Ch: 3 Sweet Dreams

Unsurprisingly, when sleeping in a musical magic cavern, he woke with no clue of the time.

His cot quickly packed away and he ambled out, closing up as he went. He regretted leaving the lava lamp device but it was too big to carry away, of course he also had no idea what it was for. Munching on the extra johnny cakes from the night before, he locked the front door by the simple advent of removing the handle. Any bozo could fiddle it open empty handed in the dark, but it was the principle of the thing.

He gazed off to the west from the porch, then set off at a brisk march. He felt a strong urge to fall into his interface and do some reading while he marched, but in strange territory he decided to keep his wits about him. Walking in the woods was boring, even while using his gift to identify the local plants and fungi and collecting likely looking samples.

Following the stream, he went down towards a broad valley, a ribbon of darker green indicated a river of good size and the valley floor was a patchwork of fields in the distance.

His Artisan gift had some interesting things to consider once he had stuff to work with, if magic and alchemy are things that exist, he wanted to get a running start on them. That “reagent” tag on many of the samples he had touched was interesting. Even more interesting he had spotted a hive, swarming with bees a ways off his trail and headed over to try some things.

In a small open space deep in a thicket he fixed his gaze on the beehive, concentrated and a message appeared.

Bee swarm, animal, low intelligence, communal/swarming, mild threat. Non-magical.

He focused on the bees, trying to activate his social power for the first time.

With a subtle shift in their flight patterns he could tell that the bees were no longer interested or threatened by his presence at all. Slowly he approached the hive, waxy combs visible inside a decaying log. The swarm shifted to allow him to pass. Bees swerving all around as though he were a natural part of their hive, he reached in carefully and pulled a good sized chunk free with ease. The bees failed to react at all. In fact, looking at the thick slab of sticky comb in his hands, there were no bees in or on it at all. No crud, dirt, larvae, nothing, just clean wax and honey. He thought about going in for more, since there was still a large amount visible in the log, but a message brought him up short.

Further exploitation of this resource could threaten the hive’s prosperity, this may trigger aggression. Continue?

Gary closed it out, saluted his bee buddies and continued on his way. Down a quarter mile into the valley his stream joined with another.

As the sun started going down he stopped in a clearing to summon his home. He sat cross legged on the ground and began to drum on his chest and sing.

“Dayyy-O, DAAAYYY-O Daylight come and me wann go h’ome”

That was the key, not the lyrics, but drumming and singing or whistling summoned it up in a little under fifteen minutes. He got the impression that an instrument would tighten up that timing significantly.

The whole trick seemed to be in the complete immersion in the music, rather than an intellectual exercise.

Once again, as he slipped inside, his storage unpacked and sorted itself out. He took a moment to mentally decide what to carry out tomorrow, leaving his storage mostly empty.

After a day of hiking through the bush on winding game trails he was filthy and ready to bathe, eat and sleep in any order. He started another pot of stew, while putting a number of his tubers in the oven to roast. The oven was already hot, just like the fire laid on the hearth. Both consumed no fuel, but instead fed from a tiny thread of mana running from his mana pool.

“Magic house is best house” he declared as he headed for the bath. The water was perfect, almost too hot in the shower. After the sandwich debacle he hesitated to conjure a bar of soap, but decided to try. With a thought it blinked into existence. A pale blue bar of ordinary looking soap appeared just out of his line of sight without fanfare. It got him clean, but smelled of nothing at all. Once scrubbed clean he ambled through the curtain to the bath. It was heavenly, so warm and welcoming, scented of herbs and mineral tang.

Odd that this should have a scent but the sandwich and soap had none at all. He filed that thought away for later.

Floating in the pool, watching the stars twinkle overhead, Gary’s mind unspooled, total relaxation and the soft light of paper lanterns and stars led him into his own mind.

Since the accident he had been almost in suspended animation, living one day to the next, trying to get through his life. Now, here in this place he felt hopes and dreams long suppressed, start to move and squirm. He had a home, a workshop, a little money and no one knew anything about him. Maybe there could be a chance at something more than just surviving, something better.

Gary’s life had been furtive, earning his way doing handyman jobs and busking on the street for cash, that dried up quickly though. A crippled kid with tools or a guitar was an easy target. Landing a few gigs repairing gear for local impoverished bands kept him fed after that.

He had met Mr Pauls while scrounging in the dumpster behind the old man’s shop for usable guitar parts. The old coot had been gregarious and charming once they got onto the subject of music and his offer to let Gary work in his shop off the books came as a surprise. Gary had jumped at the chance to get paid to work in a shop rather than in some smoky filthy club, getting paid in cold pizza or tacos. “Ohh man… tacos. I Wonder if they have them here?”

Only hunger drove him from the bath, his conjured towel worked admirably, drying without chafing, leaving only the pleasant scent of the bath on wrinkled pink skin. He wrapped himself in a soft cotton robe that appeared just behind the door, hanging on a peg that had only just appeared to hold it.

After dinner, there was a lot left over, as his ravenous appetite seemed to have settled down a bit. He stowed the half full pot in the fridge and created a new empty one in the cupboard.

The tableware he began washing up out of habit, then decided to pile them in the sink and dismiss them. What little food waste remained slipped down the drain as the dishes vanished without fanfare. Summoning new ones was as simple as breathing, they even put themselves away.

Late evening sun lanced over the wall into his courtyard garden as he dug a small hole in a sunny raised garden bed and planted his little Pot plant. At a touch its message came up.

Cannabis, herb, low magic, edible, reagent, mildly psychoactive, potency will increase as herb matures. This sample is alive and healthy. Integrate into dwelling? Yes/No

He selected ‘Yes’ and a soft chime sounded in his bones as a new message appeared.

A plant specimen has been integrated into your dwelling, its health and growth will be maintained. You will be notified if attention is required or resources become available.

Intrigued, he drew some other samples from his storage. A couple blackberry seeds, some rushes by the garden pond and wild onions by the wall were each integrated with the same result. Some bone deep understanding told him that these were now permanent additions to his garden and would come with, when he packed up.

In the kitchen, Gary gazed into a bowl holding his slab of honeycomb. He had honey and wax, but getting them apart was a daunting task. He wanted, needed both. Vaguely he recalled that modern beekeepers used centrifuges to extract honey from the combs. He knew now that the wood working equipment in the shop was a result of having grown up working with and maintaining those very machines. It was his intimate familiarity that made them possible, which explained a lot about his soap and sandwich problem.

Deciding on a course, Gary conjured a few metal trays and a wire rack just the right size for his slab of comb. Then he summoned a wide, thin blade on a couple wooden handles and heated it on the stove. With a brisk motion he scraped the wax cap off the honeycomb, placed the wire rack and a deep metal tray on top, then inverted the whole thing. Heating the blade again he scraped the wax off the top of the cells. He dropped the wax trimmings into the bowl the honeycomb had been in and leaving gravity to do its work, went down into the workshop.

He stripped in the foyer and conjured a pair of boots, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather apron directly onto himself. Long sleeves and sandals were not workshop attire, magical world or no.

He had taken the whole supply of well seasoned firewood in the cabin, but his house didn't use normal fuel. Resolving to find a use for the stuff, he carefully sorted the logs and split quarters by wood species and quality. Sorting was a very simple process with his new gift. Most remained firmly in the firewood pile, but a few pieces were interesting enough to start playing around with.

A few chunks of maple caught his eye first.

Maple, hardwood (curly), non magical, fuel, crafting component, This sample is capable of accepting low level enchantment.

He took them to the bandsaw and began carefully slicing it into shape. In a few minutes he had three hexagonal rods of curly maple each eighteen to twenty five inches long and two inches in diameter. He tucked two away for later.

At the lathe, curls of fragrant wood sailed gracefully to the floor. Before long he began carefully boring holes on the drill press. In just under an hour, as the sun finally left the workroom, and paper lanterns sprang up around the room he was satisfied. He touched his nearly finished work and smiled with satisfaction.

Recorder, instrument, Flute class, unranked, can be enchanted up to Iron Rank by a qualified sorcerer. Quality, fine. Unfinished.

Even incomplete and a little loose, he could not resist bringing it to his lips and playing a few bars of an old Irish reel. It would sound better once more firmly sealed and easier to tune, but the old familiar joy of music filling a home made his throat close a little. This was going to be a very nice flute.

As he headed upstairs he showered briefly in the foyer to get the sawdust off, his clothes he simply unmade.

Clad in only bunny slippers he sat on his stoop. As the sun set, he spotted a faint glimmer of light at the far end of the large valley his temporary home overlooked. He assumed that would be the city of Wheatford.

He sat playing on his flute as darkness fell, watching the stars and distant city lights. Haunting melodies drifting out over the valley while a vast moon of yellow chased a tiny gray orb through the sky. “Two moons...” he muttered. Before going in to bed.

He conjured a soft king size bed into his bedroom before opening the door and collapsing into it.

The next morning, while a pot of wild oat porridge simmered on the stove, Gary decanted the tray of honey into a summoned apothecary jar and capped it before banishing all the tools except the bowl that held the comb and wax scrapings.

He conjured a pot and filled it with water on the stove with the bowl on top. While he ate, the wax melted then congealed and abandoned its remaining scraps of honey.

After breakfast he resummoned his work clothes and went down to work with his bowl of warm beeswax and a linen shirt that was far too small for him, but unraveled into loose threads very nicely.

In just an hour and a half he finished braiding and winding waxed linen thread onto the male end of his recorder join. A good long buff with more beeswax to make a nice finish and it was ready.

Since his ravenous appetite had settled down, he decided to stay here a day or two to explore a little and maybe learn something about the town, without actually going too close.

He had been traveling slightly downhill since leaving Z’s cabin and the environment was getting more lush. He had some wandering and plant fondling he wanted to do, and maybe there were more bees around.

He had a view of the town in the distance and no sign of people around, so this was as good a place as he was likely to find. He locked his house up with a brief effort of will before strolling off into the woods with his flute tucked away against his skin and staff swinging jauntily.

Up a grassy hill and down into a shady vale, he stumbled onto the overgrown foundation of a modest sized house and a few timbers rotting amongst the litter, clearly this had been a farmhouse in the distant past.

The barn was more intact, strangely enough and Gary scrounged up a few odds and ends; a pickaxe head, no handle and a couple brass and bronze fittings from some long rotten bridle. Up the sunny side of the vale were the real goods, an orchard gone wild. In just a few minutes he gathered a good selection of apples, pears, and a few things that looked like a round pineapple his gift identified for him.

Grenadier pear, fruit, low magic. Edible, reagent, component.

Curious, he turned his staff into a knife and cut into it, while thinking how much he was going to use that staff going forward… and how much he was not using that damn sword form. “Stupid Kinksword!” he griped, before trying the fruit.

It was sweet, but not too much, almost melon-like in texture, and so delicious. If a fig was as big as a grapefruit, but still as flavorful as any he had tried, it would be close. The taste was almost fig, strawberry and plum but none of those. Like a pineapple it had a scaled rind, studded with tiny seeds which Gary greedily collected, he had been bitten by the gardening bug.

By noon, as his storage was getting about half full, thinking to gather more on the return loop, he turned toward home. “Home… “ he mumbled. “I have a home.” Emotions were welling inside him in some uncomfortable ways, so Gary pulled the warm flute from inside his shirt.

Prolonged skin contact was the best way to set the rubbed beeswax finish on that sweet little recorder. Raising it, he tuned up quickly and began an English country dance tune called John Barleycorn. A light and frisky number, that jigged up and down the scale of his flute, using the simple instrument to its fullest.

Gary spent a quiet afternoon roaming not far from his house, touching the foliage and filling the forest with music for the simple joy and release of it. Not long after he began playing, he noticed a magpie watching him from a nearby branch, a magpie that was watching very very intently. Shortly, he heard a soft harmony start in, hesitantly at first, then with greater confidence, following his lead with verve. It was the bird, warbling in key and on rhythm, he was pretty good too. From across the glade, a knocking sound rang out.

A woodpecker had perched on a hollow log and was tapping the rhythm in fine form. Not daring to break the spell, he shifted into an irish reel and sped up a little. The birds stayed with him as he walked, the woodpecker even found an opening and went into a brief percussion solo while he harvested a clump of mushrooms.

By the time he was done, the trees around him were, if not filled, liberally sprinkled with chirping, clicking, warbling birds. Exhausted, he wound the music down and the birds vanished without fanfare, flying away on their own business. As they left a message twinkled in his eye.

Gift: Familiar Stranger has fully integrated. New functionalities have emerged;

Entrainment, non hostile entities may be influenced in behavior or action. Gift scales against creature’s will, mind, and the nature of the influence. Creatures will be very difficult to induce to act against their own interests. No cost, no cooldown.

Unknown, unknown/null

“Disney princess powers?” He looked down to the flute in his hand, so simple and humble, what else would happen, what more could he expect? All questions, no answers. He resolved to head into the town proper in two days, two more days wandering and experimenting would be a good compromise.

If he were honest with himself, it was just fear that kept him from going to the city, fear of the unknown, fear of rejection, fear of people and most of all fear and wariness of authorities. If he were even more honest he was being stubborn and muleish.

He had money, he knew he could speak the language. Z had not warned him of any specific threats beyond nobles and gods, what could he do about either of those anyway? Just lay low, take it easy and get what he needed. Information, resources, connections, he had none and needed all of them.

It was time to suck it up. Plus, if he stayed out in the woods there would be no chance of gathering the things needed to build himself a guitar. That was not going to work, that empty stand needed filling. Maybe he could buy a guitar, but he knew in his soul that he needed to build one and build it right. It had been two years since that first and last complete build, he was itching to test the skills he had honed on so many repairs, setups and refinishes. Grandpa would never be able to give him his journeyman’s apron, but maybe he could carry on his family’s legacy here.

That was a thought to get him moving, he almost trotted back home with a new plan in mind. In this world nobody knew him, everything he cared about in the old world was long lost except poor old Mr Pauls. “Poor Geezer is probably worried sick. It's gonna be even worse when they find old me.” This talking to himself thing was a growing concern, talking to people was the only answer.

With a decision made and his course set, Gary turned in. When morning came, he headed down into the valley. Aiming to skirt the patchwork of agricultural lands and pick around the edges of human habitation, and maybe even meet a local or two on the way. Twenty minutes on the now familiar game trails led him to a narrow road of packed earth.

Quickly as he headed down the lane the scrubby trees and bushes were replaced by tall conifers, and then mixed hardwood forest, as though he had dropped a mile in altitude in a few thousand yards of slightly inclined road. Closer to the fields, the trees spaced out, becoming an obviously well maintained woodcutter’s forest.

Before long he was among the fields, startled again at how much difference two good legs and a bit of road could make. People went about their tasks oblivious of him, so he kept walking, looking eagerly to learn all about his new environment. The people were ethnically diverse and peaceful, no weapons were in view and everyone either ignored him or gave a nod or wave as he passed, noticing his gaze on them and assuming him to be an acquaintance.

As he neared the town proper, rising on a hillside a mile or so ahead, the road passed into trees again, low stakes marked out plots that were loosely planted with mixed fruit trees and garden beds. Among them people moved in much greater numbers.

A vast community garden and orchard seemed to make a wide ring around the city dividing it from the fields and pastures. Mostly children (younger than Gary anyway) were tending the gardens and orchards, hoeing, digging and otherwise getting dirty. They looked happy and well fed, even more interestingly the trees were full of small animals, who seemed to be harvesting fruits and nuts and passing them to the kids.

Squirrels, raccoons and even monkeys scampered about in the boughs, while on the ground assorted poultry were being shepherded by a pack of dogs, each one happily tending his own flocks without guidance.

Gary had spent some time with the migrant community in the central valley of california, he knew what agriculture looked like and this was something far more. The kids seemed to mostly be playing and chatting with each other while vaguely guiding the animals, mostly with gestures and soft words. This whole deal looked more like a dog park on Saturday than work. He tried dialing his “don’t notice me” power up to the maximum and wandered closer to a group of kids nearer his age to listen in. They seemed oblivious, continuing their conversation.

“... so Trelawney caught Jakob kissing Gunnar behind the planting shed and threw a fit, Jakob started shouting about how he liked girls, hes not gay and it was all Gunnar’s fault.” said a tall blonde girl with an upturned nose that wrinkled as she grinned.

“No!” gasped a pretty almond eyed girl with gleaming jet black hair. “Gunnar punched him out right there and told Trelawney that she should ask out his brother Thad, because ‘Jakob needs to work on himself for a while’ and left, just like that.”

“Gunnar is so dreamy… He makes me wish I was a guy” Quipped another girl, followed with a dramatic and graceful swoon, making the others giggle.

From the edge of the group, a slender, dark skinned girl with a tight cap of ebon curls called out “Trelawney is out of luck, Thad asked me to the festival this weekend.”

Several tutted in commiseration while the tall blond shooed a monkey off her shoulder and back into the tree to once again begin picking fruit.

While not informative, it was interesting. Gary eavesdropped on a few more groups, talk of Gunnar, Jakob and Trelawney’s love triangle was abundant, the general consensus being that Jakob was an ass, Gunnar was hot and Trelawney could do much, much better. The upcoming festival was a hot topic, though he gleaned no clue what they would be celebrating or how.

No talk of war, famine or pestilence, No evil dark lord or demon king on the horizon, just small town gossip. The animals though, they were definitely under the control of the kids, performing tasks and treated as beloved pets. It had to be magical, but now was not the time to investigate them.

Just ahead the garden ended at a wide field studded with tents, carts and awnings. Clearly it was a market, on an open field with the walls of the town looming behind. Gary slipped into the crowd, looking over the booths and stalls, watching people trade and deal.

Lots of iron triangular coins were changing hands and occasionally a small copper. He had no iron triangles and only a few big fat coppers floated to the top of the bag when he jiggled it. Mostly he had larger bronze and gold coins in abundance. He counted out five large coppers and stashed the bag away.

Clothing was his first need here, Z had been tiny and nothing really fit Gary’s frame except the sandals, he felt like a kid wearing clothes he had outgrown, an all too familiar feeling he would like to stop feeling now please.

He searched for a while before coming on a stall selling second hand wares, quickly Gary collected a good pile of items.

He found a suit of finely stitched linen that was just his size, but an ice-cream white suit coat with a flamboyant silk lining and abalone buttons was a bold statement. Adding in the pants, embroidered with exotic corals around the cuffs and pockets, made a niche look at best.

He bought it of course, along with several pairs of common linen pants and a number of short sleeved collarless, wraparound shirts that many people seemed to wear.

There was a wide variety of styles on display, from the common working person, in attire like he had purchased, to merchants standing in their tents dressed in finery of silk. Nothing like the outrageous suit he had tucked discreetly away, but they got pretty colorful and fancy.

People of all ethnicities and genders seemed to be operating in a harmonious and tranquil way. Householders dickered with merchants over prices and quality in a way Gary was familiar with from his time busking for change at street fairs and farmers markets.

Even when the dealing got heated no one got out of hand or created a scene, it was all very dignified and orderly. He found a stall selling what looked like shawarma and dug into his new leather pouch, filled with the small copper and iron coins in use all around.

The handsome and muscular man running the used item stall had happily sold him the clothing and some nice leather boots for a single large coin and traded another for the pouch of small bits. Gary changed in the vendor’s tent and strolled out a much less obvious stranger.

He had probably been lightly ripped off by the merchant, but it did not seem like a bad deal. Gary was happy in the loose pants and shirt, their muted earth tones and simple, common design let him slip into the crowd with greater ease.

Gary roamed the market, eating this and that from stalls and listening to the people all around. At the skewered meat stall he heard about a group of “Acolytes of Joy” that were rumored to be coming to the local temple dedicated to that goddess. He gathered that Joy did not have many clergy and the current priest had been called away months ago, leaving a beloved but very old and frail priest running the temple alone.

While waiting in line for fried dough drizzled with honey and pistachios he learned the upcoming festival would be celebrating the goddess of healing, Dana and her rites of baptism, from comments in that context he gathered that the festival was a typical time to ask the gods to Contract with mortals.

A number of young adults and older children expressed interest in a baptism Contract while he waited, everyone seemed to consider Dana the goddess of Healing and Cowl, goddess of Joy with great reverence and affection. More as though they were respected and influential citizens, rather than divine entities. Thinking back on Z’s notebook, Gary opened to that section;

Gods are very territorial, don't attract their attention, it's just easier that way.

Not exactly a warning of dire peril. On reflection Gary surmised that his own experiences had shaped the way he read that sentence, he resolved to keep an open mind.

Sure his first foster family had been jesus freaks, who thought locking him in the basement bedroom all Sunday while they went to their church was just fine. They knew he had come from the musical weirdo family in town and assured him he would be “cleansed of the devil and get to go to church with good christians next week”.

They had been dumb enough to assume that a cripple could never escape from their little makeshift jesus jail. He had disassembled the door hinges and disappeared while they were still on their first hymn, after smashing the taps in the kitchen and bathrooms with a hammer to flood the place as a parting gift.

Maybe in this world things would be different, here colorfully dressed men and women mingled with those in more subdued clothing freely. Genders, races and classes seemed to be interacting cordially.

Activity was thickest near the town entrance, a broad gate of giant square beams and iron bands that looked as though it could be closed rather quickly, despite its size.

There were five guards standing near the gate, all wearing a uniform of chocolate brown and black piping with brass buttons and gleaming black boots. each one shouldered a staff of dark wood with bronze caps on the ends and a businesslike steel shortsword at their belts. They wore no armor, but on a warm day at the peaceful market why would they.

Gary sat down on a boulder a few dozen yards away from the crowd, pulled out his flute and began playing idly for a group of small children roughhousing nearby.

Within the first few notes they had dropped the crude ball of rags they had been playing something complicated with and were seated in a half circle around him.

A mix of boys and girls around ten at the oldest. He was facing an audience of nearly a dozen. The oldest, a boy, with red hair and a wide gap toothed grin, shouted first; “Play turkey in the henhouse!” “No, I wanna hear Gone to buy sugar” cried a girl of seven while throwing a wad of grass and mud at the older boy.

He dodged it and stuck a finger in her ear with a practiced move. “Was that spit or snot on my finger, Sally?” he asked while ruffling her hair. She shrieked and kicked him in the shin which he ignored entirely, folding her into a hug and sitting down to listen in the very image of well behaved children when they noticed Gary had stopped playing.

Peace restored, he began again, running through a medley of simple children's songs which they sang along to, though the lyrics were completely new to him.

Old Macdonald had no farm here, instead it was a series of increasingly unlikely and often ribald verses insulting specific people by name. Each child took it in turn singing a stanza of almost offensive trash talk, on a few the whole crowd joined in, ending in a line about;

Lord Farganan, a bold and mighty man,

fell through the hole of the privy stand

Now up the lane and through the town,

He had to stroll, all painted brown...

Gary thought he had heard some of the other names in the song bandied about in the market, but this one rang a bell he remembered hearing a “Lord Farganan” being high up in local government, he wondered why kids were singing rude songs about a local official.

He shifted into more complex music, a few bars of The Jolly Beggerman had them bouncing on their butts. Before long one of the younger girls stood and started a wild and uncoordinated dance. The other kids stopped moving and watched in apprehension, but when the music didn't stop, they relaxed and soon others were twirling and frolicking about.

Curious, he let slip just a trickle of his gift, trying to use it to pull the kids into rhythm and tighten up their moves. Within a few notes they were stomping and scooting along in a passable electric slide.

Soon the boys were competing to see which could stomp on the One the loudest, while the girls looked for excuses to twirl their skirts (even the ones in pants) and swan about through the line of boys.

Gary was entranced by this new ability, so he did not notice that they had attracted adult attention until too late. A tall, spare figure in sleeveless robes of spring green embroidered with climbing vines in a darker hue and flowers of tiny seed pearls, slipped through his crowd of dancing children with quick and nimble moves that belied his advanced age.

“Acolyte!” he sang in a not unfriendly voice, which cut through the clamor of whooping stomping children in a clear ringing tone, “If one arrives early it is polite to check in at the temple before taking their ease.”

In surprise Gary hit a sour note and let it expire while the children now released from his power collided into a giggling, clumsy heap.

In a panic he tried to slip away through the mess of laughing children, but it was no use. The old man said, ”Come along son, we will settle you in and then you can come back and…” and took Gary by the shoulder in a gentle grip

A sudden static shock seemed to occur in the geezer, “Ohh my, terribly sorry son, I thought surely you were one of mine. Terribly, terribly sorry.”

His eyes became a little predatory as he calmly asked, “Have you considered contracting with Divine Cowl, Beloved Mistress of Joy? I see you only have one contract, and it is not even divine… you could go far in our temple.”

Gary tried to pull away but the grip on his shoulder was firm enough that he would need to break free. “Not right now sir, I’m new in town, maybe later” Internally Gary cursed his foolishness as he tried to talk his way out of this mess. “I'm sure I will come by for one soon sir.”

Green robe guy was persistent, “Where are your parents? I could speak to them, if it's a matter of different faiths we can come to an arrangement.” He was clearly not accustomed to being denied anything he asked for and kept on “I did not recognize that tune, what do you call it? Is it original?” The hand stayed on his shoulder as the questions flew at Gary.

He looked about near frenzied and decided to bolt for a crowd of teenagers watching from nearby. At his first move, the old guy flicked Gary on the ear and sang a phrase too quickly to make out.

Gary collapsed to the ground twitching and convulsing wildly, convinced he was being tickled over his entire body with a feather duster.

As the sensation passed a few moments later, he looked up to see the weathered face of the priest looming over him, arms crossed in disappointment. “Lady Joy does not compel devotion, but she does demand courtesy to one's elders, young musician. Where are your parents?”

Now furious and terrified, Gary rolled and leapt into the gathering crowd like a frightened deer, he bounded over the startled but still prone children.

Racing through the market, he barely touched ground until he had vanished into the tree line. The old priest simply stood there mouth agape. He had used Cowl’s Blessing on numerous occasions in his long life, no one had ever shrugged his spell off that quickly, certainly not a normal rank commoner boy with a single contract.

Intrigued, he collected the child’s flute from where it had fallen. A simple instrument, it was very new. Still smelling strongly of cut maple, wax and honey, the craftsmanship was lovely. Otho, High Priest of Cowl, Lady of Joy, gave it a twirl in his gnarled fingers and sat on the same stone and began to play for the still exhausted but now frightened children.

Otho’s music was sweet and lilting, a sound to calm worried minds and soothe troubles away. After a time he gathered a few of the older boys and girls to him with a wave. “Tobias,” he asked the oldest boy, “Do you know that young man?”

“No sir, he just started playing music, we didn't do anything wrong did we?” Tobias gasped. “No, lad. You are all wonderful children and I enjoyed your dance, where did you learn it?”

“Well, little Kelly Ginniz started dancing, nobody seemed to mind so we all joined in… it was fun! Is he a priest of Joy? I love Joy! I wanna contract with her too! Can I play music if I do? What kind of flute is that? Where did he go?”

A boney raised finger silenced the bubbling child. “Young master Tobias, I would very much like to give that fellow his flute back, if any of you should see him again, please tell me or a constable right away.”

He fixed the whole group of kids with a steely gaze that froze them like rabbits. “If you see that boy again, be certain to tell a grownup that I am looking for him.” With that he made a dramatic gesture, and brightly wrapped sweets showered from his open hands, followed by a scattering of colorful fireworks hissing and popping into the cloudless afternoon sky in wafts of glittering smoke. When the smoke cleared the robed man was gone, leaving the children and adults to gossip furiously.

You have gained skill in cross country running, congratulations.

You have gained skill in parkour, Congratulations.

You have gained skill in woodcraft, Congratulations.

You have gained skill in endurance, Congratulations.

You have gained skill in tumbling, Congratulations.

You have gained skill in first aid, Congratulations.

Gary suspected that he had not been under pursuit for an embarrassingly long time. Moreover, he had run off the edge of a shallow gully and face planted in the muddy bank, before rolling downstream for a few yards.

His short pants had surrendered most of their fabric to clean up and bandage his cuts, netting him a first aid skill bump.

He was unsure where or when his flute had been lost, most likely dropped in the original fracas. He could make another, but had a few ideas to try before that. He tidied up in the steam and changed clothes in a thicket before heading home, exhausted and furious with himself and that geezer. The sun was falling fast when he got to his clearing, only to find a man standing there.

He was tall, and might have been good looking if he were not unshaven and clad in greasy common clothes.

When Gary appeared he stood up lurching toward him and shouting; “Damn you! I been waiting half the day and nobody opened the door! Sorry excuse for business, better have good whores!”

“Terribly sorry sir but this is a private home, sorry for the confusion.”

The man spat at Gary’s feet and yelled; “I've been waitin, this long, sombodys gonna service me!” That was too much for Gary’s frayed nerves.

“Hey! Asshole, get lost fucker!” The man flushed red and reached for Gary aggressively.

On instinct the knife was in his hand, almost against his will, the knife flashed out, slashing a bloody gouge down the man’s filthy forearm. He staggered back, bleeding freely and cursing.

With a roar, his dirty assailant charged again and Gary drew a long line of blood across the man’s chest, leaving him stunned and spattered in gore at the edge of the clearing.

With a thought, the knife became a staff and Gary struck again and again, battering the man as he struggled to flee. “If I see you again, just start running, asshole!” Gary shouted at the fleeing figure, lost in unreasoning fury.

After a moment he calmed and examined the blood spattered clearing. “Gotta move now” he muttered as his house evaporated away in the evening light.

Two hours later, in a thicket of thorny bushes his gift identified as:

Thornberries; moderate magic, toxic/component/reagent

Gary was setting his house back to rights. The inch long straight thorns on those vines glimmered with a waxy venom which caused burning puffy welts, while the berries burst at the lightest touch leaving an itching rash whenever their indigo juices stained skin. He had found this patch the day before and avoided it for good reason, now it hid his house from casual approach.

He used the shovel to ever so carefully dig up a few of the young shoots of thornberry and plant them at the base of his wall. He integrated them into his house and the vines climbing the foundation wall began to grow long purple tinted thorns and clusters of plump berries, making his wall significantly more formidable.

Feeling well hidden and better protected he went in to bathe and sleep since he was still crammed full of fried dough.