“You need to give me a sword, or some kind of weapon,” he said to Pevarin as they walked to the stable. He had never wielded one, but how hard could it be? You just swung it in the general direction of your opponent and tried not to cut yourself. A bow wouldn’t be bad either. He actually had some experience with that when he was younger because of Lord of the Rings. He used to pretend that he was Legolas, rolling and leaping across the ground, firing volleys as he went. That of course had not been the reality, as it was difficult enough to hit a target while standing still let alone while moving and performing acrobatic feats.

“For what?” said Pevarin, brows raised, “Is there someone you have an issue with?”

“He thinks this is all just sport,” said Selara from in front of them. She still had her back turned to them and so almost had to shout for them to hear. Zach cringed slightly, hunching his shoulders as he looked around. “You don’t have the look of a fighter—we'll keep you safe for now. You’d just get in our way.”

He hadn’t really ever fought anyone, true, but he had a fairly quick reaction time, and his hand-eye coordination was impeccable. His biggest issue was that he was in terrible shape, but a quick exchange of blows would be short enough that it shouldn’t be an issue. “I don’t think so. Look, if I’m supposed to be this big Hero, maybe there’s more to me than you think there is.”

“Alright,” she said as they arrived at the stable entrance, a low wooden overhang. She walked over to one horse, a gray mare with a fierce look in its brown eyes, then turned to look back at them. “Pass this test and I’ll consider it.”

“Sure,” he said hesitantly. He hoped she didn’t intend to try anything magical. He’d have no recourse against that.

“Egan, show him.”

“Show me-” he said, turning towards Egan, going silent as he felt the cold touch of a knife at his throat. The boy looked at him in resignation, but also with a tinge of disappointment. He lowered the blade, and Zach relaxed, although he felt like he might die of embarrassment.

“I don’t think so, Outlander. Just go back inside and let the mistress take care of you. We’ll be back in a few days,” said Selara. Surprisingly, there was no coldness or derision in her voice. If anything, she sounded disappointed.

“Maybe next time,” said Egan, patting him on the shoulder before walking to his own horse. Pevarin had already mounted as well, his face devoid of emotion. It was so difficult to read him at times.

“When we return, we can explain more. I think it best that you acclimate. You’ve been through much in the last day, give yourself time. Farath aiun tholas, Etelendi.” said the elf, turning his horse and leading them off at a trot.

“As if I understand elven,” he said to himself, watching them disappear down the street. They hadn’t even told him where they were going or why they were going there. He was simply stuck in town with not a single way out, nor anything to protect himself if he was to leave. All he had were his clothes, which were dirty and starting to smell, his phone, his keys, and his wallet. And his phone wasn’t even charged. He took a steadying breath.

What was his largest issue? He compiled a list of every problem he currently faced in no particular order. He had no weapon, no armor, no skills like magic or archery, lack of combat experience, lack of money, lack of connections, and no information at all. What was his goal? Well, he needed experience—not in the literal video-game sense of levels, but real, actual combat and life experience. He couldn’t get that without any gear or skills, which he needed money or connections to acquire. The only way to acquire all of that was to gain information. It seemed like he needed to chat up some NPCs.

He paused at that thought. He was terrible at making conversation with people he didn’t know. With the party of adventurers that were taking care of him, it had been different as they had things in common, and most of their conversation tended to be answering his questions. With people in town, however, the only way to acquire what he needed was to win them over. He’d need to be charismatic, persuasive, and endearing.

He was none of those things.

He took a whiff of himself. The first order of business was cleaning up. He doubted many people would be interested in talking with someone who smelled like yesterday’s garbage. He went back inside, closing the door softly behind him, a few heads turning at the sound then going back to their drinks when they saw who it was. No one was particularly interested in him, even though he was obviously strange and foreign. The portly man was gone, the soldier still at the table, eyes closed as he laid back against his chair, a half-empty mug before him. Beyond that, no one stood out to him, the room full of blue-collar workers (if blue-collar was a thing in this world). The mistress of the tavern, a plain-looking woman that seemed to be in her forties stood talking to one of the waitresses near the kitchen. He tried to get her attention by waving, though she didn’t seem to see him. He stood there, befuddled. How was he supposed to get her attention? They didn’t seem to be finishing their conversation anytime soon.

Someone grabbed his left shoulder, causing him to jump, and the man who had given him a scare pointed at the pair of women. “I’ve been sitting here watching you fiddle with yourself for near on two minutes now. If you want to talk with someone, talk to them. She don’t bite.” He paused for a second, then amended his statement, “Much.”

His face went flush red out of embarrassment. He felt like that was happening quite a bit lately. “Thanks,” he said, his voice fading out on the last syllable.

“What? Speak up, boy. You’re a man, not a mouse.”

“Thank you,” he said, a little irritated. He did tend towards being soft-spoken, he knew that, but he also hated repeating himself. The man smiled despite his tone, clapping him on the back and pushing him forward.

“Better! Mistress Ithia, this man needs your attention.”

He shot a look of indignant accusation towards the stranger, then turned and gathered himself, walking towards the owner of the tavern. She stood there expectantly, the waitress looking at him then away. He supposed he must look a little frightening as disheveled as he was.

“Mistress Ithia? I’m, uh, with the people who just left. I mean, I’m with Pevarin. Master Pevarin. And Mistress Selara. I...” he realized that he did not know much more than that. “Selara said you would take care of me?”

“Ah, yes. They paid for your stay here and accompanying meals. I can show you to your room if you are ready to retire. But...” she said hesitantly, wrinkling her nose.

He looked at himself, then gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I think a bath would be nice.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding in agreement, “I believe so. There’s a well outside next to the stables. You’ll find a bucket there too. Let me fetch you a change of clothes,” she said, disappearing up the stairs. He stood there awkwardly with the waitress, unsure what to do. She was cute, and therefore impossibly out of his league. She wouldn’t even glance at him, so obviously disgusted. Well, he was used to that. The mistress returned shortly after, handing him a white linen shirt, brown trousers, and breeches. Not exactly the hoodie and jeans he was accustomed to using, but he figured it would probably feel refreshing after freeing himself from his sweat-laden prison.

He gave his thanks and went to the well, finding it exactly as she described. It took him a few tries to figure out how to work it, the bucket not quite attaching properly. The only issue was that he was in plain view of passersby, though they paid him no heed. Was he really supposed to just strip and bathe in front of everyone? Women and children were walking as well. He felt violated at the mere thought of everyone seeing him. He settled on stripping to his underwear and cleaning himself that way. He wouldn’t be completely clean, but he’d be most of the way there. He had just dumped the first bucket over himself, shaking his sandy hair dry and opening his eyes to see the mistress standing there, frowning.

“They told me you might be a little strange, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone bathe in their small clothes. It seems I shall have to teach you how to wash properly,” she said, striding over and reaching for his underwear. He hopped back in shock, gripping the sides of his briefs tight. Was she insane?

“I’m fine, honest. I really do not want to be naked out here.”

She harrumphed, stalking towards him, “Please boy, I’ve raised four children, three of them being boys. You’re more modest than my daughter. Take it off, you’ll never be clean that way,” She struck at him like a snake. She actually intended to de-brief him! He led her on a merry chase, dancing around the well. This was ridiculous. When he had arrived here, he had thought villains and monsters would be chasing him, not middle-aged mothers trying to wash his dick.

A crowd had begun to form, laughing and pointing. He stopped, putting a hand in front of himself, panting as he did so. Somehow, the woman was still fresh, not even appearing to break a sweat. “Alright! Fine. I’ll take it off, Jesus.” He gripped his underwear, looking around. Everyone seemed to be waiting with bated breath for him to fully undress. He resolved that if he was able to get a sword, he would just kill himself out of shame.

He dropped his underwear, revealing the holy trunk therein. Women gasped, men cheered, children screamed, he closed his eyes, and the mistress nodded in satisfaction.

“Now, let me clean it.”

“No!”

*****

After the bath debacle, he retired to his room for a time. Solitude always yielded greater results for him when it came to thinking. He was tired as well, and the thought of trying anything else seemed daunting. He laid on the bed, made of a material he was not particularly familiar with, though it was comfortable enough. There was still time in the day, but what could he realistically accomplish? For the moment, taking a bath was a worthy enough feat. His phone lay on his stomach, and he took it, pulling it in front of his face. He recoiled from his reflection, not wanting to see it, sighing as he turned his attention to the ceiling. What he would give to have his PC. He didn’t even need to play anything multiplayer—just an offline single-player game would do. Boredom was just as big a killer as heart disease and cancer, in his mind.

Sleep seemed the best idea for now. Pevarin had told him to rest anyhow, and that seemed a good idea. But something nagged at him. No, not quite nagged, but poked and prodded him. It was uncomfortable really, like a piece of popcorn stuck in your teeth you couldn’t quite reach. It was the way they called him a hero, a Chosen One, but they didn’t believe in him. He wasn’t a fighter? They had no idea. No fucking clue. They didn’t know how difficult it was just for him to get up, how hard he fought to simply be. As hard as it was, his back feeling tired and stiff, he sat up, rising from the bed. There was still time in the day. He wasn’t done yet.

He went downstairs, looking for the mistress. The tavern was actually busy, full of life, and bordering on rowdy. He started to raise his hand to wave her down but remembered the stranger’s words. His stomach fluttered, but he was no mouse. He approached her, tapping on her shoulder from behind.

“Mistress Ithia? I’ve got a question-”

“Not now child, perhaps when I have time. If you need something, ask one of the serving girls,” she said, briskly striding off. He stood glued to the spot. He had done what he was supposed to do. He had been brave, so why didn’t it work? Maybe he should just sleep. He could try again tomorrow.

“What was your question?” a familiar voice said from behind, and he turned, that same stranger from earlier sitting at the same table, eating what looked like baked chicken with rolls and vegetables he couldn’t quite name. His usual diet consisted of whatever fast food he felt like driving to fetch late at night, and he was a picky eater besides that. The man had a grizzled look about him like he was used to hard labor, a strong brown beard guarding his jaw, but his eyes weren’t unkind.

“I just wanted to-”

“Speak up boy, it’s loud in here and I’ve not much hearing in my old age.”

“I just wanted to know if there were any jobs or any way to make money around here, for me,” he said, almost yelling.

“And why’s that?” The stranger said, chomping happily away at his meal, juices dribbling down his mouth and into his beard. “You seem a bit dainty to me. Sure you want to work in a field? That’s about as much as you’ll find around here.”

He faltered. He really did not want to do that. For some reason, he had it in his head that perhaps there were some starting zone tier quests that could be found, like collecting eight mushrooms or killing a few bears. Well, he probably couldn’t kill any bears even if he knew where to look, but mushrooms should have been simple enough. Perhaps someone needed a letter delivered across town or something. That sort of thing happened out in the world, he had been sure of it.

“No, I—well, I’m just trying to get gear. Err, equipment, like armor. Maybe a sword,” he added hurriedly, the man arching a brow at him,

“Boy, you like saying everything but what you want, don’t you?” he said, taking apart a piece of chicken and stuffing it into a roll.

“If you can’t help me, then fine. I’m not going to stand here and keep taking your insults, though,” he said. There. How did he like that for being direct?

The man blinked once, staring at him, “I didn’t realize I had insulted you. All I said was the truth.”

“Well, you did. So...sorry,” he finished lamely.

“You’re apologizing for me insulting you?”

He stayed quiet.

The man wiped his mouth with his arm, juices still tracing themselves through his beard like one of those maze toys where you had to turn it to get the ball in the hole. “Tell you what, I’ve work for you to do, no field involved at all. You’ll even get a full set of, what did you call it? ‘Gear’?”

“What’s the job?” he asked hesitantly.

“Oh, you’ll see,” the stranger said, smiling.