With that, the blue screen disappeared, and suddenly, he felt like he was falling from an airplane. That was until he came to an abrupt stop. Strangely, it didn’t hurt, but he also couldn’t say he liked the sensation. He looked up and saw a blue sky with wispy clouds, the sun just peeking over the horizon.

Looking around, Tim tried to get his bearings. There were rolling hills and copses of trees spread out. It really looked like unexplored terrain, untouched by human development—something that was all too rare back home.

Although Tim was a gamer and spent most of his limited free time inside, in front of a computer, his last girlfriend, Brittany, had been a nature enthusiast. Despite his normal preference for the indoors, he had learned some appreciation for hiking in nature with her.

Places without people were strangely peaceful, and he had even regretted it when they eventually broke up. Without her, he didn’t have the motivation for weekend trips to various parks. That was in the past; he needed to focus on what was happening now. Either he was still stuck in the most vivid of dreams or he had, in fact, ended up in a new world.

Despite the vague similarity to some spots he had hiked with Brittany, this was definitely not Earth—at least, not any place on Earth he knew about. Rolling down the dirt road that wound its way through the landscape laid out before him was a wooden wagon pulled by an enormous creature that he couldn’t identify. It looked something like a bison with its head scrunched against its shoulders. The horns looked serious, flaring out to four points, each ending in a sharp tip. More than that, the creature had to be at least six or seven feet tall at the shoulder and four feet wide.

Sitting on the bench and driving the wagon was a short, dark-haired man, dressed in what Tim would have termed a tunic and skirt, with a bright orange sash tied around his waist. Next to him was a beautiful younger woman—presumably a daughter, although Tim reminded himself not to make too many assumptions. She wore what could best be described as a toga and had long, flowing blonde hair well past her shoulders, framing bright eyes and a lively smile.

As the wagon pulled up alongside him, Tim realized he had been so caught up in his observations that he hadn’t even risen to his feet. He was sitting on his backside, propped up with his hands behind him, so he made to stand slowly as he didn’t want to startle these people.

“Take it easy there, elder. Do you need help?” the man asked. Tim felt like he had an odd accent, yet the words came out clear enough.

“Of course, he needs help, Father. What sort of question is that?” the woman said—or perhaps she was more of a girl now that she was closer. She had concern written clearly across her face as she smoothly climbed down from the wagon. Once down, she stepped over the hitch that connected the wagon to the behemoth that was pulling it.

“Were you attacked? If you need help, we can notify your family or give you a ride into the city.”

Tim went to move again and felt achy all over like all his joints were sore or he hadn’t moved in a very long time. It was then that he looked down at himself. The true shock set in then, and not just because he appeared to be wearing nothing more than some fine satin boxers, but because this was not his body. He had been relatively fit—at least, for someone who spent so much time indoors—and had only recently celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday.

The body he looked at had to be more seventy than twenty-seven. His arms were thin—that was if they were truly his arms—and his skin hung loosely on his bones. It wasn’t in a malnourished sort of way, rather just as the result of having lost the war with time. There were some ugly age spots, and his fingers were almost skeletal. Looking at his legs told him they were no better. It was no wonder that it felt like getting up was difficult. This body undoubtedly had arthritis.

Somebody had to be messing with him. If this was a dream, it was more like a nightmare, and if it wasn’t, then he had been royally screwed over. The girl reached out and grabbed his arm, helping him up. Her look of concern grew deeper. It was then that Tim realized he had answered none of the questions that they put to him.

“I’m okay, but I don’t seem to remember where I am.” His voice came out as more of a dry croak.

“Oh, Papa, give me one of the waterskins. He needs a drink,” the girl said as she turned to her father.

The man dismounted the wagon and walked over a carrying what looked like a leather bag with a cork in one end. “Here, old-timer, take a drink of this to wet your whistle.” Then, as if thinking of something else, he added, “If you need something stronger, I have some good Asmaran wine.”

“No, thank you. Water would be wonderful,” Tim answered as he realized just how thirsty he was. His mind was racing, trying to sort out what to do as he didn’t want to give away too much information. Should he just play the amnesia card? It seemed so implausible. But then again, was any of this likely?

Suddenly, after handing over the water, the man jerked back, pulling his daughter with him. His eyes were fixated on Tim’s waist, and an expression of what might have been fear or perhaps simple concern crossed his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a sojourner.”

Tim knew what the word meant and recognized it from the blue screen, but he didn’t know what the man knew about it. Instinctively, he looked down at his waist. This time, when he wasn’t fixated on his shriveled limbs, Tim saw he had a well-crafted leather pouch bound around his waist, held in place by a leather belt of sorts.

The pouch was perhaps three inches thick, eight inches wide, and a foot tall. It looked to be of excellent quality—for all that Tim knew about such things. Stitched onto the flap just above the clasp that connected the flap to the rest of the pouch was a white rabbit.

“Is something wrong with my pouch, and how do you know that I’m a sojourner?”

The man relaxed a little, but he still moved to stand between his daughter and Tim. “You must be very new to Iocusinte. You have a soul pouch, and it is marked with the sign of Cal-Dakota.”

“Soul pouch? Cal who?” Tim’s confusion only grew.

Now, it was the man whose face was covered in confusion. Tim realized he should introduce himself. “Let’s begin again. My name is Timothy Stein, but my friends just call me Tim, and anyone who rescues me out in the middle of nowhere counts as my friend. As for more details about me, I don’t really recall much at the moment, but I don’t recall ever having been here before.”

“Pleased to meet you, Tim. I’m Atticus, and this is my daughter, Cecilia. We are merchants on our way to the capital with a wagon full of rarities.”

Tim held out his hand as if to shake, but Atticus only looked at it oddly. Duh, people here probably don’t shake hands in greeting. Tim chuckled at himself and then awkwardly returned his hand to his side.

“As for your other questions. I know you must be a sojourner as they are the only ones with soul-bound bags like that. I’ve heard them called bags of holding or soul pouches, but either way, they are bound to the sojourner, and no one can steal them or anything in them.”

Tim decided to continue with feigning amnesia. His choice in books and anime gave him a good idea of what was meant by a sojourner, but what he really wanted to know was what was known about them here in this world. “Again, you have me at a disadvantage. I simply don’t remember how I ended up here, or even where here is for that matter.”

Cecilia must have lost her fear of him as she stepped up next to her father. “You must be a 1st gen, even a new arrival. Wow, who thought that I would meet one in my life.”

Tim said, “Um, is that a good thing?”

Atticus replied, “It can be. Things tend to happen around sojourners more than anyone else. 1st gens even more than others. Yet, if you are a new arrival, that may mean that big things are about to happen around here. Especially given who your patron is.”

“I’m sorry, Atticus, but you are using terms I don’t understand. I know a sojourner is someone in a foreign land, but I don’t know what you mean by it, by 1st gen, or by new arrival for that matter. Oh, and as far as I know, I don’t have any kind of patron. If I did, they weren’t very generous to leave me out here in my underwear—for which I apologize. Sorry you have to look upon this ugly sight,” Tim said while waving his hands down his body.

They both chuckled before Atticus said, “It comes to us all, my friend, if we live long enough.”

Tim wanted to scream that he wasn’t even thirty, certainly not crypt keeper old, but he said nothing as he waited for answers to his questions.

“Sojourners are travelers from other worlds who are sent here by the patrons. Some call the patrons gods, and some think of them as mischievous demons. Either way, no one has ever actually seen them. The sojourners in the tales I have heard all describe being communicated to by some kind of blue page that only they can see,” Cecilia said.

Atticus added, “1st gen are what sojourners who have come from other worlds directly are called, whereas if 2 sojourners have a child, that child is called a progeny. Or the same if they have children with a regular person. Apparently, the sojourners keep track of what generation. They count up based on how far they are removed from the transfer here. A new arrival simply means that they just got here. Every story I have read about the sojourners indicates that there is a general level of confusion when they arrive.”

The more answers Tim got, the more questions he thought of. “Are sojourners common?”

“1st gen are not that common. The tales say that each of the four patrons can only send one to this world each year. Many of the 1st gen die while adapting to Iocusinte. Those sojourners who survive have children.

“Since they are sturdier than regular folk, they tend to live longer—at least, if they survive dungeon diving. As much as 10% of the population are sojourners, but it might be a few as 1%. The government won’t reveal the numbers for some reason. Either way, most of those are progeny and not 1st gens.”

“Does it matter what generation they are?” Tim asked.

Atticus shrugged. “I don’t rightfully know. I can say that it seems to be a matter of importance amongst the sojourners. Perhaps you could find information at the guildhall.”

Tim nodded in understanding. That made sense. A special group of people would keep to themselves. If they were an outsider, they would keep their secrets closely guarded.

Atticus continued, “As for the bag, all I know is that they can carry a tremendous amount of stuff inside them, and they only respond to their owner. They can’t be stolen, nor can the items inside of them be taken out except by you. The mark on yours is that of Cal-Dakota. He is generally deemed to be the source of many of the world’s woes, not from outright evil or anything like that but simply because he is a trickster.”

“A bunny is the symbol for woes in this world?” Tim asked, laughing.

“I didn’t design it or make up the rules, I just know what it represents. Maybe if you are brand-new, look inside the bag and see if you have anything there. I can offer you a ride into the capital. The roads are safe for the most part, but some might look to take advantage of a 1st gen who they found out here.”

“Okay, but just a couple more questions,” Tim said.

Atticus looked down the road in the direction they had come from, concern plastered on his face once again. Tim noticed a cloud of dust and wondered if it was like in old western movies and some horsemen were coming this way. Either way, he decided it was best to listen to Atticus, who seemed kind enough so far. “Sorry, the questions can wait until we get moving. I don’t want to get you all in any trouble.”

Cecilia smiled. “It will be okay, but if those are knights headed to the capital, we will have to move the wagon off the road for them. Otherwise, they will get upset.”

All three of them climbed up into the wagon. Father and daughter sat on the bench. Meanwhile, Tim tried to find a spot in the back. He didn’t want to damage any of their goods, and they had been accurate in saying they had a wide variety.

There were bundles of fine cloth, sacks of what seemed like grain, crates of wine bottles, sealed crates he couldn’t see inside, and a hodgepodge assortment of other items. He settled onto a stack composed of various bolts of cloth and looked to his hosts to see if that spot was okay.

Cecilia nodded and said, “Try not to get any more dirt on them than necessary. It’s only about an hour to the capital.”