Darkness flashed before Peter’s eyes, changing to golden then fading to a comfortable glow of gaslight. All that remained were glowing words hovering in the centre of his vision.

Bani’s blessing: Respawn point changed.

Instantaneous regeneration.

Then these too faded, leaving him standing in a confusingly familiar setting. He was, for some reason, standing in his – or rather Bani’s – house blinking myopically at the flickering coals in the fireplace. He coughed out a mouthful of muddy river water onto the carpet and collapsed backwards onto a couch with a squelch. “What the heck am I doing here?” He spat out a scale. “Where’s Jacob?” The empty silence provided no answers.

As Peter sat, slowly soaking the couch cushions, a noise like his inventory opening surprised him and DB dropped into his lap holding an egg timer. He was similarly wet and sat shivering and clinging to the brass bound hourglass like a life preserver. “You’re not Jacob, but dang I’m glad to see you.” Peter hugged his little companion as tightly as he dared.

When released, DB thrust the timer at Peter and as soon as it was gone began to clean himself furiously. Alternately licking and shaking himself, the rodent was giving Peter a run for his money in the “water damaging the upholstery” department. Peter tried to smooth down DB’s fur and received a nip on the finger for his trouble.

Exhausted, disoriented and just plain wrung out, Peter decided to relax for a while before moving, rapidly cooling armour be damned. He stripped off his bracer and began scrolling through the changes efforts on, and under, the river had brought. Two new skills caught his eye in short order, Fishing and Crafting: Simple Fishing Equipment, being new and out of the ordinary. “So farce, oh good,” he muttered his Dad’s favourite phrase when working. “Why does it still itch though?” It took nearly fifteen minutes of scrolling and flicking to find the updated skill that was the source of the irritating notification. In the Avatar Attention: Bani entry, it showed that he had finally reached 10% and spawned something… sort of like a sub-skill but the description was vague.

Aspect of the Avatar: Under extreme circumstances, the Traveller can channel the full power of their Patron Avatar for a short period of time. Effects vary.

Peter poked DB in the belly, interrupting his washing process. “Oi, tubby, what do you make of this?” He showed DB the entry, then felt stupid. He was showing an illiterate NPC a metagaming device. Even if the rodent somehow developed the ability to read, the system wouldn’t let him see the information presented in the mark. In fact, all it earned him was a finger coated in rat snot as DB sneezed voluminously all over Peter’s hand. “Eeeeww. Sorry I asked,” he apologised as DB went back to cleaning himself.

Wiping the mess on the arm of the couch first, Peter poked repeatedly at the entry like a frustrated corporate drone mashing the mouse button when the internet refuses to load. Unfortunately for him five hundred clicks was not the way to resolve the issue and the text remained unchanged and obtuse. Effects VARY? What the heck does that even mean? He tried swiping, long pressing, double tapping, every user interface interaction he could think of to provoke a result. The only effect was a reddening of the pale skin where the Mark sat. “Come on!” he shouted petulantly. “Work you bastard!”

But the bastard refused to work.

Peter slumped back, his armour creaking as its now cold surfaces rubbed together. “Bugger it,” he vocalised, standing up and stripping off. The brass hourglass fell to the carpet, heeded but ignored pro tem. He arranged the pieces of damp leather on the chair that went with the writing desk and stood them in front of the fire to dry. “I hope this doesn’t make you shrink,” he said to his armour. “Why am I talking to clothing?” He looked around as though expecting something to answer, maybe the table. Silence reigned, broken only by the crackling in the grate.

“Bah, you lot are useless. What’s the point of having a magic house if the furniture doesn’t talk?” He scooped up the egg timer from the ground and stuffed it into the recess on the writing desk. “Let’s see what this earns us, eh DB?”

DB paused for a moment with his arms over his head, bending his ears forward. “Sque-!” he hiccoughed, bouncing adorably then returning to his cleaning.

“You’re right, let’s leave the writing thing until I have more paper,” Peter looked at the walls where the raven’s biography had been. “Lots more paper.” He ran a finger over the green blotter on the desk, flicking through the menu to see how many souls his latest conquest had earned him. His eyes widened slowly. “You gotta be kidding me! TWO? That stinking fish was only worth two soul points to you?” He smashed his fist on the blotter, closing the menu. “I hate seafood, but I’m going to make sure I get a piece of this jerk and I’m going to enjoy it. DB, I’m going back to the real world for a bit until my stuff dries. You going to be okay?”

In response to Peter’s question DB rolled to his feet, well, paws, and scampered over to the armoured chair in front of the fire. He scaled the leg of the chair and leapt up into the hood of the cape where it hung draped form the back, snuggling down into its warm depth. With an ultra-cute combined stretch and yawn, he settled in to sleep.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” Peter smiled and logged out.

Artificial fluorescent light flooded Peter’s eyes, revealing the empty bowl and all his school equipment laying right where he had left them. Glancing around he saw the bedroom door was still closed too. He heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” he breathed.

Collecting his bowl, Peter headed for the kitchen. The house was deathly silent and his mother’s door was slightly ajar, letting Peter see that there was no-one in there as he passed. The kitchen and lounge were similarly deserted so he quickly washed his dishes and left them to dry while he returned to his room. The note on his door now sported a “yeah, right” in his mother’s handwriting.

No sooner had he put his hand on the doorknob when he received a text message from his mother. I saw you’d had breakfast and were “studying” this morning. I need to pop out and sort out some things and pick up groceries. Try to get some actual schoolwork done today, there’ll be Mexican for dinner. Love, Mum.

“Queeeeesadiiiiiillas!” Peter sang, dancing into his room. “Taaccoooos! Gimie chimichangas! Woo, Mexican for dinner! Wait,” he paused, “what am I doing back in here?” He stood in the middle of his room, mind completely bank apart from a vague feeling that he had left his room for something. His stomach rumbled. “Not now,” he told it, “I’m trying to think.” I was drying my armour, decided to take a break to… something… then I washed the dishes, Mum’s not home, having Mexican, umm. His stomach rumbled again, louder and more insistently. Peter thumped his side in irritation. “I said not now.” Hungry? Not really, still full from brekkie. Hol’up, brekkie?

Half an hour later, after much crying and recriminations, Delhi had left the belly. At least I’ve got plenty of room for whatever Chef Orc-man makes of the fish now, Peter smiled through gritted teeth. Whatever else it tastes like, it’s going to taste like victory to me. Time to get back in, my armour should be dry by now and if Mum’s going to be out all day I’ve got time to crank up the levels.

Rearranging his room to look like he was studying on his bed as well as the desk took but a moment, and Peter propped himself up on his pillows in the corner where his bed me the corner of the room. Not comfortable enough, he nipped out to the lounge room and pinched a pair of seat cushions for extra support and maybe fort building. Something silver bounced on the floor and under the comfy seat his mother had occupied the night before. That’s a bit big to be money, he thought as he reached around under the chair. Still, don’t want to leave it for the Roomba. Searching fingers found something cold and metallic with a knurled finish. Peter gripped it and pulled the mystery object out into the light.

“A hip-flask. Huh.” He turned the thing over in his hands, finding it engraved on one side. “To my darling daughter, for your eighteenth birthday. Fill it with something expensive and bad for the head,” the words sounded familiar as Peter read them out loud. “Of course! Adams! One of Grandad’s favorite authors. I guess Mum like his books too.” He opened the flask and took a sniff. Looks like she followed the directions too. Whoo. Peter tucked the flask in the band of his pants for the moment, unsure of what to do with it. He picked up the cushions and took them to his room where he arranged them in a makeshift hut with the blanket thrown over the top as a roof.

Admiring his efforts for a moment, Peter was briefly disappointed that he didn’t earn a skill Construction: Pillow fort for it, but you couldn't have everything. He climbed in and flipped the blanket down, settling into the cosy space he had built for himself. He set two alerts for himself, midday and movement so he wouldn’t miss lunch or his mother coming home - or his Dad either, come to think of it - and exchanged realities.

It was still warm and cosy on the other side of the digital divide, but brighter and airier. The cottage laps were being outshone by the daylight streaming in the windows and the air honestly felt rather stuffy and humid. Peter pulled all the windows wide and let the fresh air blow away the smell of wet leather and wet rat. He even opened the back door and looked out at the much diminished back yard. “I’ll get you back one day,” he promised.

“On that note,” Peter continued as he started pulling his armour back on, “DB, you and I gots a lots a work to do. Let’s go see what four dead fish and one dead shark nets us?” He pulled his cape over his shoulders, settling the material between his wings to show them off, and lowered his companion into the hood. “Gettit? Nets? Cos they’re fish.”

DB huffed and began washing himself, as though he could wash off the stench of the terrible joke.

Ignoring the criticism of his sense of humour, Peter hurried back to the tavern, holding the quest contract in his hand ready to be exchanged for… what was the phrase? Obese guitar? Fat lute? Something like that. He chuckled at his own joke.

Fifteen minutes later Peter was seated at the best table in the tavern. To be fair, it was just a regular table, but Dave had laid a tablecloth over it and set out silver tableware and was standing by with a tea towel over his arm and a bottle of wine in his hand.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Peter protested.

“Of course we do, my boy,” the Mayor assured him from across the table. “You’re the first Traveller in almost a year that has managed to bring back any berry-fed river trout, let alone Ol’ Gnasher himself.”

“He’s so modest,” the Mayor’s wife wittered, tapping her husband on the arm with a feathered fan like a vapid courtesan. Just when Peter was beginning to suspect she was either a doppelganger or had lost her mind she gave him a sly wink when her husband looked away.

Oh...khay. So it’s a show. For whom though? Peter looked around to see who was watching. Other than the last occupant at the table, who was less ‘at’ than ‘on’, the room was completely deserted.

“Squeak!” agreed the final member of the tableau. DB had his own diminutive table set up on top of the human sized one, complete with matching tablecloth and crockery. Lacking the appropriate equipment, he had been allowed to forgo the silverware however.

Dave poured drinks for everyone with an elaborate flourish, then stepped back and clicked the fingers of his free hand. “Garçon, the feast!”

Looking a bit weird in his formal uniform, the chef brought out a large covered platter and laid it on the table. With a grand gesture he whipped off the cover to reveal the whole fish, baked to perfection with roasted vegetables along its flanks on a bed of what looked like purple rice. For someone who liked seafood, it would have smelled delectable.

To Peter, it just smelled.

“Voila!” Dave exclaimed. “Bon appetit,” and backed into the shadows at the edge of the room.

Peter sipped his wine as the Mayor carved and served generous portions. DB’s whiskers were twitching in anticipation and even the Mayor’s wife looked excited to tuck in. “So, my boy, how did you do it? Harpoon? Heavy gauge steel fishing line? Explosives?”

Choking on his drink, Peter turned it into a cough and lowered his cup before he spilled it everywhere. “Uh,” his cheeks turned crimson, “I jumped in and punched it until it stopped moving?”

The Mayor stopped dead for a moment, then continued serving. “I must say, you do have a, shall we say, unique… way of doing things?” He took his seat and began eating. “Most Travellers are a tad more conservative in their approach, but you, Peter, you jump in with both feet, I say, what? Pun intended.” He ducked as his wife took a swipe at him with her fan.

“What my dear husband is trying to say, in his own way, is that we, the Citizens of this great town, are eternally grateful for your efforts and would like to present you with something.” The Mayor’s wife looked pointedly at her husband. “Isn’t that right, my love?” Her ‘lady of the court’ act slipped slightly, no doubt in response to her husband’s attempt at humor.

“Oh, indeed. Indeed,” the Mayor cleared his throat and stood up. He came around the table to Peter’s position, who stood up himself. The Mayor held out his hand to be shaken, which Peter took politely. It was a firm grip, but not the bone crushing vice Peter would have expected from a man his size. “Peter, the Citizens of Averton would like to formally recognise you as a Defender. This title grants you free access to all areas of our great town. It also allows you to accept taskings from the guard and, once a month, to call upon the guard to sortie out with you on a quest provided it is in the interests of Averton or one of its Citizens.” The Mayor stepped back from the handshake and clipped a small brooch to Peter’s cloak. “This badge is the symbol of your title. Any time you want to take advantage of your position as a Defender all you have to do is present it. Well done, my boy, well done. Now, let’s feast!”

The Mayor returned to his seat and they all began to eat in earnest. Peter started with the vegetables, unsure about the fish. Everyone else was consuming it with great gusto, so he took a tentative forkful and placed it in his mouth. It was everything he had feared and worse.

Chewing carefully in order to keep the fish as far from his taste buds as possible, he masticated it, took a very large gulp of wine and washed it down, doing his best not to grimace through the ordeal.

The Mayor's wife must have noticed something was up. “How does your trout taste, Peter?” she inquired seemingly innocently.

“Like victory,” he gritted out.