His hand was to his mouth before he could scream, the hand of whoever was trapped pulled harder. He kicked until he freed himself, and stumbled backwards, his hands hitting the ground with a thud.

The mix of dirt and gravel, and whatever else could have made up the small yet sharp shards beneath his palms, cut into him with tiny scratches. When he pulled his hands up to his mouth, wincing at the pain, he saw spots of blood forming in every crevice. His attention on his own hand, he didn’t notice what the one in front of him was doing.

By the time he did, that hand had long since gone from only being attached to an arm. That arm was now to a shoulder, and the head of the once buried man was now half free.

One brown eye peered at him from beneath tatters of red hair. A desperate and pleading eye, wide and terrified. The hand waved, it motioned forward, it waved again, and then when Mythril still refused to budge three fingers and a thumb left only the middle finger standing.

Mythril leaned back in alarm. The fear he expected, but not the anger. He was glad that the mouth was not yet free. Only, as he was thinking this, that same hand swept towards the man’s face and dug out enough so that it was now above the dirt.

“Is it not obvious that I need your help?” the man blurted out, sweeping his hand again, but this time in a wave around him to show the dirt that he was swallowed inside. He then brought his thumb up and pointed at himself. “I’ve been buried alive. You’re supposed to rescue me.”

“I am?” Mythril staggered.

He eyed Audreg in the distance, kicking her feet in the soil and then swinging her neck in the direction of any caw that caught her attention. He knew she was looking for a fight, and he wished she was looking for it with the half-dead, possible actually alive, man that was looking for a fight too, only with Mythril.

“It says so in the book,” the man persisted. “’And lo’!,’ so it says, I’m not sure what that lo’ means, but ‘lo’ an adventurer should fall upon your soon to be lifeless body, and with arms of steel,’” at this the man took a look at Mythril, tilted his head, squinted his one eye and then shrugged his one shoulder. “I guess that bits not too important. Anyway, it says an adventurer, that’s you, will come and save the poor and impoverished farmers. I’m guessing that’s me despite having bought new rakes at the cost of one good donkey last week. Doesn’t matter how much you try, you live on Buckberry Farm you’re always the impoverished farmer.”

“Where are you getting all of this from?” Mythril asked, wondering at how much it sounded like a quest.

“I found it in some book inside the farmhouse. Probably been used as kindle for the fire by now,” the man paused, then after a sigh and a glance back to the farmhouse, continued, “Can you just do your bit so that I can do my bit and then I can have some peace and quiet until the next monster decides my home looks like a good place to spend the winter?”

It was Mythril’s turn to look back to the farmhouse. He watched as the crows continued their work. In the window with a sprig and out with a twig. The way the man was talking was as though this was a quest, and he was aware of how it was supposed to go down.

Mythril pulled out his scroll and on QUEST LOG looked for anything in the Sunbright Fields, there was one quest and it wasn’t new. It was listed under Elder Moor - Faction.

It sat on the page in grey text, no flashing word beside it. This told Mythril that it was something he hadn’t only recently obtained.

The Crow Mother

In the sunlight she will come, her hair in braids and heart undone. For her wisdom he’ll pay the price, his mortal life a sacrifice.

Come the dusk and he’ll lay at rest, without his sword a heartless jest. Waste not time, nor stealth nor speed. Seek his soul.

Begin your quest.

Sigil of Elder Moor

The quest now tapped, the squashed map appeared at its side, a slight glow upon the area where Mythril stood. His eyes drifted across and he could see the other members of his party, now three rather than two, in the Lowlands. He tapped on the Lowlands and with the area expanded he could see that they were, as arranged, sat within an inn. The Goblin’s Harp, it said in small writing below.

The man stared at him from the dirt, expectant eyes seemingly knowing that he had now opened the quest that he as another self once started.

“It’s grey,” Mythril said, eyes on the man at first and then shifted to Audreg who bowed her head. From this movement he took approval for his thoughts. How hard could a grey quest be? “Okay, get up then.”

The man did nothing, only continued to stare.

“You can get out, you’re being lazy.”

With a grunt the man rocked his head side to side, weighing up his options, and then with his one shouldered shrug made a decision. “I suppose I am a bit. At least help me get my other arm free.”

Mythril did as he was asked, and then while the man struggled to free the rest of himself, Audreg now offering more help than Mythril in the form of pecking at the man’s head on occasion. Mythril ignored the man’s complaining. He saw it as Audreg urging the man along, putting a bit of her fighting spirit into him.

His hands twinging from the cuts upon them, ever sorer after helping the man come free, Mythril was searching through his items for a potion. He found plenty that would increase his Agility and Strength, some to even increase his Resolve, and others that did all three. Although the purple edging around these told him they were to be saved for something more than a scraped hand. He had one green edged Renew that promised to –

Down in the pits, wanderer? Drink me and restore some health. A little goes a long way.

Wellwrought Witchwood,

Head alchemist of Eldermoor

But drinking this did nothing for the wounds. A few more items down and he found Binds. These guaranteed –

An adventurer need not flinch at his sword in his grip. One wrap for minor wounds, three for too severe for just one, and if it’s worse than that this isn’t going to help so get yourself to a Healer.

Agatha of Elder Moor

The renew hadn’t done the trick but the binds had. One wrap and his hands no longer hurt. He was tempted to remove them and see if the wounds were gone, but he didn’t know if the effect was timed and this would ruin it. Instead he flicked to Armory and finding a suitable pair of looking gloves he equipped them. He then very quickly unequipped them. Mail gloves were something he would need to get used to, the way the knuckles clunked and split, the wrists held fast. He opted for leather gloves, but that still had high stats in Strength and Agility, two stats that given the frequent reoccurrence of them on his gear, he understood were of importance to his Calling.

His chest swelled a little with pride. Only a short time on his own, with the ability to concentrate, and he was starting to understand this world. For a moment he regretted coming to Buckberry Farm, wishing instead he had sat down and taken the time to look through his scroll. But, it was only a moments regret, after all, where’s the fun in that?

“All geared up?” the man asked. He’d dusted himself off as well as he could but still leaving much to be desired. A stick of hay pointed up from his head that Audreg decided to help remove by snapping at it and yanking it free. She spat it back at him once she realized it didn’t taste good.

Mythril still saw this as her helping.

“What’s your name?” he asked the man, wanting to know who he was to be questing with, although still quite certain this was not a player character as the others seemed to be. It dawned on him that he had no idea who might be a character made by a person, such as he knew he and Selrah were, and who was not. An air of suspicion clouded his judgement for a moment. Fear of the unknown mixed with, but how to know?

“Timothy Buckberry,” the man replied, eyeing Audreg with caution before looking back to Mythril. “And you are?”

“Mythril.” It was only after he said it that Mythril became aware he had not even thought to use his birth name, instead opting for the one he had given himself.

“Well, Mythril,” Timothy said, “Since you’re not going to find it.” He kicked at the ground, uncovering a note from beneath the dirt. “Now, if you hadn’t called a half buried alive man lazy for not being able to free himself, I’m sure you would have spotted it. But let’s not get into that, hmm?”

He looked at Mythril with an expression that said, unless you want to? Because I want to. The squint of his eyes and firm line of his lips showing that he was more than willing to have his patience tested now he was free from the ground.

“Let’s not.” Mythril bent down and retrieved the note from the ground. He unfolded it and saw that it was written in more of a scrawl than any of the others he had looked at so far.

Buried deep you found me.

By my hand you freed me.

Should you be wise, you’ll follow me.

Mythril read the words out loud, and Timothy, who he presumed had written them, nodded in appreciation.

“It says begin quest,” Mythril said, hovering his finger over the button on his scroll.

“And I wouldn’t click that yet, if I were you.”

Timothy, now dusted off to a point he considered adequate, beckoned Mythril to follow him. At first unsure he decided to heed the words of the quest and follow.

They walked back around the barn, the way that Mythril and Audreg had originally come from. It was now that Mythril noticed how overgrown the flowers were, that at one point they must have been kept neat, whereas now they were swamped with weeds and the petals of roses that would have crept up the wooden planked sides of the barn were wilted and browning.

“It was beautiful here some time ago,” Timothy said, pointing at the very flowers Mythril wondered about. “The Crow Mother put a stop to that. I bet the only foliage nearby that will be blooming high will be the berry bushes further down the fields.” Timothy opened the large barn door, hunching his shoulders up as it creaked. He looked back over his shoulder to Mythril, something of a nervous disposition suddenly come over him. “After you.” He said, waving his hand towards the dimly lit inside of the barn.

Mythril took a step back. Audreg close behind him pecked him on the shoulder, reminding him that she had feet that should he stand on them she wouldn’t hesitate to kick him with. Or anyone else for that matter, just to prove a point.

“I’m fairly certain that on the note it was written that I was to follow you,” he said, and gestured to the barn.

“Suit yourself,” Timothy replied, a smile turning the corners of his mouth upwards.

They entered the barn. Only a few of the windows allowed light to enter in, others were either blocked on the inside by stacks of hay that was sinking in on itself and giving off a musty smell, or, by vines that had grown up the outside of the barn.

“What do we need from in here?”

Timothy was busy searching in the corner of the room. “I’m guessing we’re going to get in a fight, and I know that somewhere around here I buried a sword for the occasion.” As he finished talking he let out a sigh of relief and from within a stack of wooden panels he pulled out an ornately decorated sword.

The light may have been dim but Mythril was sure he would have seen a sword of that appearance even from behind a few clumsily stacked panels.

“Here,” Timothy handed the sword to Mythril. “Hold this for me will you.”

Taking the sword Mythril turned it over in his hands. It had a slim blade but the steel shone bright in even the waning light. Across the hilt three blue gems, the central the largest, glistened, and the handle felt waxy beneath the grip of his leather gloves. It was the kind of sword he could see a master fighting with, and before he could stop himself he had swept it through the air.

“I said hold it, not try and kill your ostrich with it,” Timothy was stepping towards him with a shield held up in front of him.

At the sound of a low hiss Mythril glanced over his shoulder to see that Audreg had followed him into the barn and was scratching her feet on the ground as though preparing to charge.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering the blade.

She spat at the ground beside him.

“Okay, I deserved that,” he said with a shrug. Audreg seemingly now content again to wander around the barn he turned his attention back to Timothy just as he slipped the sword back out of his grip.

“I knew these would be in here somewhere,” he said, mock holding up the sword and shield in a defensive stance.

Just as the sword was designed in the style that he would have thought was for a king, or at least a high-end boss, the kind that took a lot of planning and potions to defeat, the shield looked as though it was recovered from a war lost paladin. The same bright silver of the sword, the shield had edges of gold and at its centre the image of a crescent moon, a cloud in a misty swirl around it and a mask to its side. It was an image that looked familiar to Mythril, but not one that he could place in that moment.

“How did you get weapons like these?”

It hadn’t occurred to Mythril that this might be rude to ask, not at least until Timothy was standing straight again and looking at him with the expression of someone who is not at all amused.

“Why shouldn’t I have them?” he pushed them towards Mythril. “Are they only for the wanderers and adventurers?”

Mythril reached out to take them, thinking that if he was going to be so foolish as to offer them then why not? Before he could, Timothy snatched them back and with a scoff pushed the sword into a sheaf at his waist that Mythril was certain had not been there before.

“To you I might just be a farmer you considered too lazy to help himself from being buried alive, but,” and with this Timothy, despite being shorter than Mythril managed to stare down at him, “but to others I am greatness.”

He posed awkwardly, hand on the hilt of his sword, shield held high into the air, the sparse sunlight offering it a glow that made it a slightly more impressive scene.

Audreg spat on the floor beside him, just missing his shoe.

“Okay, Timothy the Great of Buckberry Farm,” Mythril said. “Let’s just do what we’re here to get done.”

As Timothy removed his hand from the hilt of his sword, Mythril wondered if he might be able to get a belt such as that, one that would make using his sword a lot easier. He had seen Selrah and Jumin both pull their weapons out of thin air, but although he knew this was possible, he was tired of taking out his scroll, swiping, summoning and repeat. He felt like he was playing the game with lag and still flinching from a debuff that ended for his friends over a minute ago. He had been stuck on a loading screen with this before, never again.

“Where did you get the sheath?” he asked Timothy who seemed to be posturing himself just for Mythril to notice it.

“Why would you need one?”

Timothy glanced at Mythril, taking a good look at his choice in gear. “Why are you wearing leather gloves, mail boots, plate chest piece and cloth trousers?”

He hadn’t thought about how he might look up until this point, even in the world of the game he was concerned with comfort more so than stats. He knew at least that his gloves were right, well, they had STR and AGI at least.

“My crotch hurt while I was riding my ostrich, my hands don’t work properly in the other gloves, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear.”

Timothy squinted.

“I’m drunk.”

Timothy raised a single brow.

“Well, let’s say you had forgotten how to summon your sword, because you’re supposedly drunk,” he looked at Mythril pointedly. “You at least remember where your path is written, right? Where the Elders scribed your destiny?”

Mythril shook his head.

Timothy pointed to his arm. “Fortunately, although you’re wearing a chest plate you forgot to put anything on by the way of bracers, so your path is shining blue, which means you’re a Master of Blades and has sparked off to make you a Magi Knight,” he took a closer look at Mythril’s arm. “Quite a high rank as well. How drunk do you need to be to forget this?”

Mythril was now examining his arm. It was of interest to him before, but now with a greater understanding of what it was he looked more closely at the wiry path lines that ran like veins down his arms, at the symbols that glowed compared to the ones that remained dull.

“What do I do with it?”

Timothy took hold of his arm, and held it up to him, his thumb pressing down on his wrist. “All of your power comes from here. This is who you are, this is what your soul and your choices made you become.”

Mythril suddenly felt quite distant from his own arm. His soul may have made him a Master of Blades, but having not played the game in years, and knowing full well he never got anywhere near these many skills, it was not his choices that set the markers for that path. Not for the first time, he felt like a fraud.

“This is where the Elders bless adventurers with their power and this power runs through your body. Know who you are, and you will fight as you are supposed to.”

Mythril was sure this was supposed to be a deep moment, one where he felt enlightenment and perhaps a soundtrack would begin to play while he went through a fighting montage. But these were not the powers blessed upon him by the Elders, these were the powers blessed upon Mythril.

As he stared down at his arm, still held in Timothy’s hands, one of the small icons flickered between a bright and then pastel blue, before dulling completely on his arm. Timothy let it drop free.

“How?” he asked. He watched as Mythril lifted his arm and looked at the now faded mark. He could see that others had also vanished since Selrah had pointed out the lack of [Knight’s Command] in the forest. His chest felt tight as he wondered if once all of the spells had faded, he would too.

“I told you,” Mythril said, his voice low, serious even. “I’m drunk.”

Timothy nodded his head, and then grinned. “Well, even drunk men need to know how to fight. And even Magi Knights need to be reminded of who they are, whether or not that is what you are,” Timothy glanced at his arm again. “Whatever you are, you began as a Master of Blades. Now, summon your blade.”

This was true. Mythril had been through the vigorous testing that all players went through before being granted a calling, he had played those first few test levels, he had begun his Elders Quest.

Mythril’s sword appeared in his hand.