somehow, in this universe we forged.”

His father grinned. “It sounds like the start of a tale that would do the bards proud.”

Jack laughed. “Hardly. It’s strange, though. My life changed in both realms just on my 18th birthday.” His gaze grew sad. “And it’s going to change again. Today’s my last day before my adventure starts in earnest.”

His father nodded. “You know the rules of our community. And now perhaps you know why.”

“All boys are to leave for at least a season on their 18th birthday. All those who belong will eventually return.”

His father nodded. “And those who don’t will find the weight of their souls makes returning home all but impossible.”

Jack lowered his head. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think this is what they mean?”

His father’s powerful hand gently clapped his shoulder. “I think we both know the answer to that, son.”

Jack swallowed the lump in his throat, taking in his father’s graceful stance, his powerful grip, struck with a sudden idea. One that should have been obvious from the moment he had gotten up, had this actually been a game, had he not been struck with just how real this realm truly was.

As real as Earth itself had ever been.

“You have a strong grip, dad, and you’re quick on your feet.”

His father’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “I should hope so, son. It’s gotten me out of more than one scrape.”

“You were more than just a farmer, weren’t you dad? Mom as well.”

His father’s gaze grew solemn. He denied nothing.

“Dad, I know I only have a single day, and I feel like an idiot for never having thought to ask sooner, years sooner, but there’s no time like the present.

His father tilted his head. “What is it that you want to ask?”

“Can you teach me how to fight?” he said, before feeling an odd tingle in the back of his head, suddenly remembering dozens of hours he had spent horsing around with his father and brothers in their mock sword and shield fights, sensing that the basics were almost as ingrained in his muscle memory as his ability to ride a bike.

His father’s gaze hardened. Then he sighed and gave a thoughtful nod.

“Yes, Jack, I can. Your mother always frowned at my pushing you or your brothers too hard for all that you rapscallions would spend the mornings with your padded batons and bucklers every summer, but there is so much more to it than that, and I fear you might need the lessons far more than most.”

With that he led Jack to the back of the barn where they both dug into his father’s training gear, Jack smiling in odd memory as he donned quilted gambeson and a full suit of cuir bouilli armor, the rawhide first boiled in a solution of water, resins, and glue before being laminated and shaped. Not quite as tough as riveted chainmail, his father was quick to remind, but surprisingly close. It wasn’t light, and he would be uncomfortably hot wearing both cuir boiulli and thick quilted gambeson underneath on a warm sunny day. But it was sturdy and durable as long as it was well-cared for, capable of saving a soldier’s life from all but the most accurate and powerful of blows.

“So, these are your old military leathers?” Jack said, surprised to find them fitting him so well.

His father nodded, forgiving the loose terminology. Cuir bouilli could easily deflect most sword blows, and arrows from any but the most powerful bows would skip right off, or fail to penetrate. Further, with the gambeson worn underneath, comprised as it was of over a dozen layers of quilted linen that would catch most sword tips and arrow heads even when worn alone, he was now as well protected as any front line warrior unable to afford a suit of steel and plate could hope to be.

His armor was the farthest thing in the world from an easily pierced supple leather jacket worn for comfort, but the former was coined ‘leather armor’ in common parlance nonetheless. Everyone understood what was meant.

“It’s fine gear for any season save summer, and only a fool would fight with it under the midday sun for any longer than the minutes it takes to save your life. But risking heat stroke is a damn sight better then having your guts torn open by an enemy ravager. And during the chillier months or when scouting through woods, or for those fools who actually dare dungeons, it’ll keep you as snug as the blankets on your bed.”

--Jack nodded in complete agreement, surprised when a notification popped up in his mind’s eye. Cuir Boilli + Light Quilted Gambeson worn. All injuries are reduced by 2 wound tiers unless exposed areas are struck, or critical strike successfully launched. Drawbacks – Wearer risks exhaustion and heatstroke when worn midday during summer months, if forced to sprint or fight. --

And almost before Jack knew it, he was kitted up properly, he and his father both holding polearms a good six feet in length, topped with slightly curved blades of steel.

They were presently outside, standing several paces a part, keeping their balance low and their feet 90 degrees and a shoulder-width apart form each other at rest.

Jack mirrored how his father held his weapon, the far end padded with cloth, similar but not precisely how he would hold the quarterstaff.

“Do you remember that summer I first showed you how to use the staff? The one weapon your mother would let me teach you the formal use of, all you kids knowing to never strike full force, that it was as much about balance and winding your weapon around your fellows as it was about how hard you could hit, yes?”

Jack dutifully nodded.

“Good. For the quarterstaff is the foundation of all polearm weapons, such as the glaive. Now turn to the targets I’ve set up.”

Jack did just that, facing targets of hay wrapped up in tattered tarp and burlap.

“Your objective will be to go through the 8 strikes and key thrusts I had you all master with the quarterstaff. Only difference is you’ll be looking to cleave your target open with your glaive-head, not simply strike with the flat. Do you understand?”

Jack nodded, struck with an odd flash of pulling back the instant his polearm made contact, the slightest jerk to assure his weapon bit into and tore through his target, so it cleaved and sliced instead of simply smacking against armor, potentially deflected.

“Are you ready, son?”

Jack nodded. “Good. Then strike!”

And as smoothly as a dream, he stepped forward, twisting with his hips as he struck, cleaving effortlessly through the target.

Congratulations! You have achieved familiarity with basic polearms.

He couldn’t help flushing in approval at his father’s surprised expression, soon turning to a nod of approval. “Good. Now strike it again, this time with your off-hand leading. Excellent. Now an overhead chop...”

And Jack did just as instructed, his weapon cleaving through the air with odd ease as he effortlessly tore through his target.

He gave a satisfied grin when he was done, breathing heavy for only seconds before he was ready for more, feeling the weight of his father’s regard.

“You’re a natural. Excellent. You’d be surprised how many raw recruits have no idea how to pivot their hips or hold their weapon. Their pathetic excuses for strikes bounce off even the flimsiest targets with little or no power generated. Properly wielded, a halberd or poleaxe will be able to chop right through armor that your typical infantryman’s sword would bounce right off of, like the military leathers you’re wearing. For all that your typical pike has a tremendous advantage in reach, when fighting against heavily armored infantry, it’s the halberdiers that are expected to chop through stubborn resistance, or finish off steel-covered knights the pikemen knocked down.”

His father gave an approving nod. “At least you can properly swing the weapon in your hands. Now whether you can fight with it, that remains to be seen.”

With those words he exchanged glaive for padded staff, and the pair began sparring in earnest, childhood lessons quickly coming to the fore as they probed each other with their padded weapons, Jack doing his best to knock aside his father’s probing feints, before his father abruptly pivot around Jack’s weapon, tapping him with a hard thrust to the chest.

His father grinned. “My point.”

“Nice one, dad,” Jack said, doing his best to push past the odd stream of flickering images pouring into him as they sparred, arms beginning to ache as his father upped the tempo, alternating lead arms and striking from all angles, and Jack was hard pressed to keep up.

Before being knocked off his feet, fighting for breath.

His father gazed down at him with some concern. “Are you alright, Jack? Perhaps we’ve done enough for today.”

“No, dad. I want to learn all I can today. This could well be my last chance to do so with you, so I might as well learn everything I can.”

His father gave a slow nod. “Alright, Jack. If you’re ready.”

And Jack grinned, because this time he was.

Having taken advantage of that handful of minutes his father had given him to collect himself, suddenly making sense of the flood of images racing through his mind’s eye.

This time, when his father feinted with the head of his staff, Jack struck the shaft with a resounding crack, using the momentum of his polearm bouncing back to center as his father’s weapon was jerked off-line to lash out with a lightning fast thrust even as he stepped forward and plunged with his stave, hearing his father’s surprised oomph as he was rocked back on his feet.

Jack, weapon back in middle guard, grinned at the surprised expression on his father’s face.

“Well done. Let’s see if you can repeat that feat.”

And Jack was already lashing out, doing his best to seize the Vor and force his opponent on the defensive, using his entire body to generate power for his strikes. Yet he was careful never to overextend when countering his father’s attacks, lest it be a feint, now keenly aware of what to look out for when his father was attempting to out-finesse him.

Of course it was only a matter of time before his father would seize control of their battles, trapping his weapon, forcing Jack off balance, tapping him out countless time for each time Jack managed to best his father.

Yet Jack was amazed by how thoroughly and well he sensed himself picking up these lessons, his mind streaming with flashes of battles he had never fought, struggles he had no recollection of surviving. Yet somehow, his hands knew just how to hold the weapon, his feet knowing just how to shift to avoid death, his body knowing just how to twist to maximize power.

And when his father changed his tempo, lashing out with a powerful overhand blow, Jack had already step-slid to the side while lashing out with a thrust to the chest, knocking his father back yet again.

Only then did he call their sparring practice over, and the match well fought.

Congratulations! Old memories and new lessons have been successfully merged. You have achieved Novice Rank 3 with all Polearms you have gained sufficient familiarity with. (Spear, Quarterstaff, Glaive). You may specialize in a specific polearm type that noticeably transcends all others (or stay a generalist) once you have achieved Journeyman Rank 1.

His father chuckled softly. “Well done, Jack. I’m impressed! You’ve learned the basics far faster than I thought you would. Come, we have a few hours before the morning is fully upon us. Grab the shield and wooden broadsword. Let’s make the most of this opportunity!”

Jack frowned. “But didn’t you say the polearm was far superior to a sword?”

His father nodded. “Alone, it is. Swords are convenient to carry and fight with at a moment’s notice. Hence why it’s referred to as a sidearm. You wear it sheathed at your side at all times. And for all that a spearman almost always has the advantage, that changes the moment you add shields to the equation. Then it becomes a matter of military tactics and skill.”

Jack nodded. “And if the stories in Mother’s library have any truth to them, those who dare the adventurer’s path can unlock feats that can make any weapon they choose to master death in their hands.”

His father snorted. “Fables and fancy. And the only way you’re ever going to master anything is by starting with the basics. Now let’s see what you’re capable of!”

And Jack was only too happy to oblige, soon learning the nuances of striking with blade and shield in concert, or using the shield to control the center line between two opponents, where his goal was to force a challenger off balance while shifting their shield out of proper alignment sufficient to cleave the life from them with a well-timed sglice of his sword, or earn a gentler victory with a tap to the torso in friendlier circumstances.

A second dummy went down almost as fast as the first, Jack intuitively sensing just how to slice with his weapon, body memory again making him feel like each cut was the continuation of a thousand practice swings he could remember only in strange flashes that felt no real than the final fragments of a fading dream.

Their practice was different this time, both of them exercising very slowly with sharp blades, his father instructing him in the nuances of fencing, showing him how live steel, unlike blunt training weapons, bit into each other's edges which changed everything about striking from the bind. And far more emphasis was placed on shield work and balance than he had expected. Indeed, it seemed that mastering his opponent's shield with his own was every bit as important as how fast and dexterous he was with his blade.

And again, he felt completely and utterly in the zone, as if he were relearning a beloved skill, feeling the comforting weight of an old friend in his grip as opposed to a weapon he had never held before in his life, wooden training blades aside.

“Well done, Jack!” His father commended when he finally managed to control the center, forcing his father’s shield aside before landing a mock-strike to his father's now exposed abdomen.

Of course, his father had bested him numerous times prior, but Jack felt himself growing with each bout, grateful the man was willing to forgo morning chores to spend these hours sparring beside him.

And when his father switched things up, coming at Jack with spear versus sword and shield, Jack found himself adapting to the shift in style surprisingly quickly, after being tripped and slammed on his rear a time or two. Adapting so well that he was already rushing forward when his father committed to his lunge, shield smacking aside the spear shaft as he went in for the kill.

His father laughed, for all that Jack was a heartbeat away from mock disemboweling him. “So close, son!” the former warrior quipped, abruptly pivoting around what should have been a fatal blow before drawing a wooden knife and tripping Jack completely off his feet, and now it was he who was grinning down at his son, knife held in underhand grip, a deadly promise and a warning never to underestimate an enemy until he was well and truly dead.

Jack grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You got me, dad. I take it knife fighting and grappling are next on the list?”

His father’s smile said it all, And Jack found himself enjoying mastering the art of quick draw and strike with knifeblade, and how to punch, kick, hip toss, and get the best of oversized opponents using nothing more than his hands and the armor he wore.

Of course there was only so much he could learn in a single morning, but it gave him a feeling of tremendous pride, to sense his father’s warm approval.

The only thing that made him grin wider than his father’s praise was the notification he got in his mind’s eye.

Congratulations!

One handed blades is now Novice Rank 2 for all blades you have gained sufficient familiarity with. (Dagger, Arming Sword). You may specialize in a specific blade type that noticeably transcends all others (or stay a generalist) once you have achieved Journeyman Rank 1.

Shield and Weapon is now Novice Rank 2 for all weapon and shield combat pairings you have gained sufficient familiarity with. (Shield and Sword, Shield and Spear, Shield and Dagger). You may specialize in a specific combination that noticeably transcends all others (or stay a generalist) once you have achieved Journeyman Rank 1. - Note. Since your shield serves as defense, weapon, and leverage for overcoming your opponent, your shield transcends the importance of your weapon. Even weapons you have only passing familiarity with will gain the full benefit of Shield and Weapon skill rank for defensive purposes, leverage, and controlling the center between you and your opponent, so long as you have a shield in your off-hand!

Brawling is now Novice Rank 2 For all strikes, throws, and contests of strength and balance.

You have achieved affinity with the Warrior’s Path.

All combat skills will now be learned at 20% greater speed!

Your intense workout has invigorated you, body and soul, unlocking the smallest portion of your hidden potential. You have achieved a permanent +1 to Strength! A good night’s rest, and you just know you’ll be feeling stronger than ever!

Basic Warrior Classes are now available to you, should you choose the Path of Peril!

His father’s gaze met his own. Jack was struck anew by how deep a blue his father’s and by extension his own as well. He furrowed his brow, catching sight of his reflection in the cracked piece of mirror they used out here.

Wait, hadn't his eyes been more green before?

“For all that your mother has her heart set on you following a gentle and profitable journey through life, perhaps the life of a trader is not the one for you,” he conceded once they had changed attire and washed the sweat away as the morning began in earnest, the eighth bell just rung.

With almost solemn ceremony, his father handed Jack a bronze pin. He admired the exquisite detail and craftsmanship, as he had ever since he was a little boy.

“You’ve always worn this pin whenever guests came over,” Jack said at last.

His father nodded. “I did. And if you think a warrior's path might be in your future, perhaps it’s best you hold onto it.”

Jack blinked as his father peered in the direction of the town hall. “It’s going to be an exciting day, everyone getting ready to see the trade caravans off, along with your birthday celebration. It will be full of opportunity for the clever craftsman or trader.” He frowned, his intense gaze seeming to measure Jack’s very soul. “But perhaps that’s not the path you wish to take. There’s more than one way to make your fortune, son. And if nothing else, a man skilled in the arts of war is harder to rob than one who isn’t.”

Jack gazed at the bronze pin. “What does it symbolize?”

“The Bronze Eagles. One of the toughest bands of mercenaries for hire in this part of the kingdom. Skilled and honorable both. And if old Hrokar is still in charge, it’s reputation will have only grown.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “You mean...”

“Once upon a time, son. Once upon a time. And there are many paths you can take as a mercenary, whether it be security for a noble, guarding caravans full of vital goods, or coming to the aid of a hard pressed noble waging a righteous war.” He chuckled softly. “It’s as close to living the life of a true adventurer as any young man could want. It’s how I met your mother, actually, guarding a mage’s caravan, what now seems a lifetime ago.”

Jack whistled. “So Mother was a mercenary like you?”

His father only smiled. “A story for another time.”

He then gave Jack’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “But if the siren call of coin and exploration call to you, there are far worse paths than that of a trader, and now you at least have the foundations any good warrior should have. Nothing says you can’t follow both paths, my son, exploring the world in all her grandeur, making your fortune as soldier and trader both, always able to protect your own. Just trust your instincts, and never walk a path that your heart says will likely lead to folly.”

Jack felt an odd shiver at those words.

His father smiled. “It’s early, yet, and now’s a great time to get a front row seat to haggling at its best in the central market. And as this going-away celebration is nominally in your honor, you have the opportunity to catch a front row seat to all the happenings.”

Your father has opened a new path before you. The Path of the Trader.

Should you walk this path, your day will be spent learning the intricacies of trade and reading your fellows. You will also have the opportunity to make a favorable impression upon multiple future contacts. Possible Perks earned include: Permanent +2 to Fortune, +2 to Charisma, +2 to Luck, Golden Destiny, Affinity with Trade. Do you wish to take this path?”

Jack froze, all but sensing how easy it would be to slip into the dream suddenly before him, befriending traders and craftsmen and taking that first step along a golden path of wealth and prosperity. A life he somehow knew would be comfortable, safe, and utterly predictable.

He could visualize every moment of what was to come, including the beautiful girl waiting for the warmth of his kiss even now.

As if he had lived all this before.

Jack shivered, gazing intently at his father.

“Dad, I wanted to ask… is there anything else you can show me?”

His father gazed at him strangely.

“I mean, this might be our last day together, and somehow I get the feeling that what you show me today will last me a lifetime. I’d like to learn what I can from you now, if that’s alright.”

His father’s concerned gaze turned into a pleased smile. “That sounds like a fine plan to me, son. I think you’re mother will understand.”

Shortly thereafter, Jack found himself holding a bow of yew with an exotic string of finest silk.

“As you can see, the bow is a natural composite. A yew bow is made from the wood just between the heartwood and hardwood, which is why every longbow you’ve ever seen looks like 2 strips of wood glued together. The lighter heartwood facing away from the archer responds well to tension, the harder hardwood closer to you when you pull responds well to compression. The two in conjunction, along with many years of diligent practice and building up your strength, results in a powerful draw. And unlike most woods which might be just as springy, but risk snapping with too much pressure, added draw weights of up to 200 pounds or more is quite feasible with a yew bow.”

He gazed almost apologetically at his son. “But I didn’t spend a lifetime training you for the war bow. Only sufficient familiarity to get you comfortable with a 50 pound draw weight, which is fine for hunting dear, but not enough to put down an armored man.”

Jack smiled, flashes of old documentaries watched a lifetime ago suddenly coming to the fore. “But even a six foot tall longbow with 200 pound draw weight can’t hope to pierce actual plate armor, can it?”

His father chuckled softly. “I don’t know where you learned that tidbit, but you are correct. It can’t. But few bandits wear more than poorly treated rawhide, like as not, not even properly boiled in glue. And a 200 pound draw will let you pierce even finely made pieces of cuir bouilli, like what you’re wearing now. Only the quilted gambeson underneath, designed specifically to catch arrowheads and spear tips through countless layers of linen, will save you then. But few would dare wear what you are now during the warmer months of the year, unless they were expecting immediate trouble.”

“In other words, a bowman able to pull a longbow like yours is a lethal addition to any force, so long as he avoids shields and the shiny bits of steel.”

“Pretty much, son. But even the 50 pound bows you and your brothers practiced with will pierce most game animals just fine, and put orcs, goblins, and other vermin in their place as well, so long as they're not covered in armor”

Jack's eyes widened. “We have evil humanoid races here as well?”

His father sighed. “Violent and territorial they may be. But no more evil than any tyrant hungry for conquest, and we’ve pushed them back to their native lands some 20 years ago. You’re unlikely to see more than scouts, but by all means, should any approach you, shoot to kill. Their armor is minimal, but their obsidian spear heads are a nightmare if you’re not decked in steel. It will tear through cuir bouilli in ways steel will not, for all that metal blades are far, far more nimble and sturdy. Rest assured, if you encounter any of the savage races, you’ll be fighting for your life.”

His father smiled at Jack’s expression. “Relax, son. Truth is, I’ve haven't even seen one of the dark races since the last Bloodwar.” He gazed off toward the morning sun, and Jack could see the haunted look in his eyes. “A dark and violent campaign that was. The things I saw… the horrors we faced...” He sighed and shook his head. “That was when I knew I had had my fill of adventure. After that campaign, I refused any assignment save guarding caravans, and the farther east they were going, the better.”

He turned to the targets set up some distance away, handing Jack the finely polished longbow Jack suddenly recalled having shot dozens of times before. Similar, yet also different in tension and pull to a bow he had once shot for a summer at camp a lifetime ago, odd flashes of memory from two different childhoods percolating into one as he knocked his arrow, sighted his target, and released.

Smiling as it glided effortlessly through the air, then a hard-lipped frown as it dipped just below the bale of hay, digging into the loamy soil just before it.

His father chuckled. “I think it’s good we’re spending this afternoon together. I fear you’ve forgotten far too much about hunting since last summer!”

But Jack refused to be discouraged, this time drawing his arrow fully back, embracing a tension far greater than the twenty pound draw weight which was all they had used at summer camp, hardly a bow at all, really, though it had taught him the basics.

This time when he released, his arrow plunked satisfyingly into his target. He didn’t stop there, however, drawing and releasing every arrow after careful measured breaths, determined to hit the centralmost ring. And after a dozen arrows were released, he finally got his bullseye.

He flashed a brilliant smile, though his father’s cool gaze instantly chilled his bubbling euphoria.

“It’s good enough at 20 paces, son. Now let’s repeat the feat at 30.”

Jack swallowed, quickly nodding. Then his father handed him another bow. Jack found this more of a challenge to draw.

“And I can tell your arms are stronger than when you were as a boy of 12. Now this is a proper hunting bow, yet shouldn’t be too difficult for you to draw comfortably with, and shoot accurately.”

Jack nodded, checking the leather archery gloves his father had him wear as he strode back another 10 paces, before knocking another arrow and pulling the string back to his ear. It was noticeably tougher to pull back, but he had only a trace of a tremble, and when he released the arrow, it still managed to hit the lip of his target.

“Good. Now keep shooting until you hit the central bullseye. Just as you had before.”

Jack gamely did so, surprised and pleased to find the rush of knocking back and releasing, watching the arrows fly forth to hit their targets, as enjoyable as he did. And by the time he had released his twentieth arrow at the greater distance, he truly felt in the zone. His muscles felt warmed up more than sore, the gloves protecting his novice fingers and wrist from blisters and abrasions, and the odd flashes of insight he gleaned now allowed him to hit the central ring repeatedly.

He grinned at the odd visions overtaking his bemused gaze, seeing before him not a target but half a dozen charging orcs attempting to overrun the line he stood beside with his fellows, Jack raising his bow just a fraction of an inch higher than he had been, and releasing not for where the orc was, but where it would be a heartbeat later. And what a fierce rush of exultation he felt, when his arrow plunged through the creatures bulging eye socket, bringing it down.

“Well done, Jack! Bullseye!”

His grinning father brought Jack back to his senses. He felt a curious sense of exhilaration and wariness, a bit taken aback by the visceral vision.

It had felt far more visceral than just losing himself in an imagined character. The sights and sounds and bloody stink of battle, odd chains of thought so different from his own, yet strangely familiar, had left him momentarily disoriented as he snapped back into the moment, now returning his father's proud smile.

It had felt like the glimpse of a life lived. One that had been just as visceral and real as the one he had savored back on Earth.

As real as the one he was living now.

But he wasn't left much time to lose himself in brooding self-reflection, his father now determined to make the most of the time they had together as he was. By the end of an hour, he was now hitting his target at 50 paces. Jack feeling both chilled and awed by what he had accomplished. Because when he shot the bow, he was struck by visions of battles far more visceral than any his father had ever told by the evening fire, his mind flooded with hard-learned lessons that were not his own.

Fresh notifications popped up in his mind’s eye. He was grateful they didn’t interfere with his actual vision, but the messages within chilled him to the quick.

Congratulations! You have achieved familiarity with ranged weapons. Range weapons will now benefit from Warrior’s Path bonuses.

Congratulations! Archery is now Novice Rank 1!

Congratulations! Archery is now Novice Rank 3!

Congratulations! Archery is now Novice Rank 5!

Your muscles relish the constant exercise! Strength permanently increased by an additional point!

(Archery bonuses apply to all bow types (longbows) you are currently familiar with. You may specialize once you achieve Journeyman Rank 1.)

Note. You cannot exceed Novice Ranks while in your starter zone!

Congratulations! You have stumbled across a memory shard! Memory shards are ancient relics of lives and memories long past, needing only the right catalyst to come to the fore!

Error! Starter Zone detected!

Please proceed to exit point immediately.