Something occurs to me. A similar thought has passed my writings before, but now I realize its significance. And oh dear, it’s quite significant.

In this world, I am a writer. It is the only substance of my character which connects to my previous life. I’ve decided to adopt this journal as my “passion project”, of sorts, the goal being to make my experience presentable as a story. However, a story needs characters, not a main character blabbering away his thoughts.

However however, no characters will present themselves to us without my deliberate effort to socialize.

I’ve come to realize over the years that I don’t interact with others much outside of necessity. All of my childhood friends were more or less delivered to me by coincidence or active behaviour on their part. And as much as I hate to say it, fearing that I will draw connections with 1-dimensional protagonists, I simply don’t have the motivation to become out-going.

But given that it’s beneficial to make connections in this unfamiliar world, I think I’ll give this a try.

____________________________

With those ominous thoughts in mind, I grimace through my morning stomach pains and return from the village outhouse, narrowly avoiding the half-asleep farmers preparing for a fruitless day on the fields. As my presence in the church is a matter best left unknown to the peasants, I had to be particularly stealthy during my “breaks”. Without guide, I weave myself in and between the gazes of working housewives, their long skirts sweeping dust from the sandy paths.

A slick layer of morning sweat seeps its way into my clothing, but I pay it no heed and opt in on the local radio station, which plays the fresh tunes of mischievous, filthy children. The sanity of my apparel had long evaporated to other worlds, and with only stream water to cleanse it, the pungent odors of teenhood permeates in my nosils.

Raymond, his God thank him, had proffered me some rags, a quick inspection turned for a disappointing end. Being scavenged from the depths of empty drawers, the aged set of apparel lacked warmth (the jacket was gone) and its belt was too loose for my fit. Thus, they were delegated to the bottom of my baggage.

When I opened the eye of my consciousness once more, the morning dew had already threatened to evaporate, and I was at the breakfast table, wiping away the creases on my forehead. While the father and daughter chatted silently, I alone fought the grogginess of waking up at ~5:30.

Today’s meal is like any other: the holy trinity, being bread, bread, and bread. Today, though, they are crowned with a new jam. There’s also a small assortment of nuts, mainly comprised of sickly green almond-like figures. From day to day I may also land upon the occasional slabs of fish, although they are usually underseasoned.

We don’t have time to prepare stew for breakfast, but I’m going to tell you about the stew in this world anyways. “Pottage” is a term used to define any thick stew. It is comprised of basic ingredients, mostly your regional cereals (barley and rye, in our case) mixed in with anything else from the field that day. As springtime is the season of famine, naturally there was little to add to any stew except for whatever bizarre combination of spices Raymond could think of. It was inevitable, then, that I made no effort in enjoying this meal.

Also, hear this: ale. Medieval enthusiasts have informed me in the past that ale was a staple drink, possible consumed more than water itself, but that doesn’t seem to be completely true here. Since there’s a readily available body of fresh water filtered at will, more grains can be saved up rather than preserved into ale. I don’t know if Magic has anything to do with this, but I’ll be back with any new information.

Do I enjoy these fares, these village foods which we have deliberately resorted to calling “foodstuffs”, to wholly separate them from what is perceived to be real food?

No, of course not, and I have every attention to agree with the individual(s) who made the distinction. Medieval foods are simply “foodstuffs”, merely existing to fulfill the purposes of nutrition. At this moment, my bowels churn with meta-universal energy, to smite down the manga authors who dared to suggest that these steaming piles of shit were anything delectable or even nutritious. Even a pill-based diet would probably work better, and believe me, I know of a friend who has attempted such a lifestyle.

In his words, and in mind of his expertise as a nutritionist, “Meal replacement diets are completely fraudulent products of profit-driven research supported by no more than the lack of scientific knowledge itself. They are bogous foods; not tonics, and certainly not medicine” (Eliana Everwhite, Beautification of the Masculine Self).

It seems logical, then, that my energy levels have faced an overall decline. According to experts, my muscular system “will probably cease to exist in the near future, not that there was much to begin with anyways.”

We must substitute this lack of strength for abundance in knowledge, brains-to-muscles fashion. Over the past few days, I have poured my efforts in raising myself to the level of knowledge appropriate for a freeman in this world. Although it’s certainly important, things like continental maps are rare and probably inaccurate to boot. What I needed was a good understanding of village life [due to my circumstances].

Thus, may I present to you: the story of Eva Greenfield.

Eva Greenfield is a resident of Talbot village. Existing only within the depths of my mind, she is the perfectly staple medieval village woman, with no peculiarity or developed personality.

Every morning, Eva wakes at five. If the season is warm, she will begin her work with a modicum of natural lighting. If it’s not a warm season, I say we’ll all be eating shit.

She moves the animals out of the house and into the yard, sweeping away any droppings, although the odors scarcely improve. Anyways, at this time, Eva’s worthless husband, Brian, also rises. He helps to prepare breakfast, whilst mocking the likes of Raymond, who fasts for breakfast once every week. However, what little pride (delusion) he holds within himself will be gone when he realizes how much more luxurious Raymond’s meals are. Compared to our neighbor priest, Brian’s bread is coarser by several magnitudes. After all, its flour has been mixed in with an acorn dust substitute, courtesy of Mr. Baker.

As Brian skitters out of the house in his ragged shorts and hood to work on the Lord’s field, Eva delivers a good whacking to her two children and pushes them out for field work without breakfast, as they have risen late. The three tend to their newly planted vegetables, praying for a good harvest. If they had any money, perhaps they could afford an alchemist or priest to bless their fields, but all the Greenfields can offer are their precious poultry, which would drive them even further into starvation. Thus, there is little benefit in seeking the arcane.

When midday rolls by, the Greenfields rest momentarily for lunch and begin working immediately. Eva’s daughter, however, returns home to begin preparing dinner. As per usual, they will enjoy another night of pottage, stuffed with any scraps they happen upon. They sleep at roughly nine, with the exception of Brian, who may scrounge up what little savings they have to buy a drink at the pub.

In conclusion, Brian’s a little shit, and Eva didn’t deserve such a life.

____________________________

Do you think I even need to do worldbuilding at all? I mean, you all have a rough idea of how a medieval world works, right?

____________________________

Ha, of course not. What do you think I’m supposed to write when the plot’s not advancing?

Flashbacks? Short stories? Like I have the motivation to do that. You’ll just be reading pages upon pages of filler and exposition.

____________________________

Dinner was especially difficult to swallow today, although there was no change to the menu.

Afterwards, I talked to Cecilia. I asked of her preferences in animals, and she claimed to dislike cats, for old Gerald once bit her when she tried to pet it and gave her a nasty fever.

Old Gerald was later “neutralized” by his owner.

_______________G_o_o_d_n_i_g_h_t____

Waking up was less of a chore today.

____________________________

Under the insistent instruction of Father Keen, I bolted myself within my quarters today. Behind his figure is Cecilia, a little worn by the blisters on her fingers, who left me with a slice of bread and even fewer words.

The nature of this nation’s formalities still eludes me. If there are more facets to these foreign traditions, I have yet to master them. Given their importance when interacting with the educated few, I intend to make that my next goal, following securing a means of survival within a safe settlement.

At once, the villagers that had not glanced upon Father Keen’s good and divine establishment magnetized themselves within its halls. They made little effort to dress themselves appropriately, merely donning their work hoods to signal respect. Masses of women, men, and children (to be honest, there was little of anything else) swung from side to side, finding a delicate balance on top of their soles, both bare and clothed.

Children bore the front of this lack of dress. Many of the chimp-like farmer spawn were covered with the barest of rags, none having the etiquette to wrap themselves in footwear. While the ones still in cradles could be dressed with simple cloth, the slightly older children simply had nothing to wear, standing about with half-completed outfits; some missed pants, some had naked shoulders.

I recognize some of them from the execution. One in particular, the woman who I based Eva off of, was vibrant in this crowd of nobodies. This weary farmer of… fifty? Sixty? Afforded an unblemished red tunic-dress, matched with a cloud white hood. She leads one of her daughters with a blistered hand, only releasing her grip once Raymond began his rights.

May all that is good in the world (women) forgive me, but if I had to judge this worker by her well-spun clothes, then it wouldn’t be improper to say that she belonged to a relatively wealthy family of farmers. Is she wife to the baker? The reeve? The alchemist? I wouldn’t know, but it’s probably one of them. As far as I know, those are the most well-off villagers within Talbot, with the exception of the Lord’s other handymen and Raymond.

The service begins without interruption. Our gathering of villagers immediately find it in their best interest to stay silent, daring not to disturb whatever holy traditions that the church has perpetrated.

What ignorance! What barbarism!

The primitives continue their wicked traditions, kneeling before the trio of Raymond and his two assistants. I’ve little idea where Cecilia is, except that she’s nowhere within the mass or beside her father at all.

At this point, I advise myself that it would be unwise to continue visually observing these lifeforms. Despite their apparent focus on the ritual, it’s completely possible that the two assistants on the stage have a clear view to the door of my room. Thus, I slowly peel back from the gates of my residence, as deathly quiet as the kneeling villagers.

I spend the rest of the morning drowning in Father Keen’s prayers, utterly disinterested in the evil idols which these mere primitives worshipped. Angel Maria, Saint Ruth, and whatnot… “oh Lord we ask for forgiveness for our sins”... “please pardon us from the road of evil”... “tempt us with no vile demon”...

I’m not really familiar with faith, but if you want forgiveness for your sins, just don’t commit them in the first place!

____________________________

The service is ending. I’m feeling rather sluggish, though, so I’m going to go off to sleep without a meal. My work is done anyways.

____________________________

Woke up with a nightmare. I can’t remember what it was about, but I know it had something to do with school. I think there was supposed to be a math quiz or something right before I “left”.

Now that I think about it, I believe it was about integrals. Goodness, high school math is quite troublesome, no?

____________________________

“What do you think of our traditions?”

Barely awake on a Monday at 5:41, this was not a question I’d expected. Putting down my eating implements, I look up to a casually-toned Father Keen and a somewhat attentive Cecilia at the meal table. Suddenly nervous of this mob mentality, I work out the creases in my head and formulate a diplomatic answer.

-But wait- my mind cut in. What’s Keen, this old man, asking for? What intentions does he have, to ask this question? Is it out of pure formality? Will he cast me aside once he finds my answer inappropriate?

“I believe… I’ve made no mistake in travelling here. The people are faithful, and there’s no fear of invasion. It’s fortunate that there’s no famine, too.”

If I’ve made it unclear, yes, there is a barely spoken contract between Raymond and I, the subject being that I am a “foreigner”. How he truly views this alarming bite of information, I can only assume that he intends to benefit from me in some way. Thus, I can only offer empty praises to his faith.

“But our personal interpretations are much more interesting, are they not? Tell us, what does a man from a different country truly think of this new world?”

My heart nearly shoots out from its cavity at the phrase “new world”, but it settles as I understand its context.

I must truly applaud Keen’s open-mindedness. If it was any other priest, or just any other person, the most they would have lent me was a night or two of bedding and some leftovers. But now, this medieval man of all men has the interest to learn about other nations. I suspect the state of education supplied here is not lacking in the slightest.

“In my view, the people of Rosia are heretics. This Maria you dare to refer to as an “angel” is an insult to the moral decency of humans, and the day it is burned in this bonfire of barbarians is when innocence will return to humanity.”

“But why?” Cecilia inerjects, eyes full of confusion, glancing between Father and I.

“Because, dear, sometimes people from other countries believe in different Gods. That’s why we shouldn’t trust them,” Raymond chides.

“Aren’t there any other places, and the people there believe in Maria too?”

“There are, but they are very far away from us.”

“What if… what if we moved closer to them?”

“That would take a lot of food. Can you eat all of the bread?”

“Well, we can just ask Her Holiness to do it.”

“You can’t trouble Her Holiness with something so trivial.”

“But…”

In the end, Cecilia gave up her initiative to unite the followers of Her Holiness Maria.

____________________________

It would appear that this duo is finally releasing their guard around me. While I can’t say that it’s something I achieved with scheming, in contrast to my previous promise, it definitely proves, by powers of observation, that the primary mammalian species residing in this world is probably human.

Still isn’t it strange? By virtue of me being placed into this unfamiliar situation, all logical conclusions which have been accumulated in my past life is worthless. Without this accumulation of observations, nothing can be concluded until further notice. I can’t even rule out the possibility that I’m just in a preservation dome, as part of a simulacrum of humans.

By that same logic, couldn’t we also argue that you are the one being deceived? Is it not possible that at this moment, you are sitting in the basement of my residence on Pender street, tied up in rope as Eliana and I violate you in various unspeakable ways, forcing your consciousness into our special mental cage?

I jest, I jest.

… Unless?