“Chirp, chirp!”

Peter woke in the exact same spot where he had drifted off last night to find the sweet song of a distant bird greeting him. The perfect calm that enveloped the Garden of Tranquillity wrapped around him like a cozy blanket. He lazily pulled on his socks and shoes as he let the real world drift away. He wouldn't be going back there for a while if he could help it.

Standing up, he wandered through the arch at the end of the garden, marvelling at the ease with which this body moved. He was really getting the hang of being taller. Through the arch was a small wooden building, somewhat resembling a barn. Ambling through the open doorway, Peter was surprised to find another priestess waiting for him there. Scattered around the room were various crafting tools like a leatherworking bench and an anvil. Some were more obscure, things he had no name for. Continuing the barn theme, the entire far wall was open to the elements – benign though they were.

“Welcome, Traveller. Before you are some of the many tools you'll encounter in our world. There are primary resource gathering tools like this pick here for example.” The small lady gestured to the item in question.

Peter picked it up and hefted it once or twice. Whilst primary resource gathering could be a way of making some cash in the beginning, he remembered the ballad of John Henry his grandfather had sung him once. John had raced a steam jackhammer to dig through a mountain, and though John won, he had died the moment he had broken through that last rock. Peter carefully placed the pick back where he had found it. Anyone who thinks that banging stones with sharpened bits of metal was fun has rocks in their head, he thought to himself.

“Perhaps I can interest you in woodworking then, Traveller?” The priestess passed Peter a hatchet to try. After a few test swings Peter handed it back too. Chopping wood wasn't quite as unappealing as breaking rocks in the hot sun, but still wasn't his cup of tea.

Now that's an idea… “How about herbs?” he asked. “Are there any specialist tools I'd need to make teas and such like?”

“Here you are Traveller.” The priestess handed him a small copper sickle and directed him to a workbench covered in dried leaves. “This will help you acquire the herbs to make potions and tinctures, though an experienced herbalist will require more advanced tools. You should note that you aren't locked into a single profession. These are just an introduction to the field and a gift to get you started. You may keep any one tool from this building when you move on. There are also secondary production tools, like this portable forge. It takes up several spaces in your inventory, but can be quite useful once you have the resources.”

Swinging the sickle to feel its balance, Peter still browsed the rest of the items even though he had pretty much made up his mind. Back in the real world he would often have a cup of tea of an evening while reading a book. This world seemed so realistic that being able to make his own here was an attractive prospect.

He held out the tool in his hand. “I'd like this one, please.”

“Then it is yours. Your next destination is the docks, just down the path.” She pointed out through the wide open side of the building.

The path wended down a gentle slope towards a glittering ocean. A stone pier jutted out from a golden shore into the emerald water and, at the far end, small dinghy bobbed gently. A final priestess stood where the pier met the land. Peter traipsed down to the edge of the water swinging the sickle absentmindedly. He was still waving it around when he approached the priestess.

“Traveller! Would you please place that in your inventory?” she exclaimed. “Tools may not be weapons, but they can still hurt.”

Peter coloured in embarrassment. “Uh. I'm not actually sure how to.”

“Oh. You should have been taught by my sister at the barn. what you’re looking for is on your left wrist in Your Traveller's Mark. There is a nexus point that will open an interdimensional pocket, colloquially known by Travellers as your ‘inventory’. You can wear a sword belt, holster or bandoleer for easy access to items, but you have to bear their entire weight. Items in your inventory weigh only a fraction of what they normally do. They're also protected from any damage you may sustain in the event you are injured or even perish.”

Peter rolled up his left sleeve and looked at his Traveller's Mark. Other than the “nexus point”, which seemed to be the in game name for a button, there was little to see. Just his name and some three letter designators that meant nothing to him yet with the number one beside them. He guessed that they indicated his characteristics. More things to look up that he should have checked already. He tapped the inventory mark and it opened with a quiet tearing sound. Inside was a dark space with a faintly glowing grid, five squares on a side. He dropped the sickle into the space and it aligned itself with the grid, taking up two spaces. Tapping the mark again, it closed with a soft pop.

“Now that you are prepared, Traveller, it is time for you to begin your true journey. Remember: every action in this world has a consequence. You effect not only your environment, but yourself as well. Safe journey, Traveller. May you find that which you seek.” With her last word she faded gently from view, leaving Peter with nothing but the lapping waves for company.

Looking back over his shoulder, he found that the barn and it's occupant had similarly vanished, in their place was a golden wheat field swaying in the slight breeze. The calm scene didn't worry him; it was obviously just a way of indicating that his time in the garden was over. He clambered into the boat and waited.

Sure enough, the sail unfurled itself and though the breeze clearly wasn't enough to propel the boat, it began to drift forward. Almost imperceptibly it accelerated, and soon the land behind was out of sight. The bright sun was directly overhead in an entirely blue sky. The lack of landmarks left Peter a little disoriented, but it was too peaceful to concern him greatly. He leaned back against the mast and enjoyed the feeling of speed, not worrying about when or where he would arrive.

However, arrive he did. A line off to his left thickened into a shoreline, yellowing into a beach with a green patch of woodlands behind it. A speck of darkness rapidly resolved itself into a dock like the one he had just left and the boat curved around to meet it. It slowed itself until it scraped against the rock with a slight bump. Peter climbed out onto the pier, slightly disappointed that the trip was over so quickly.

A grey brick path led from the foot of the dock over the grasslands to the left towards a village just visible on the horizon. A thin plume of white smoke indicated that it was probably inhabited. Off to his right, the fields ended sharply at the edge of a dark wood. It was the first time since he had arrived in this world that he had seen anything that didn't feel warm and inviting. In fact, the trees filled him with a sense of foreboding. That decided it for him, weaponless and fresh from the Garden of Tranquillity, he chose the village. At least for now.

Looking around the fields as he walked along the path, he saw that they were dotted with bushes bearing berries, the occasional copse of trees and many small animals, some of the domesticated variety, some wild. Here and there other Travellers were engaged in epic battles with dark and cunning Foxes, or vanquished the evil Weasels, and a few were collecting their mighty trophies of fleece from a Sheep. Well, maybe not so epic. Peter wasn't certain how killing these creatures, or shearing a sheep, was justified but heroic adventures they were not. Choosing instead to avoid them, Peter continued down the road. He had no interest in interacting with random bunny murderers.

Approaching the village, Peter was awed by the level of detail put into the world once more. A wooden palisade protected the villagers from attack, though what would be attacking them, he could only guess at. A large wooden gate that allowed entry and egress was guarded by two people wearing chainmail armour and wielding halberds. From under the helmet of one peeked a pair of wolf-like ears. Peter struggled not to stare as he passed them by. Considering the situation from their side, he knew barely warranted a glance. He obviously wouldn't be conquering the village by force of arms.

Inside the walls, the path widened to a proper street, still of the same brick. A couple of side streets led off from the main thoroughfare before it widened even further into a town square. Tall lamp posts of brass lined the periphery, shining in the sunlight. The square was bounded by four large buildings, a mayor's house with a hall attached, a smithy, an inn and a tiny chapel with a small graveyard beside it. Peter did a double-take at the last, it was unusual to see a cemetery inside a town, let alone bordering the town square. He figured there must be some reason for it, but for now the ring of metal on metal drew him to the smithy instead.

Crossing the square to where the wide open doors of the workshop welcomed everyone inside, Peter stood in amazement at the vast array of metallurgy on display. There were a few racks of copper, bronze and iron bladed weapons as you would expect from a smith in an adventuring area, but there was so much more than that. There were horseshoes and scythes, axes and hammers, even metal plates and cutlery. Along one wall stood several small brass and mahogany humanoids, their clockwork innards visible through the gaps in their shells. It really made him appreciate that a village smith was more than just a weapons maker. The smith himself was seated in the back of the building, in a corner lit only by the glow of the forge, passing a small bottle around a circle of older men. He looked up as Peter began to approach.

“Ho, Traveller! We're having a private meeting back here. Anything you need can be sorted by my apprentice, John.”

Peter must have been completely wrapped up in his own world as he ogled the ironmongery on display, as he had somehow missed this “John” entirely. Which, as it happens, is a feat in and of itself as John was a very large young man. In fact, you could be forgiven for thinking someone had simply shaven a bear and given it a leather apron and a very large hammer. John was using said hammer to pound something either into or out of shape over an anvil. Peter wasn't sure which.

In the interest of safety, Peter gave John a wide berth as he worked his way around until he was directly in front of the apprentice smith and essayed a small wave. John laid his hammer on the anvil and turned his attention to Peter.

“What can Ah do fer yer?” the question came in a bassy rumble. Working with metal was a noisy business and it appeared that John no longer possessed an inside voice.

“I'd like a weapon, please, something good for a beginner?”

The man thought for a bit. “What are ye good wit? We got swords, knives and clubs. We alsa make stuff custom like if'n yez c'n pay.”

Peter blinked. Pay. He hadn't thought of that. “I haven't got any money yet, I've only just arrived. Could I borrow something and pay for it when I've earned some?”

“Sorry little man. We gots tah pay da bills too. Da' only lends to folks he trusts. Y'all could try da inn across da way. Dey's allus got jobs needin' doin'.” John picked up the hammer and gestured to the far side of the square.

Peter marvelled at how effortlessly the massive weight was waved around. “Thank you, I'll do that.”

Crossing the square back to the side he entered on he found himself on a wooden veranda with a few tables arranged on it. Passing around them he pulled open the door and was assaulted by heat, smell and music. As he entered the common room his nostrils filled with the scent of stale, spilled ale and sweaty bodies and for the first time since arriving found himself wishing for a slightly lesser amount of accuracy. Or at least that someone would crack a window.

It must have shown on his face, because as he approached the bar the barmaid apologised immediately. “Sorry young sir, it's the Northmen, see? Those barbarians in their stinky furs, I'm surprised they've not chased my regulars away permanent like. They come in here every so often, drink every drop of our worst ale... well, I say drink, but really it's quaffing. It's kinda like drinking but only a third of the cup goes in your mouth. The rest ends up on your clothes and the floor.” She pulled a face that mirrored Peter's. “But Dave, who owns this place, says that we can't kick 'em out, cos their money is as good as anyone else's and they are the only ones who'll drink the apprentice brewer's product. We gets it super cheap, but these lot ask for it specially. Insist, more like. Then, they drink it ‘til they pass out, throw up or get tossed for being too rowdy. Sometimes all three at once.” The beleaguered maid shook her head. “Sorry to unload on you, sir. It's been a long day and looks to be a longer night. What can I get for you?”

Peter's head was spinning from the heat and noise and was having trouble keeping up. He caught the question at the end, and thought for a moment. “I'm actually looking for work, miss. I need to make some coin or I'll be sleeping in the street tonight.”

The barmaid pointed to the far wall where a noticeboard hung. Pieces of paper, cloth and, for some reason, a leaf were variously attached to the board with pins, small knives and in a particularly unusual case, a set of teeth. It was right next to the barbarians, so Peter didn't want to linger long so he quickly scanned the job offers before pulling down two, the leaf and one sheet of paper, and stepping outside to sit at one of the tables. He's just laid them on the table when the barmaid came out with a glass of liquid and placed it on the table too.

“I needed a moment of peace, and you were the nicest person I've met this week. Have this, on the house. Just don't let Dave find out. My name's Rosie, by the way.” Rosie bobbed a curtsy and strode off to wipe down the other tables, despite their being already clean.

Peter took a sip of the drink and found it to be an excellent lemonade. It fizzled on his tongue and was just the right amount of sweet and tang. He raised the glass to Rosie in salute, wondering if she could be a real player working for coin here. Her reactions were almost too lifelike to be a program. He tried to sneak a peek at her left arm, but couldn't get a good enough view to see if she had a Traveller's Mark. Rosie saw him looking at her and gave him a smile that was almost a grimace and went back inside with a sigh.

“Better see what we have here,” he said to himself, picking up the leaf first. It had browned since being written on and the words were hard to make out. “Bovrn the Herbalist needs your help Traveller. Bring this leaflet and twenty raspberries to his shop for your reward. Leaflet. Heh.” Peter appreciated the pun. There was a basic map of the village with the shop's location marked with an X. Easy enough; he just had to find out where raspberries grew and what they looked like.

The second notice was in a much more juvenile hand. “Please help. My puppy has run away and I can't find him. Mummy says she'll give a Traveller a whole gold coin to anyone who brings him home!” Again, there was a basic map to the owner's home. A gold piece didn't sound like much, but as his sum total so far was zero, it was infinitely more than what he had.

Peter was still examining the notices and sipping the lemonade when Rosie came back out. “Well, are you going to accept the quests? They've been up for a while now; new Travellers aren't as common as they once were.”

“Accept the quest? Isn't that what I did when I took the notice?”

“No, young sir. To accept a quest issued by a citizen you press your thumb to this mark in the bottom corner here.” Rosie indicated a faint marking, a blank oval with filigree around it.

“Thank you Rosie. Say, are you a Traveller yourself?”

Rosie blanched. “My goodness, you are greener than a new twig. Tis a good thing you asked me and not someone more touchy about that. This town is a haven for retired Travellers. They’ve tired of the rough life and now wait for the final death living amongst the Citizens as equals. From what I've seen of some Travellers, it may be a kindness, that.”

“Thanks Rosie, sorry if I offended you.” Peter apologised. “Wait, what do you mean, a kindness?”

Now Rosie looked furtive. “I don't mean to speak out of turn, sir. It's just that some Travellers die many deaths. You see them walk out of the graveyard several times in a day, and they start to get this look in their eyes. Like maybe they should have stayed in the ground.”

A light dawned on Peter. That's why the graveyard was in the centre of town! It was the local respawn point! Excellent, now he knew where he would return to if he died. Obviously in a game like this you couldn't face a Game Over screen every time you were killed, so you were reincarnated at a home location. Loss of items and progress were often mentioned as well, but he wasn't sure what the local rules were on that. He made up his mind to visit the chapel and enquire before setting off on his quests.

“Thank you Rosie, I have nothing to offer but my appreciation, but you have that in spades.” Peter stood up and handed the glass to her. Pausing only to press his thumb to the indicated mark, which glowed briefly and made his left arm itch for some reason, he crossed the square again.

The chapel itself wasn't exceptional, barely two stories tall. An open door up a short flight of stairs reminded him of his last experience with a staircase. He shook it off and ascended, passing into the cool darkness inside. The interior was reminiscent of the cathedral-like cave where he had come into this world, but on a much reduced scale. There were a few rows of pews, a small fountain running with water that glowed softly, and large ornate tapestries covering the walls between the stained glass windows. The tapestries depicted heroes completing somewhat lesser acts of heroism this time. Peter suspected they were local achievements; the slayer of a shetland pony sized bug may be a feat, but not a world-class one.

Waiting for him by the fountain was a familiar habit-clothed figure. She turned her head to him as he strode up. “Greetings Traveller. How may I be of assistance today?”

“Good day Sister. May I ask you a few questions?” Peter felt unnerved again; it was like being addressed by an empty set of clothes.

“Certainly. We live to serve. What is it you would like to know?”

“What happens when a Traveller dies? Rosie at the inn said they come out of the graveyard?”

“Indeed they do. The rebirth process is not kind to a Traveller. It is best conducted underground in the crypts. When a Traveller's rebirth is complete they simply ring the bell provided and one of our order assists with the disinterment. The newly reborn are weak and often fragile of disposition, so we offer a quiet place to sit or lie down and gather one's thoughts. Tea and biscuits are commonly served too. It has become rare to see the same Traveller twice in the same month, but we do have a fairly regular flow through the gates. Or, at least, we used to. Travellers have moved on to greener, or redder, pastures of late seeking greater adventure. There are but a few wandering our fields and assisting the citizens with their needs. Is there anything more?”

Pondering all that he had just heard, Peter sat in a nearby pew. It was a lot to take in. Especially the part about respawning being 'unkind'. “Do I need to do anything? If I go to another town will I still be reborn here?”

“Yes, Traveller. In order to bind your soul to this place, you must place your hands in the font beside me and speak the words.” She gestured to her left.

Frowning in consternation, Peter wondered what words she could be referring to when a glint from the rim of the fountain caught his eye. Gold wording inlaid into the marble edge shined in a sunbeam from above. He slowly lowered his hands into the liquid up to his elbows and intoned, “With this sacrament I bind my soul to these waters, that I may return when the light of my life extinguishes.” The surface of the water flashed an incandescent pink for a moment, the radiance like staring at the sun. Peter tore his hands out of the water to cover his eyes until the glow faded. Blinking the afterimages away he rounded on the priestess.

“Is that normal? Will that happen every time?” he shouted.

Somehow the expressionless veil managed to look surprised. “Nay Traveller, that is the first time I've seen such a response from the font in a very long time. The Avatar must have a plan for you. I will pray for you, for the last time she took an interest in a Traveller their life became... interesting?”

Interesting, thought Peter, does not bode well for me. There's an old saying about living in interesting times. He offered a rather distracted farewell and left the chapel.

Outside he took a moment to get his bearings and scratch the itch on his left arm. When it didn't subside he rolled up his sleeve to see what could be causing the sensation. Where he had been scratching, his Traveller's Mark was fading in and out. He quickly ran his finger over the area, scrolling through the menu. It still felt weird having a tattoo that responded to touch, like a smartwatch under his skin that ran the length of his forearm. Below his name but above the numerical representation of his abilities was a new entry, Bind point: Averton. Peter hadn't seen any signs that announced the name of the village, but he assumed that was where he was. An arrow near his wrist blinked, pointing downward. Peter swiped his finger on his arm, pulling the sheet 'up'. Another new section had added itself to the sheet, titled Quests. The two jobs that he had accepted earlier were listed there, each with a mark labelled Guiding Light. Peter tapped the one for the herbalist's job and a line of little dots sprang up in his vision, leading from his feet out through the street that he had entered town through. They flickered in sequence, indicating he should follow them.

Follow them he did, out through the gate and over the fields to a bush, where they formed a circle. “Well,” Peter said to the bush, “I'll bet you're a raspberry bush.” He declined to think about what talking to bushes said about his sanity. Instead, he got to work stripping it of every ripe berry he could see, dropping them carefully into his inventory. Roughly every third one would squish in his fingers, leaving him with only a handful of juice and pulp. The seven berries he had managed to remove intact took up only a single grid square, and as he placed the last one in and closed his inventory, the guiding lights lit up again headed to another bush not far away. Another thing Peter studiously avoided thinking about as he stripped the second bush was the irony that he had been so dismissive of people performing this very sort of task less than an hour ago.

The second bush completely clean of ripe fruits and his fingers which were coated in raspberry juice and starting to sting, Peter wandered over to the third bush. As he was walking, a thought came to him. He opened his inventory and pulled out the sickle. Holding the berry gently he sliced the stem with the tool. The berry separated neatly and he dropped it into the waiting inventory. Repeating the process with the next one, he found that he no longer had to fight the stems and didn't crush a single berry. With no wastage he collected the twentieth raspberry from this bush and much faster than from the first two bushes. He was just about to drop the sickle back into the waiting inventory when his arm began to itch again. Wondering what it could mean this time, he wasted no time in staining his shirt. Cursing, wiped his hands on the grass, then his pants, and then tried rolling up his sleeve again. Scrolling down past the initial character scores which still sat at one, a new entry titled Skills had popped up, with a skill named Herbalism and a value of 0.1%.

“Okay,” Peter said, still talking to the bushes, and still not thinking about what that could mean, “Using the tool appropriate to the job earned me some skill points? Or was it just collecting the berries? I wonder what happens if I just collect them by hand?”

For the next fifteen minutes, Peter ignored the blinking guides and stripped four more bushes and thoroughly coated his hands in raspberry juice. However, he earned himself another fifteen berries and another stain on his sleeve. And raised the skill to 0.2%.

"So, it will go up without the tool.” He looked around to see if anyone had been close enough to hear him muttering to the local flora like a crazy person.

Having stripped all the bushes nearby, he was forced to range a bit further. Wandering the fields until he found another raspberry bush he pulled out the sickle and got to work. No longer crushing every third berry, this bush was quickly denuded of its bounty, providing Peter with eleven berries in the bag but no itch to signify a skill raise yet. Meandering across the field trying to find a bush that still had something to offer. He finally found one at the far end of the field, near the woods. Whipping out the tool he got to work. A few moments later he was the proud owner of fifty two raspberries, two spilling over into a second inventory slot, and a shiny new 0.1% added to his Herbalism skill.

Dropping the tool into its slot and closing the inventory with a satisfied smile, Peter turned to head back into town when he felt an excruciating pain in his calf. Trying to turn back around he found his leg didn't work the way it should and found himself on his knees staring into the face of a rabbit. Sort of. If rabbits could be the size of a large dog and have fur that was mottled with a putrescent green. Its muzzle was covered in red. Fuzzily Peter realised that it was blood. His blood.

“No!” he cried out. “Why?” The pain in his leg tore through his mind. His throat clenched shut from the pain and all he could think was This can’t be happening!

The monster leapt forward and with a crunch and with an excruciating stabbing pain above his eye, he knew nothing more.