“So, you're a brawler of wind. With zero constitution.” Leisa was staring at Thomas intently. Her voice wasn't music at all right now, it was flat and disbelieving. It had taken a while to explain exactly what he meant, but she had eventually caught on. The use of numbers in particular had apparently been novel to her, although the idea of six characteristics was not.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“And what made'ja think that was a good idea?”

“I …” Thomas had no answer to that question. He hadn't thought it was a good idea, he hadn't thought about it at all. He'd just been rushing through the annoying screens as quickly as possible to try to make an interview on time, an interview in a life he was starting to doubt he'd actually lived. He couldn't remember anyone's names. He couldn't remember what state he lived in – he still remembered he was a US citizen, but couldn't quite remember what the acronym “US” stood for. It was alarming, but he also couldn't do anything about it right now.

“Nevermind that. Okay, one strength isn't terrible. Zero constitution is, but we'll get back to that. Negative three intelligence?” She peered intently at his face. “Well, it explains … nevermind. Five wisdom, which is higher than mine, somehow, although how that could be given your choices … anyways. Zero agility, that's another thing to work on, but much later. Negative three perception … you have no stamina at all, and no ability to recover it if you did.” Thomas could only nod miserably.

She'd come back, and he'd asked her what customization points were, which had led to this … uncomfortable conversation.

“Alright. I don't know what your crazy cult taught you, but that's not how we do things. This is … what ascension are you?” Thomas blinked.

“Ascension?” What?

“How many times have you ascended in your class?” Slowly and clearly, like … he had negative three perception, and negative three intelligence to boot. He sighed.

“I don't know what that – I'm level two?”

Leisa sat back, slowly exhaling as she stared. “Two? You've ascended, what, once?”

“Yeah, I leveled up yesterday.”

“Y-yesterday!?” She didn't get louder, but her pitch raised a bit to a near-shriek; Leisa then took a breath, closing her eyes, mouth moving slowly. Then she opened her eyes again, staring intently at him. “You're not having me on, are you? I'm going to be cross with you if you're having me on.”

“I'm not … having you on. I didn't even have a class until yesterday.”

“I … alright. Alright, let's say I believe you. Okay. Now, your – you called them customization points? I don't know what those are. Damn cultists, teaching children ignorance nonsense and cutting up healthy … ahem. Alright, so. You said you got three last night? Usually, people are about ten years younger for this particular conversation, but ...”

She stared into the village, which seemed desolate in the midday sunlight; the farmers were off doing … farm things, and the rest of the villagers were doing stuff indoors. There was a group barely visible in the distance who seemed to be slopping mud and grass together to make another of the primitive … houses, but he wasn't entirely sure that's what they were doing.

“As you accomplish things in your life, the things you have set out to do, you grow in potential. After – the number varies a little bit, usually four to six – some number of growths in potential, a person gets their class.” She gave him a sharp look. “Usually this happens when somebody is a teenager, when they first start taking on responsibilities in their lives, and somebody is there to guide them.” Her gaze returned to the village after a moment, her expression unhappy. “Cults. Different bloodlines bring different … statistics, although it's somewhat random which bloodline somebody ends up with, from their parents. You're Bluebrim, unless I miss my guess, which most farmers are. In a sense, Bluebrim started modern farming.” Thomas tried not to react to the statement given the 'modern' farmers he had seen carrying hoes, shovels, and bags of seed over their shoulders. “So, the potential can be applied in a number of ways, but the most common, are to take additional dedications – the blessings of the gods – or to improve characteristics.

“Generally, a person improves the characteristics that help them with their class. Brawlers get the most out of each ... point in constitution, for reference.” He'd had to explain the word 'point' to her, and she caught on readily enough to describing characteristics in terms of numbers. “But they would also get the most penalty in a negative constitution.” Her eyes returned to him, frowning. “At least you didn't take a class you had an excessive penalty in. Everything is important. If your wisdom weren't so – five wisdom ascensions, really? – if your wisdom weren't so high, I'd say your intelligence would be your biggest problem. But right now, your constitution is.

“A brawler chafing. Really! You should have been able to ignore that.”

“Alright, but how do I apply the customiz- … how do I apply my potential to things?”

“Well, personally, I pray to the gods you don't believe in, mister atheist.”

Ah. Well. Hey, uh. Gods? Can you like … boost my constitution? Thomas waited, looking between Leisa and the sky. She frowned at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh. Praying?”

Another flat look. Leisa sighed and got up. “I need something to drink. Water?”

“Yes please.”

“So, change of subject.” Leisa looked over at Thomas when he spoke, taking a long pull from a bottle; he was pretty sure she wasn't drinking water, given that he had been handed a lopsided … leather … thing. She'd called it a bladder, and he really didn't want to know whether or not that was what it was actually made out of. The suspicion was enough. “Since you're a healer and all.”

“Alright. Fair enough, I've not much interest in your … disbelief in gods, whatever that's supposed to mean.”

“It means … no, change of subject. What's … why …” Aw hell. He hadn't thought this through very well. “Um. So, uh, where I'm from, women are ...” Shit. No way out but through. “Well, women don't talk about sex.” Leisa stared at him for a moment, and then at the bottle in her hand. She shook her head and took another swig. “I mean, uh.” What the hell did he mean? Leisa finished the pull, and finally turned back to him.

“Now I know you're having me on.”

“No, I mean … women … that woman on the road, uh, Anne, said she liked to watch men …” He blushed furiously. Leisa just laughed at him.

“Alright, and?” Thomas stared at his bladder – no, his canteen – and took a swig of the water. It was warm, but tasted surprisingly good; not like bottled water, where they added things to make it taste different, but like … well, like water looked like it would taste, as opposed to the nothing it actually tasted like.

“Well, uh.” Leisa sighed.

“Look, sex is natural. Women like it. Men like it too. What kind of crap did your parents teach you?”

“Well … don't men like sex … more? I always kind of ...” Thomas trailed off.

“Why, exactly, would men like sex more? That just seems like a recipe for misery.” Leisa frowned at the bottle, which was showing a notable reduction in volume, and raised it for a more measured sip. Thomas wasn't sure what to say to that. “There's pregnancy, sure, and a woman would be wise not to get pregnant before she's ready, but there are solutions for that.” Thomas blinked, thinking of the modern conveniences in that respect that wouldn't be available here.

“There are?”

Leisa slowly leaned forward, set the bottle on the ground, and put her hands to her forehead, resting her arms on her knees. Thomas waited, feeling embarrassed and awkward. She finally looked up again, and spoke slowly and deliberately again. “Tie an end in boiled intestine, and slide that on.”

“Oh! A condom.” Leisa picked up the bottle and sat back again.

“So you were having me on.”

“No, I just didn't know you … uh. Had condoms.”

“We've got animals with intestines, don't we.” And she took a drink. Well. Fair point. “Only trick is finding intestines of the right size.”

“Alright, but-” She interrupted him this time.

“Look, I'm a healer. I don't know what you're looking for here – men like sex, women like sex, most people like sex. What's with the obsession with sex?”

“I … uh. Do you choose … um. Vices? Or virtues?” Leisa just looked at him blankly. “Uh. I … got lust. And, uh, stoicism.” He wasn't going to admit that he had chosen lust, even if by accident. Leisa looked at him for a moment, then burst out into laughter. Thomas stared furiously at the ground as she got through a long round of belly laughs.

“I don't know anything about choosing, there, but I think I know what you're referring to now. They go by a few names, although I haven't heard them referred to as vices or virtues – it's all about moderation – but yes. And you got lust, did you?” Her expression turned to one of pity. Amused pity. “Not exactly common, but, well, that's not the worst thing to end up with, all things considered.” She chuckled to herself, speaking more quietly, “It does explain a bit.”

They settled into silence; Thomas found it less awkward than trying to speak again, still feeling quite embarrassed, and let it rest. Leisa corked the bottle and set it behind her, against the wall, settling back in the chair to look up at the clouds. So the people here had different attitudes towards sex. Indeed, some of the comments suggested men might be more reticent about the subject that women, here. Granted, he didn't have much experience with sex, or women. Well, really, any. But he had thought himself somewhat unusual in that regard, back home, and here it seemed more like he was … what was expected?

“So what did your cult teach you, anyways?” Leisa broke the silence.

“I … uh.” Did he explain about home? No. He was already on thin ice, as far as being taken seriously went. He tried to think of safe subjects. “Uh. Math. Reading. Writing. Biology.” Leisa studied him.

“They taught you to read and write? Well, that's not nothing, at least. Math? Mathematics? Explains your obsession with numbers. What do you mean, biology?”

“Well, like. The heart pumps blood. The liver … processes … alcohol.” Wait, what else did the liver do? He moved on quickly, but didn't get very far. “Cell structure and bacteria and stuff?”

“Bacteria?”

“Tiny little one-celled organisms? They cause infections.” This about exhausted his memories of bacteria. She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. Wait, did they know about bacteria here? He didn't want to ask and look like an idiot again.

“I … alright. So you're not entirely ignorant, at least.” He tried not to react to that; it felt sort of fair, and sort of unfair, at the same time. “So why'd you leave?”

“I didn't. I … uh, woke up here yesterday morning.”

“Here?”

“Well, a few miles up the stream.”

“Miles?”

“Uh. Leagues? How far is a league, anyways?” At the risk of sounding entirely ignorant again, granted. Leisa, however, paused for a second, considering the question.

“A league is about the distance a person will walk in an hour.” Another brief pause. “I've heard that three leagues is about as far as a person can see on the ground. You can see further, higher up. See you can you see the tops of the mountains, but can't see the lower half?” And she turned to gesture to one side; a building was in the way of what she was gesturing at. Her hand lowered. “Oh, well. You get the idea, anyways.”

“Thank you.”

Leisa left a short time later to to make the rounds again; she was indeed tending to sick and injured villagers; she had helped the man in the building back to his house, where he would be cared for by his family. Thomas sat and watched the sun start its slow descent; farmers started returning from their work.

A call was raised, and a woman covered in blood was brought to the healing house, half-carried by another woman. Leisa ran back to the building.

“Follow me. We'll make you useful, I need someone to hold her down.” Her voice wasn't musical at all.

Thomas held the woman down, as requested, with the help of the injured woman's companion; she struggled and thrashed, moaning senselessly, as Leisa poured water over a nasty-looking gash across her forearm which spurted blood in her face even as she worked. Thomas saw bone and resolutely turned his attention away from the work, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat. It smelled intensely of blood, like Thomas himself had a nosebleed. There was a quiet splash every other second. Leisa muttered quietly about muscles and tendons, then drew in a sharp breath, even as the splashing stopped.

“Poison. What was it?” Leisa spoke quietly as she started digging through a bag. The woman who had helped the injured person in looked pale.

“Inferno spider. I think.” Thomas' eyes jerked back to the wound. He started to gag, and forced himself to look away again. A spider did that? How? A vision of horror movie spiders crept into his mind.

“Did you get it?” Leisa's voice had a forced calm. There was a liquid sound – she was pouring something else – and an unpleasant hissing sound. The woman's thrashing redoubled, although her moaning was muffled by teeth suddenly clenched tight; Thomas struggled to hold her down; she was moving his entire body weight, and the other woman's, like they weren't even there. He was stunned by the strength; adrenaline?

“Barely. Burned the nest.” Leisa made a noise in her throat that might have been an affirmation, or might not.

“Alright, that should take care of the poison. I'm going to start stitching now, alright Emma? This is going to hurt, I need to stitch the muscles first.” Emma, as Thomas guessed the injured woman's name was, just continued moaning. She didn't seem … aware of what was going on. But Thomas did get thrown to the side a second later, rolling twice before managing to catch himself; somehow, Emma's companion managed to stay there, although Emma immediately started hitting her with her now-free uninjured arm. The woman just took it. Thomas quickly moved back to help hold the woman down; Emma's companion held her shoulder and arm perfectly still even with the thrashing, and Thomas saw Leina's hands inside Emma's arm, moving quickly as she put two bisected chunks of … of bloody meat back together. There was a glint of metal in the arm, where she had done something else to stop the spurting blood. Thomas looked away again, moving to Emma's far side, pulling the uninjured arm back to the ground. The muscles flexed, and it took all his body weight to hold her in place.

“I'm going to start closing the wound now, okay Emma? You're doing really well.” She was doing really well? She was trying to throw everyone across the room.

There was a metallic noise, and then liquid sounds again. Thomas tried not to look, tried not to think, focusing his attention on not being thrown.

Emma slept, her companion – whose name was Cenpre – sitting next to her, stroking her hair. They were both young, maybe younger than Thomas, now that he could look at them; sisters, he thought, by the identical red hair. He was helping Leisa pour sawdust over the blood – there was a lot of blood – on the ground and sweep it up. He spoke quietly to her as they worked.

“She's strong. Way stronger than me.” Leisa just snorted as she swept.

“Well, she's a farmer. Most farmers have a basic warrior class; strength and endurance both help with the work.” Thomas thought about that for a moment.

“Why aren't men doing the farming, then?” This got a quickly-muffled groan.

“What nonsense is this now? Why would men do the farming?”

“Aren't men … stronger?”

“Why would they be?” Huh. He … wasn't sure he could answer that. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden blue field.

Moderate objective complete: Assist with surgery. You have earned two customization points. You've reached class level 3! Free distinction gained.

Huh.

Class Distinction: Shrug Off

Damage less than 4 is reduced to 0

Well … that was short. And … hey. That was nice, he thought.

Thomas Bluebrim

Brawler

Legend of Wind

Level 3

0 Misfortunes / 0 Fortunes

0 Curses / 0 Blessings

90/90 Health

0/0 Mana

-1/-1 Stamina

1 Distinctions Available

17 Skill Points Available

15 Customization Points Available

Strength

Constitution****

Intelligence

1 Melee Damage Bonus

0

-3

3 Maximum Worn Armor

90 Maximum Health

10 Additional Skill Points

0 Deflection *

0 Damage Reduction

-2 Maximum Stamina Points

1 Melee Damage Bonus

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 *

Hey. His stamina hadn't increased this time. What gave? Maybe every other level?

“Hey, I leveled up again.” Thomas spoke quietly, so only the healer could hear him; Leisa glanced over at him as she swept the blood-laced sawdust out the door.

“Good for you?”

“I got a distinction that reduces damage below four, to zero.” Leisa frowned at this information for a second, then nodded.

“I am not sure what you mean by damage less than four, but I think that may mean you might be able to walk. Your blisters shouldn't get any worse. You should still increase your constitution; two ascensions, at least. Save the other three for intelligence.”

If he knew how to do that, he would. He'd really like to have positive intelligence.

“I also have a free distinction? Do you know how I use that?”

“I don't know what that is, Thomas.”

“Uh.” Thomas looked at the screens. “The thing that reduces the damage I take is a distinction.”

“Ah, a blessing from the gods. You … can ask them for a specific kind of blessing.” Her voice turned doubtful at the end of that statement. Of course he could. Thomas sighed.

Thomas hadn't had much luck begging gods for assistance, and started trying to concentrate on potential keywords in case one of the blue screens showed up. Customization. Customization points. Custom options. Custom changes. Customization options. Distinctions.

The last … worked, but his brain bent. The screen with the distinctions was even longer than the list of Lores, and it was an instant headache. Close distinctions! The enormous mobius strip of available … distinctions vanished. Okay, so that had worked. He needed to limit his options a little bit there. Alright. Constitution distinctions.

Distinction Name

Effect

Endurance Training

You get +1 Constitution at level 5, +2 Constitution at level 13, and +3 Constitution at level 20

Overbalance

Whenever you hit an enemy no more than one size larger than you, you may expend one Stamina to knock them Prone, subject to a contest of their Grace against your Strength plus your Constitution. +2 to Maximum Stamina

Soul Replenishment

If your maximum HP is less than your Constitution times your level, plus your level, increase your maximum HP by 1 per day

Unarmored Defense

When wearing no armor and not using a Shield, you get Worn Armor equal to your Agility plus your Perception. +3 to Maximum Health

Shatter

After successfully hitting an opponent with a physical attack dealing Blunt Damage, you may choose to attempt to destroy a piece of equipment they are using or wearing, subject to a contest of your Discipline against their Endurance. +1 to Maximum Stamina

Shieldwall

When using a non-buckler shield, when an opponent moves into a Protected Space, you may expend one Stamina to immediately end that opponent's turn subject to a contest of Endurance. +1 to Maximum Stamina

Feral Tenacity

You may use your Constitution score in place of Strength for any Skill. +2 to Maximum Health

Okay. That had worked. The options … weren't actually very helpful, however. Endurance Training wouldn't do anything for him yet; Unarmored Defense, which he got excited by when he first saw it, was similarly useless for him; he'd have negative armor. Soul Replenishment was a little … odd. He closed the screen for now, and tried again. And again. The stats all had distinctions associated with them, none of them helpful right now. He started trying stranger keywords, and then stopped, staring at the distinction that showed up.

Distinction Name

Prerequisites

Effect

Fortune Master

Cannot have taken Weapon Master, Cannot have taken Spell Master

Doubled Epiphany Bonus. +1 to all Skill attempts for every ten unspent skill points

He spent a few seconds checking Weapon Master and Spell Master – neither looked good for him – and came back to this Fortune Master. Huh. It would do something for him. He wasn't sure exactly what, but something. Thomas took it.

Anise brought him and Leisa dinner – a piece of hard, opened-topped bread he had trouble breaking with his hands, and some kind of vegetable stew which had a layer – not a film, but a layer – of oil floating in the top. No spoon, this time, and he followed Leisa's example of using the bread as a kind of scoop. The hard and heavy bread didn't soak terribly well, but it did a decent job of shoveling the bits of vegetable into his mouth. The stew was far saltier than he was accustomed to, but tasty all the same. The bread ended up being mostly edible at the end of the meal, but the crust didn't so much as crunch as snap.

Afterwards, Leisa had him carry her equipment as she made a final round of the sick and injured. Well, injured, at least, and there were quite a few, all damage to their extremities that looked like they had been swinging axes at each other for fun. Or maybe their farming tools. What exactly did farming entail, here? Leisa was cheerful, her voice sing-song again, as she chatted with the villagers about their trials and tribulations. Thomas was slightly taken aback when he realized, after they had left a pair of men, that they had referred to each other as husband; he had mostly been running on autopilot. Not that he had any problem with it, really, but … he hadn't really expected that in the medieval setting. Leisa just seemed confused when he asked her about it, and then annoyed at his “ignorant cult upbringing”. Right.

He slept in the healing house again, this time alone; removing the bandages around his thighs, the blisters of the chafing had subsided, leaving only slightly patchy red skin. He didn't get any notification about satisfying Lust.

“Head out with the farmers. You may know aught about the work, but you can help hit the beasties, and you may as well earn that breakfast.” Leisa sent him away in the morning after he had eaten; he followed the farmers hesitantly, falling in line with Cenpre, who he at least recognized. She looked at him, red hair aflame in the morning sun, and continued without speaking. Right then.

The farmers – a hundred of them, maybe? – wound their way between grassy hills on a well-worn sand walking path, and coming around a bend, a wall of plant met them, slightly taller than him. It had kind of the look of a corn field, but the thick bushes, heavy with some kind of gray lumpy – fruit? – was definitely not corn. Some of the farmers moved to the bushes, and started loading baskets from the bushes; Cenpre walked right through, and Thomas, after a moment of hesitation, followed behind. Branches and twigs scratched past his face, but he was satisfied to note that they didn't actually scratch him. He was pretty sure they would have yesterday morning.

There were lower-set plants past what he guessed were five rows of the bushes, vines crawling across the ground, with head-sized fruits that looked like melons growing from them. The melons were striped a pastel blue and yellow, not vibrant, but also not colors he was accustomed to seeing. The field was enclosed with another kind of tall plant on the far side, and then hills to the sides, and was about the size of a football field.

It was also dotted with insects, and not the little bugs he was accustomed to, no. A centipede as tall as a dog was chasing a bright red beetle the size of a cat on the far side of the clearing; there were more of the red beetles, bright in the morning light, moving over the field. Cenpre unshouldered her hoe and immediately set off towards the nearest beetle, which was trying to eat one of the melons. Thomas followed reluctantly behind her.

The beetles, apart from having bright red carapaces, also had odd protrusions upwards on their – snouts? Like horns. Their fuzzy mandibles couldn't quite wrap all the way around the melons, so the beetle they were approaching was instead doing a kind of sawing motion across it, the edges cutting into the thick rind of the melon, albeit slowly. It spun around when the blade of the Cenpre's hoe hit its carapace with a cracking noise, wiggling back and forth towards her. Thomas stopped, trying to decide what to do. Well. He was supposed to hit it, right? It was too short for a punch. He tried a kick instead.

The kick collided with the beetle's mandible, rather than the face he was aiming for, with a small crack, and Thomas hopped backwards on one foot, trying to regain his balance, when a pain tore through his ankle, and he fell over with a startled shriek. The beetle had bitten him! Duh it bit you, moron. Thomas scrabbled backwards away from the beetle, which had just started towards him when the hoe came down again, this time with an audible crunching sensation. Green goo flew into the air, and the beetle stopped chasing Thomas to just thrash about on the ground. He got to his feet unsteadily – his ankle stung, but nothing seemed to be broken – and he gave the beetle another kick in the face.

“Hold off, fool, it's dead, it just doesn't know it yet.” Thomas stepped back at Cenpre's reprimand. She waited a moment, and then moved to the side of the beetle, with an expectant look towards Thomas as she crouched. He reluctantly followed suit, and they lifted the beetle, which was heavier than he expected, and carried it off to the side of the field. There was a pit somebody had dug there, which he hadn't seen from his previous position, full of shattered carapace. “On three.” They heaved the beetle down into the pit.

The next beetle bit Thomas' forearm when he tried a punch – Cenpre just barked a laugh as he cradled his bleeding arm. “It'll stop bleeding on its own.” This, in response to his glance back the way they had come. After that, they settled into a routine; Thomas would kick the beetle and get its attention, and Cenpre would smash it while it was concentrating on him. They had a nice little pile of a good dozen beetles in the pit when he started, with a sense of fear, towards the centipede, which was busily devouring its second beetle.

“No, no.” Cenpre grabbed his arm, seeing where he was headed. “It's a predator, we want the millipedes.” Okay, millipede. Whatever. “It's why we have the pit; it attracts them. They're nocturnal, and keep the other pests off our fields at night.” Thomas looked at the millipede. Maybe it did seem lethargic? How fast could that thing move if it wanted to? “Also,” Cenpre added, “you'd die. Their bites are venomous. Also their guts will burn your skin on contact.” Thomas reluctantly nodded. They moved on to the next field; more of the red beetles.

Two more fields, and midday, and Thomas was completely exhausted.

“Head back. Just farming from here on out, and I don't want you harming the plants.”

Thomas headed back.

Moderate objective complete: Clear the fields. You have earned two customization points.