Erland stared at the horizon, watching Sol slowly begin blotting out the rainbow light of the Bifrost overhead. Watching the shifting colors of the sky and the paling colors of the Bifrost interplay always soothed him, and was the only reason he allowed his former farmer’s sleep schedule to still dictate his waking hours. He saw a bit of himself in the impermanent, ever-shifting sky.

An itch had started between his shoulder blades yesterday, and this morning it was well on its way towards becoming unbearable. He idly scratched at it, knowing it would do no good. It wasn’t anything as mundane as a rash or an itch. It was more like… a pressure. A drain on his psyche, telling him it had been too long since his last fight.

He wished he could blame it on his class, or the Player system, but he’d been like this for as long as he could remember. When he’d been younger, sparring with his father or wrestling with one of his siblings had done the trick. Every year he’d gotten older, the itch had gotten worse. After his eighteenth birthday, only two kinds of bouts could make the itch go away.

Extremely challenging battles, and fights to the death.

For most people, this might have been frightening or concerning. For Erland it was natural, barely worth a thought. When he did think about it, nothing could be more obvious.

He only really felt alive when he was fighting.

Whistling a merry tune, he rose to his full prodigious height, stretching out his well-muscled body. Sol glinted off his ice-blue eyes and he began walking into the city whose walls he had camped outside of, Alaborg. He dragged a hand through his curly red hair a few times, getting rid of the worst of the knots that had formed in his sleep.

He ambled down the cobblestone road, his spirits high. The birds were waking around him, joining his whistle with their song. Alaborg lay in the great floodplains surrounding Lake Djuprnar, and the yearly floods mean that only the heartiest trees remained standing. The city’s best defense lay in the wide, flat land that surrounded it. The only other notable features of the plains were the massive boulders that littered the fields, pushed about by the capricious floods.

“Halt,” said one of the bored guards, quickly flicking his eyes over Erland. “State your name, level, and business.”

“Erland Grim,” was the reply, a grin instantly replacing his whistle. “Level seven, here for some shopping, and perhaps some ale.”

“Level seven?” the other guard responded, her tone incredulous. “At your age? Trying to play tricks on the local guard are you?”

“No ma’am,” Erland replied, grin growing even wider. “I’ve simply kept myself busy since becoming a Player a few weeks ago.”

Erland was barely over the age of eighteen, which is when the Player system first appeared to the inhabitants of the Nine Realms. Nearly everyone started out at level zero, and while the low levels did pass quickly, it was virtually unheard of for someone born outside of a royal family to level as quickly as he had.

“Wait a moment,” the first guard instructed Erland with a frown. He stared straight at the young man in front of him until his eyes shifted focus, clearly reading Erland’s Player status. He would only have access to the most basic information, but it would be enough to confirm his level at least. When he did he exclaimed in surprise. “He’s telling the truth, Gerda! If you weren’t dressed in little more than rags, I might think you a prince, boy!”

Erland almost laughed, touching two fingers to his temple thanking the man for the backhanded compliment.

“Don’t make any trouble in the city, boy,” Gerda warned him, waving him through the gates. Erland mimed an ‘X’ over his heart and held his other hand straight up, schooling his face into mock severity. She snorted a laugh and swept the haft of her spear into his flank. “Not distracting the city guards would be a good place to start.”

He put the two guards out of his mind, resuming his whistling and looking around. Alaborg wasn’t the grandest place, but Erland’s experience with cities was extremely limited. This was the first time he’d ever been in one.

There was a twenty foot gap of cobbled road between the wall and the walls, ensuring that troops could easily swarm to any part of the city quickly. The first few blocks inside the buildings were squat one-story affairs, mostly poor residences, but well-maintained. After that the larger buildings began appearing. More affluent middle-class housing, inns and small shops with obvious housing on the second-story.

Erland began to smell a faint tang in the air, reminding him of blood and ale. His whistling faded and his heart rate increased, his pace escalating to match.

That smell always meant a good fight.

He moved through the city with a purpose now, his nose leading him. After a few more minutes, longer than he had expected considering how far away he’d picked up on the smell, he stood in front of a tavern. The interior was boisterous, the denizens within already rowdy despite the early hour. Perhaps they’d never stopped at all, even with Sol rising.

One of the benefits of higher stats was an increased tolerance for bodily punishment after all.

He eased the doors open and sauntered inside with his ever-present grin. The tavern was one of the larger buildings in this part of the city, and its interior made it clear as to why it was busy even at the beginning of the day.

Plush and lavish rugs warmed the floor, and bright runelamps hung from the ceiling. The tables were sturdy oak, clean and well-polished. A staircase in the back led to accommodations, and the bar was serving breakfast. The smell of crisping bacon and maple syrup brought a growl from Erland’s stomach that he was sure could be heard across the room.

A small stage was placed in the back of the room opposite the stairs, and a bard was plying her trade from it, singing and playing a slightly worn runic violin. Her music was light and airy, and the magic inherent in it kept the room cheerful. Erland might have been a bit jealous of her, if the job hadn’t seemed so boring. Bards had one of the easiest and safest ways to level in the Nine Realms, with the added benefit of coin for their efforts.

“What’s for breakfast, master chef?” Erland asked, having moved to the bar. The man behind the bar glared for a moment, until he saw the grin on Erland’s face.

“Only the finest for our esteemed guest,” the barkeep replied with a snort and a smile. “Bacon, sausage, and pancakes.”

He was a stout man, well-built but developing a paunch around his midriff. His hair was raven black, and he had pale green eyes like chips of jade. He exuded an air of boisterous pride, and Erland took a liking to him immediately.

“Excellent!” Erland exclaimed, mouth watering. “I’ll take a plate, with a double helping of maple syrup if you don’t mind.”

“I’d be delighted to, your Highness!” replied the barman, before tapping two fingers on the table. “Six coppers, up front if you please.”

“Please, Erland is fine,” the red-haired man replied, deftly pulling the copper from his coinpurse. His eyebrows had risen quickly at the cheap price, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune at finding an honest innkeeper.

“Iuli,” the barkeep replied, proffering his right hand while his left swiped the coins from the counter. “Welcome to The Sleeping Dragon. Find yourself a table, I’ll have your food brought out when its ready.”

Erland shook the man’s hand, noting the uncommon strength in his grip and the pointed look over the handshake. He kept his expression jovial, but the message was clear. It seemed that Iuli was no mere innkeeper, and he had enough insight to know that Erland was a natural-born troublemaker.

The itch between his shoulder blades intensified.

He looked over the other patrons as he made his way to a table near the middle of the room. On the bar side sat a group of older men, reading newspapers and chatting about the harvest and weather. They occasionally shot glares at Erland, but he didn’t take it personally. Old men were always wary of strangers in his experience. Besides, most of their glares were reserved for the other end of the room.

There was the source of the boisterous noise that had drawn Erland to this bar.

A group of young men and women sat there, crowded around a poker game. Bloodshot eyes and mussed hair told Erland that they had likely been playing all night. A few of them slumped against the wall, mostly asleep, but mumbling responses that drew laughter from the more lively of the group when asked questions.

Erland was trying to decide if he should insert himself when his food arrived.

“Your royal breakfast, your Highness,” a lilting voice whispered into his ear, startling him and breaking his eyes from the group. He swiveled to the source of the voice, finding a young woman holding two plates. She grinned at his surprise. “Bacon, sausage, and pancakes with extra syrup.”

She was a slight thing, and as she placed the plates onto his table Erland noticed the complete lack of sound. A rogue, with a decent muffling skill. That explained how she had managed to sneak up on him.

After another moment, Erland noticed the family resemblance. She had the same chipped jade eyes as her father, and a bit of him in her grin as well.

“Erland is fine, good woman,” he replied with a fake air of noble haughtiness, followed by a quick grin. “Surely you must be noble yourself, with such refined manners and speech.”

“Oh no, was I so obvious?” the girl responded, bringing the back of her hand to her forehead in a faux swoon. “Alas, it is so hard to bring myself down to the level of commoners.”

The two of them bantered for a minute longer, laughing as they continuously tried to upstage each other.

Erland noticed when the laughter and noise quieted behind him, and his itch practically thrummed. It took every bit of his willpower not to scratch at it, or give any sign that he’d noticed as he continued laughing at the barmaid’s antics.

His patience was rewarded a moment later when a hand fell heavily on his shoulder.

“Who’s your new friend, Maria?” asked a husky voice from behind him, laced with malevolent jealousy.

Erland turned with a smirk calculated to draw the newcomers ire. This was the scent that had drawn him here. This was the fight he wanted, and he would savor the build-up to the action.

“That’s ‘Your Highness’, to you peasant,” Erland delivered with a sneer, slapping the young man’s hand off his shoulder. “I’ll thank you not to interrupt a conversation between your betters in the future.”

Erland turned back to the girl, taking the opportunity to raise himself up on the balls of his feet and crouch slightly.

“Bjarke, no!” the girl cried out, and Erland’s grin gained a darker cast. An undeniable thirst for violence that went unnoticed by almost all of the tavern’s occupants. All but Iuli, the innkeeper, whose gaze hardened.

He ducked the predictable blow aimed at the back of his head, and for the next few minutes pandemonium reigned.