Well, that had been … thoroughly humilitiating. Thomas considered dealing with the problem now that the three were gone, but it hadn't been working very well before, and, apart from the fact that he was really in the mood, he really wasn't in the mood now. He walked downstream, the pain of chafing growing slowly worse, with each step regretting his choice to go commando that morning just a little bit more.

He couldn't continue. He really, really couldn't continue. Thomas sank to the ground, tears running down his face; the pain had just gotten worse … and worse. He slowly laid himself out, spread-eagled once again. He didn't care anymore, and pulled off his shoes, and then his pants, setting them to the side, and then unbuttoned his shirt. He didn't really care if anybody saw him at this point; he examined his thighs, and groaned at the blisters that had formed.

Eyes watering, in a combination of physical pain and self-pity, he stared up at the sky overhead, trying to play through his day again. He had woken up, and gotten dressed. Mistake one, he should have grabbed some boxers. The chafing could have been avoided there.

Mistake two, not noticing the weird darkness past his door, and leaving his room. He should have just … stayed put, or gone out the window. Something, anything. Everything else in the day followed from that.

Mistakes three through thirty had been with the blue fields. He remembered “picking” lust, as one of his vices. And the humiliation still stung; he felt like crying from that alone. Three strangers had walked up on him – and why the hell had he decided to do that anyways? Well, he knew the answer to that question. He still felt like a teenager experiencing hormones for the first time. Worse than that, really, he'd never been so overcome as to – oh wait. Okay, maybe he had, just the once, in a public restroom. And once outdoors when camping. His cheeks started burning again. No, no, stop that. Okay, three people had seen him, but he was an adult now. Adults sometimes … uh. Well, at least the woman had been a good sport about it. That … helped a little bit, actually. Even if it replaced embarrassment with a renewed cause for embarrassment. No, no, focus.

Alright, he'd chosen lust. He'd also chosen stoicism. What had that done to him? He couldn't tell any difference, there. Weren't stoics supposed to … be able to resist pain, and that sort of shit? It didn't seem to be doing anything for the … hang on.

Thomas sat up again, looking at the blisters once more. Why in the hell had he kept walking until the chafing got this bad? Had stoicism … of course it had. All the vices and virtues had been both good and bad. So of course he'd just kept walking through the pain, until it got absolutely too bad to ignore. There was a moment of existential terror, but as he considered lust – really, this hadn't changed him any more than puberty had. Less, really, because this time, he already had an interest in sex.

Okay, he hadn't had an interest in men before. That bit was … weird. But he was a modern and sophisticated person, he could deal with being gay. Wait, no, he still liked women. Bi? Whatever. He wasn't a homophobe. It was just … kind of uncomfortable. No, no. Focus.

Okay. So lust? Had led to embarrassment. The kind of embarrassment where Thomas wanted to drown himself in a stream, but he was an adult, embarrassment was just part of being an adult, like when you got an erection when your doctor was checking you for lumps. What the hell, Thomas? This was way worse than being a teenager. This was like the caricature of being a teenager; he literally couldn't go five seconds without a distracting sexual thought.

Alright, what about his other choices? Shouldn't being Buddha, or whatever that choice had been, mean he didn't have sexual desires? He tried to remember the other choices in that list; one had been about, what, getting gold? And another about revenge, he could remember that one. Okay, that had really been more about goals, or maybe motivation. He'd chosen not to have any goals, not to be the actual Buddha. Hey, wasn't that kind of racist? Or, uh, religion...ist? Or culturalist? Something.

He needed food. And clean water. Those people had drunk from the stream, but he didn't want intestinal parasites or whatever it was that always killed him in Oregon Trail. He also needed to not make the chafing any worse. Thomas took a quick inventory of his possessions; one pair of slacks, no longer completely soaked, but still moist. One button-down – or was it button-up? – shirt, also wet. A pair of socks. And a pair of wingtips that were probably going to be utterly ruined. Oh, and a belt.

A short time later, Thomas continued walking, bow-legged, slowly, but walking. The slacks were slung over his shoulders, the button-down shirt tied about his waist, buttons to one side. The cool breeze felt good, and he was trying very hard not to notice how good it felt, without a lot of success.

What other choices had he made? Brawler of Wind. It didn't seem to be doing much for him. He could punch things, but right now, he wanted the wind part to make him move faster. If he had chosen magus, could he have cast actual magic? Like, real, actual magic? Being able to punch things kind of felt like a gip. Thomas was regretting all of his life choices as he moved, thinking through the things he could have done differently.

He thought about pulling up the skill screen again, but wanted to get more information than he currently had. There was his 5 Wisdom speaking, finally. Why hadn't it stopped him from randomly picking lores? Or … hrm. Had it? Lores.

Lore: Enchantment

Your knowledge of the nature of Enchantment, its origins, and some of its great creations; the Blade of Ages, the Eternal Shield, the Utterly Ordinary Spear.

+1 to Arcane Resistance Thresholds of Enchantment spells you cast, +1 to Arcane Resistance Bonus against Enchantment spells

Lore: Swimming

Your knowledge of fluid dynamics principles to the end of making yourself pointy and splashing more effectively. Fish will always be better than you. Eat a few of them. Remind them of the proper order of things.

+2 to Grace when swimming, You know the difficulty involved to swim across a difficult area or at a given pace

Lore: Disguises

Your knowledge of the storied history of infiltration and deceit;secrets stolen, treasures taken, spies caught, tortured, and executed. Great rewards take a little risk.

+2 to Spycraft when preparing disguises, You know the difficulty involved to pass basic scrutiny under disguise

Lore: Shelters

Your knowledge of the intricate act of turning a few bug-ridden piles of brush into a single larger bug-ridden pile of brush that will keep the rain off your head and curious creatures from doing too much investigation. The wrong kind of shelter, of course, is just a meal wrapper for the right kind of fauna.

+2 to Woodcraft when preparing shelter, You know the difficulty involved to prepare functional shelter against the local elements

Lore: Volcanoes

Your knowledge of the desert, the magma, the lava, the world of the ever-burning embers, and the memories of dried-up husks of those who thought they, too, knew the land they traversed.

+2 to Endurance when navigating extremely hot environments, You know the difficulty involved to go without injury in a given hot environment

Thomas considered. Okay, Enchantment was dumb. And volcanoes was really dumb – had he really picked something because it sounded cool? Yes, of course he had. But swimming might be useful, and if he didn't find a place to stay, maybe shelters could help out as well. He'd been in prison, right? Disguises might be helpful if the guards he had escaped came looking for him. These choices weren't entirely useless.

Thomas looked at the stream, concentrating on identifying how hard it would be to swim across. Nothing happened, as far as he could tell; the water was knee-deep, swimming would basically be impossible in it. Maybe it didn't count? Instead he looked around, trying to activate the shelter lore. Again, nothing happened. There wasn't anything to build a shelter with, and what would he even be sheltering from? The weather was nice, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Maybe nothing …

Thomas narrowed his eyes, focusing on the description again. It said that he would know the difficulty involved. And he had. So instinctively that it didn't feel like anything at all. Well, that was creepy. But hey, puberty was worse. Maybe lust hadn't been the worst choice for a vice. Or virtue; how could lust even be a virtue? Focus, right. Maybe it hadn't been the worst choice; it had reminded him of just how invasive adolescence itself was, in a way he had forgotten in the years since. Otherwise he thought he might be a lump on the ground, quivering in an utter state of existential dread.

Hrm. That had felt like a smart thought. What was the difference between intelligence and wisdom, anyways? Intelligence is, what, the ability to put two and two together and get four? And wisdom was knowing when to do it, or something like that? Was it wisdom, to appreciate that lust might have done him a favor? He had 5 in that, whatever exactly it did. And would it be intelligence to, what?

Thomas tried to think of smart people he knew. There was the guy who built his own motorcycle. Uh. Dave? Donald? Dexter? No, not Dexter. Focus. So that guy had built his own motorcycle, and then damn near died because he didn't wear a helmet; he'd been in the hospital for a month. That was intelligence without wisdom, right? It was smart to build a motorcycle. Motorcycles were so cool, he had been jealous. It was stupid not to wear a helmet. Okay, so he was stupid. But he wasn't stupid. Even he knew to wear a damned helmet.

Thomas drew up short, blinking, as he came around a bend in the stream, and he could see through the rise on either side. Huh. That was … a village. A medieval village.

The roofs were made of hay? No, it was … dirt. Clay? With grass sticking out every which way? Alright. And the walls were mud. Clay. Adobo? Whatever. He started walking again, drawing closer. People moved around; a woman in a faded green dress, with a stained white apron, was directly ahead of him, stirring some kind of large metal tub with a long stick. He approached her.

She didn't look up until he was nearly upon her; middle-aged, gray not touching her hair, which was tied in a lopsided bun – with a bonnet sitting atop the bun, rather than her head – she was stirring a tub full of … water and fabric? With a thing that looked like a witch's broom. When she did look up, she gave a startled sort of yelp, stepping back, and raising the broom between them for a moment before it lowered. Her surprised expression turned to suspicion, then, looking him over, concern.

“Oh dear. What happened to you? Where's your caretaker, you poor thing?” Her voice sounded … foreign, the accent curious, like every word was its own question, somewhere between Swedish and Indian. He had never realized how similar those two accents could be until he found himself confused as to which one hers reminded him of.

Thomas blinked slowly, and then looked down at himself. Oh. He was wearing his pants around his shoulders, and his shirt around his waist. Uh. Did they have … mentally challenged people here? This was an awkward first impression.

The woman, whose name was Anise, looked concerned when he explained his situation.

“Oh, oh you poor dear. Let's bring you along to the healer, we wouldn't want you to get an infection, now would we?”

He followed her through the village, attracting odd looks. Most of the people here wore faded clothing, pants and shirts, not entirely unlike the ones that Thomas was wearing entirely wrong. A few women wore dresses, like Anise, but more wore pants, and they carried tools he vaguely recognized as farming implements. He had arrived with a large group of people, albeit from a different direction, and they were storing their tools and bags in a large shed as he passed it.

The healer was in a building that looked like all the others – a single floor, and as they stepped into the dark interior, it smelled musty. There was also a single large room – no interior walls at all, instead areas were separated by large folding things, fabric stretched across a frame. He hadn't seen much wood at all, here – but then, he hadn't seen many trees outside, either. Another woman was tending a man laying on what looked like a sleeping bag, a flat stretch of stuffed fabric on the dirt floor; he had a bloody cut across his thigh.

Thomas averted his eyes as soon as his attention drifted from the wound; the man's pants had been cut away, and he was … in full view. And hairy. Oh god. Not now. He concentrated on the grisly wound, which the woman was efficiently sewing closed, and that helped. Well, sort of. It helped with one problem, but he felt sick instead. The man trembled, and groaned, his hands white and shaking as he clasped them together. There was a lot less blood than Thomas would have thought; the cut was long, but shallow, and must not have hit anything vital.

Anise moved over to help the healer, while Thomas stood and watched, feeling somewhat … useless. That guy was seriously hurt, and he was here with, what, some blisters? He felt kind of stupid. The healer spread a dark green, sticky-looking substance across the stitched wound with two fingers, out of a little clay pot. Then, Anise helping move the poor man's leg, the two women began wrapping the wound in long strips of yellowed cloth, with patches of white and brown – maybe it had all been white at one time, did they reuse bandages? That seemed … unhygienic. The cloth was tied up, and then the healer stood, putting her hands on her hips, and stretched over backwards slightly with a popping noise. Thomas found himself acutely aware of how the motion caused her chest to protrude. And then aware of the still-exposed man. Not this again. Especially given where the blisters were.

The man was covered, and the healer turned to Anise, who began explaining, while Thomas tried to think unsexy thoughts, without much success. The healer nodded, and turned to Thomas. She was … oh gods, she was pretty, too. Brown eyes like chocolate, a pert little nose, and full lips, with an elaborate braid of dark blonde hair resting over her shoulder. At least she was dressed plainly, the same brown shirt and pants that most of the people here wore, spattered with blood on the sleeves. It helped, but not enough.

“Alright. I'm Leisa. Let's see the issue.” Her voice was firm and businesslike; the accent was lilting and musical, like the older woman's, but in her soft voice it sounded almost Irish. Thomas blushed furiously. “Ah, right.” She shared an amused look with the older woman. “Men and their modesty, aye, Anise?”

“Oh yes Leisa. Though I dare say the boy might do with some privacy from me, at least.” And Anise left him with the pretty young nurse. Healer. Oh gods.

“Right, right. Sit. Nothing I haven't seen before, I assure you.” Thomas started to sit. “Nay, nay. On the cot, we don't want dirt in the wound if we can help it.” Thomas looked to where she was pointing, and moved to sit on a cot near the man, who, he was grateful to see, seemed to have passed out at some point in the last few minutes. Leisa walked over and pushed his chest gently, onto his back. He closed his eyes tightly as he felt her moving the shirt. She did make a noise, then. “Oh, pardon me. Something I haven't seen, I guess. Who went and cut you like that – oh, that doesn't matter, let's have a look at what's the matter.” This was a nightmare. Surely. He'd wake up, and this would all be over. “Oh, yes.” And then something wet and sticky was spread over the chafing, which immediately started burning intensely; the feeling of her hands so close to him was far more distracting than the comparatively minor pain. Then something was wound around his leg, quickly and expertly, and then the other. More of the cloth, he guessed.

Leisa straightened, frowning intently at him. Thomas immediately wanted to apologize for the – well, the problem he'd been dealing with since that morning, but before he opened his mouth, she was speaking. “What were you thinking, boy? A grown man should know better than to walk, what, six hours in wet pants? And this is water from the stream, as I know for a fact it hasn't rained, on account of the farmers complaining about it all week. Are you trying to lose your legs? That's a sure road to a nasty infection, and there's aught I could do if it gets bad.” Thomas blinked at her, but she continued, accent getting slightly thicker, her own face reddening slightly, but, to judge by her expression, in anger rather than embarrassment. “Go naked next time if you have to. Don't blush at me, I see y'just fine, and there's less to be shamefaced about in someone seein' more'f you than you'd prefer than losing your legs.”

Thomas just stared at her for a moment as she finished, glaring at him. “Uh. Sorry?”

“Damn right you're sorry, and you'd be the more if you hadn't come by.” She paused for a moment, then, and then reached out to pull his shirt down over him. “Now, what's your name? Usually it's customary to trade names before I get that kind of eyeful.”

“Thomas.” He replied. The burning in his cheeks was quite familiar now. What the hell was with the women here? Then again, more women had seen him naked today than his entire adult life.

“Right, Thomas, it's fine to meet ya. Now, if you don't mind m'asking, who did cut you up that way, and why? No need to answer if that's too personal, it's just, I've never seen the like.” Oh. Oh. She wasn't asking about … of course she would be. And she'd never …

Thomas let his head fall back against the cushion, staring at the straw-and-mud roof. So. He was in some kind of game, and a – what, NPC? The people felt far too real for that – was asking him about circumcision?

“Really?” They were sitting outside now, in two chairs Thomas had barely noticed as he walked by. He was wearing a skirt – a skirt! – that Anise had come by with. It beat the shirt, admittedly. Apparently she had been doing laundry for her family when Thomas had interrupted her. “Why?”

“Uh. Cultural reasons? And it can help prevent … uh. Certain kinds of infection?” Leisa paused for a second, pondering that.

“Ayyye. I've seen a few infants that have had that problem; a poultice and regular cleaning do just fine, though. I guess if it got particular bad. But cultural?”

“Yeah. It's, uh, a religious thing.” Leisa frowned at that, giving Thomas a hard look.

“Which god?”

“Uh. The god? Not mine. I'm, uh, an atheist.”

Another hard look. “Atheist? Which god is that then?”

“It isn't any god. I don't believe in god. Or gods.”

There was a prolonged silence, then Leisa shook her head, looking back to the village. The sun was setting, and most of the locals had gone indoors. Smoke curled up from a few chimneys – well, they looked kind of like chimneys, if chimneys were made of half-melted wax; they didn't seem to have bricks here – and the smell of cooking food filled the air. Thomas was quite hungry, but didn't want to ask for food, after taking the healer's attention away from … whatever else she would be doing right now. She had checked on the man before they stepped outside, and declared him to be in a restful sleep, and not to be woken.

“Don't believe in gods.” Leisa spoke, finally, and shook her head again. She said it like it was as stupid as denying belief in rain, as you stood in it. Then, more gently, “Well, I don't suppose I blame you, if your village belongs to a cult. Gods are real enough, spoken to one myself, a time ago. Why I'm a healer now.” Thomas let this pass; it wouldn't do to offend somebody's religion, even if she was just an NPC. “So where you off to?”

“Don't know. Woman, uh, an Anne? Met her upstream, she told me the town was here; I'm kind of lost.” Leisa nodded, slowly.

“Anne and her lot are decent enough. Took care of a gigapede nest for us, a few years back.” Giga...pede? Thomas blinked, trying to process that. Like … what, like centipedes, and millipedes? He decided not to ask. “Well, you'll be a few days. You don't want to spend too much time afoot right now, let those blisters heal first. If you had walked another hour, you'd have been bleeding.” Her tones become steely, and she fixed him with a firm gaze. Thomas averted his gaze.

“Uh. Well, I can …” and he trailed off. What could he even do? He had zero marketable skills; he had been prepared to bullshit his way through the missed interview, for an office temp job he was underqualified for. He definitely couldn't farm. Leisa patted him lightly on the shoulder.

“Just keep off your feet, we'll see to what you can do to repay us when you're able. Take your health seriously, the smallest cut can kill you, untreated.” That was … grim.

He slept on the cot in the healer's building – she left for her own house, apparently a separate building from where the sick and injured were housed. Thomas could hear the snoring of the injured man – still thoroughly sleep – but … it was still awkward with the man laying there. He slipped out into the darkness of night, somewhat surprised at how bright it was outside – the moon wasn't full, and the stars overhead were glorious – he could see the milky … he wasn't actually sure. He could see the galaxy spread out above him, beautiful. But he didn't pause long to admire the sight, and located a shadowed alcove outside the shed. He finally dealt with the issue that had plagued him all day.

It took some effort to remain quiet, as he discovered that lust did, in fact, have an upside. He hadn't felt that good since … well, since the first time he'd done that, when he had lain perfectly still for minutes afterwards, terrified that he had screamed, and entirely unsure. Nobody came to check on him, so he was pretty sure, but not entirely, that he hadn't. The sensation was intense, the pleasure the first time in years that the word “orgasm” had really resonated with the way people talked about it.

He slipped back into the healer's building, and curled up for sleep, the relief heavy on his mind. He'd almost drifted to sleep, when he felt the prickle of lust begin to build again, waking his inattentive mind. No. No. Really? Really?

It took a while to fall asleep.

Minor objectives complete: Find shelter, receive healing. You have earned 2 customization points!

God. Dammit.

Trait: Lust satisfied. You have earned 1 customization point!

The … the fuck? Had the … had he just … no. Just. No.

Thomas Bluebrim

Brawler

Legend of Wind

Level 2

0 Misfortunes / 0 Fortunes

0 Curses / 0 Blessings

71/80 Health

0/0 Mana

-1/-1 Stamina

0 Distinctions Available

15 Skill Points Available

13 Customization Points Available

Strength

Constitution****

Intelligence

1

0

-3

1 Melee Damage Bonus

80 Maximum Health

8 Additional Skill Points

3 Maximum Worn Armor

0 Damage Reduction

-2 Maximum Stamina Points

0 Deflection *

12 Base Armor

0 Spell Piercing *

Wisdom

Agility

Perception

5

0

-3

5 Lores

0 Bonus Targeting

-3 Reaction Time

5 Arcane Resistance

0 Evasion

-1 Stamina Regeneration

0 Mana *

20 Movement *

0 Missile Range Bonus *

Thomas woke feeling … better. Not great, but better. His status greeted him; his health had gone up a little bit! He still wasn't sure what the customization points were supposed to do, but he did resolve that, given that he had some skill points to use, he might be of more use to the village than he had thought yesterday. Just as soon as the healer said he could. He'd decided, on reflection, to take her orders seriously, nighttime strolls to deal with persistent personal problems aside. The man laying next to him was still asleep, so Thomas tried to be quiet as he got up and opened the door to leave the building.

And immediately turned around and went back for the skirt and shirt. They'd been uncomfortable to sleep in. He dressed quickly – and quietly – and went back outside. People were bustling around, collecting tools from the shed he'd stepped out back of the night before, and heading out of the village, away from the stream. Hadn't Leisa said the farmers had complained about the lack of rain? Why weren't their fields closer to the stream?

Although, as he looked at it, it wouldn't do that much good. There just wasn't much water there. How much field could you keep watered with … he had no idea how much water was actually flowing. It wasn't moving too quickly, though, so not a whole lot.

He relaxed in the chair, trying to simultaneously keep his bandaged thighs from touching, while not actually spreading his legs out to flash everybody who walked by. Stupid skirt. His pants had been hung up to dry – Anise had fussed over the belt, which she declared to be one of the finest things she'd ever seen. She hadn't seen much, it had been $5 at … why couldn't he remember names? It was getting frustrating. The big store with all the trashy people.

He saw Leisa once or twice, moving in the crowd; she appeared to be going into different people's houses. Seeing to sick and injured people who were staying at home, maybe? She moved with purpose, rather than a leisurely stroll. Eventually Anise came by with a wooden bowl, which held a gloopy mess that looked like, as well as a wooden spoon.

“Good morning.” She looked up at the sky, and back to him. “Well, barely. Stopped by earlier, we need to get you a blanket. Anyways, here's breakfast for you.” He took it with a mumbled thanks, trying not to think about the prior statement, and started eating the … gloop. It tasted like plain oatmeal close enough, but he felt like he hadn't eaten in a week, rather than just the day it had been. “You're welcome. I'm off to the chores, but I'll stop by with some lunch and a chat. Stay off those legs now.” And she was off, heading towards a small building with … four chimneys? All smoking? The heck was that?

Thomas found the bowl empty all too soon, and tried, and failed, not to scrape the last little bits with the spoon, before setting it on the ground next to the chair. He'd figure out what to do with the dishes later. Leisa waved as she passed in her rounds, and he waved back.

Alright. He was … safe. And they had food here, if he could find some way to work for it; he doubted the hospitality would linger if he did nothing, he'd learned that well enough already, help only extended so far before you were expected to return the favor. He grimaced, thinking of the rent he owed to his roommate … whatever his name was. Now. Where was he? Was this a game? It didn't feel like one, except real life didn't have level-up and status screens. Games usually had to be modded to get the kind of experience he'd had, so far, although admittedly it hadn't exactly been the kind of experience he'd have modded into a game. Just a series of humiliations piled atop one another.

Kind of like being an adult in general. A truly adult game. He chuckled to himself, but it lacked humor.