—— ? ——

  It was a quiet night.

  Jorik preferred it that way.

  From inside the small gatehouse on the wall of Varnholt, he watched the snow whip across the frozen landscape. The cold was biting, but the thick stone walls and old iron stove kept it tolerable. He nursed a thin mug of tea, cradling it between calloused hands.

  In front of him, the aurora pulsed in soft waves of green and pink, its light filtering through the magical glass.

  Jorik enjoyed watching it.

  He had heard so many stories of people being frozen by its charms.

  Staring too long… forgetting where they were… wandering off into the snow, never to be seen again.

  But through the protective glass? Harmless. Beautiful, even.

  Jorik leaned back in his chair with a sigh. A quiet night, warm tea, and beautiful lights to keep him company.

  If only every shift was this relaxing.

  And then…

  Movement.

  A flicker at the edge of glass.

  Jorik straightened, squinting into the gloom beyond the wall.

  A lone figure… staggering through the snow.

  The shape was strange. Too bulky.

  Jorik squinted harder, wiping the condensation from the glass.

  The figure staggered forward, lurching, swaying. The closer it came, the worse it looked.

  Not a merchant, no pack beast was in sight. Just a man, at least Jorik thought it was a man. It was hard to tell.

  As the man drew closer and the aurora blazed, Jorik could see what he was covered in.

  Aurora Hopper bodies.

  Dozens of them.

  Frozen stiff, their legs jutting at odd angles, ears stiff with frost. The limp corpses were strapped and tied across the figure’s body.

  They were layered on the man’s chest, arms, legs… everywhere.

  One circled his neck like a frozen scarf. One cut open to form a disgusting helm.

  With each staggering step, the bodies swayed with the man.

  Behind the figure… a dark trail in the snow.

  Blood.

  Still dripping.

  Jorik’s breath caught. His gut clenched.

  “By the gods…” he whispered.

  He tore his gaze away and yanked the alarm bell.

  CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

  Boots pounded up the stairs. Another guard burst in, sword half-drawn.

  “What? What is it?!”

  Jorik pointed with a shaking hand.

  The second guard leaned in, peered through the glass, then went still.

  “... is that… a man?”

  “...Hard to say,” Jorik muttered.

  Together they stared, transfixed, as the blood-streaked, bunny-armored figure trudged ever closer to Varnholt’s gate.

  —— ? ——

  Jorik leaned back against his seat in the crowded administration meeting hall.

  What a mess you have caused, you crazy traveler.

  They were still waiting for a few to arrive for this emergency meeting.

  To be fair, the night was past its zenith, and almost everyone had been sound asleep until the alarm had been raised.

  Some even slept through those alarms.

  Horrible discipline to sleep through a town alarm bell. What if we were attacked?

  Jorik rolled his eyes.

  That’s what happens when most of your town thinks stitching more cloaks or hammering extra breastplates counts as preparation.

  Jorik was one of the few in town whose path wasn’t focused on the arts or crafting.

  A soldier first, a watchman now, and one of the rare souls in Varnholt who preferred the crisp air of the night watch to the warmth of a forge or loom.

  Of course, being a watchman came with its own downsides. Such as being forced to sit here and repeatedly explain to each delegate of the various groups.

  “Why are you rolling your eyes? Answer the question, Jorik.” The short man snapped at him.

  He was a Yoreboon. The Earth-born residents said they looked like gnomes, though the Yoreboon themselves scoffed at their descriptions. Unlike the gnomes of earth, the Yoreboon were taller, about half the size of humans, and built like bricks.

  Oh, right. The old man was still talking to him.

  “Like I told you before, Maelis,” Jorik yawned. “No. None that I have talked to since forming this impromptu council meeting knows who he is. Nor do they claim him. No disrespect sir, but could you please hold your questions until the meeting has officially started? I will explain everything I know about our midnight arrival to everyone, all at once.”

  The Yoreboon looked annoyed at the guard’s lackluster response.

  Ugh, just wait for everyone else. I thought smiths were supposed to be patient. Jorik thought.

  The doors to the chamber creaked as another delegate entered, snow dusting their cloak. A grizzled, tall man made of muscle and calluses strode across the chamber. His skin had a bluish tint, typical of his homeland.

  That made twenty-two present so far.

  Still waiting on six more.

  Varnholt Artisan Enclave was a strange town.

  None of its residents had previously lived there, and most came from a variety of places and backgrounds. The diversity of races, ages, and home worlds was staggering. It seemed the ‘System’ had filled Varnholt with people from everywhere.

  What was universal among the residents was the firm belief that their path or focus in life was the best. Stubbornness seemed to be a shared trait among all the folk that were now calling Varnholt home.

  The town’s singular focus compounded this:

  Creation.

  Be it arts, weapons, household goods, or anything else the mind could imagine.

  Every single being in Varnholt had a unique vision for how the town should proceed.

  So, the council had been formed.

  Was it organized?

  Barely.

  Most council meetings teetered on the edge of open brawls, fueled by passionate arguments and competing ideals.

  There were just too many groups that needed a presence to ensure everyone’s voice was heard.

  You had the faint blue-tinged Frost-Kin, stout as brick Yoreboon, shimmering celestial folk, and a half-dozen others. And then there were human variants like Jorik — near enough to the Earth-born, with only slight differences between them.

  All groups had sent representatives on the first day. The newly forming council had to narrow it to leaders of entire crafts and representatives of their home worlds.

  This newly created system of governance for Varnholt wasn’t perfect, but it kept the town from falling into factional chaos.

  Most days.

  But what if you gathered these stubborn crafters, realm leaders, and prideful artisans at…

  …Midnight?

  Getting them to sit quietly and wait for the meeting to begin?

  That was a fool’s errand.

  The chorus of chatter bounced through the small room.

  Thankfully, Jorik had been left to himself. It seemed his rebuff of Maelis had been heard by other hopeful questioners.

  Chatter continued as various theories drifted through the air about what the meeting was for.

  The doors banged open, and a heated argument followed over the threshold.

  “I demand an official apology! That was an unprovoked assault, you muscled moron!”

  “Yer was bangin’ on ma door in ta middle o’ ta fel-damned shade! Wert was I s’posed to tink, yer mar-on?”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  A behemoth of a being, the architect and resident stone mason, snarled back at the smaller man.

  The behemoth, known as Kurda, stomped into the chamber. He was broad as a forge wall, arms thick as timber beams. His smooth chestnut colored skin seemed to have taken on the properties of the material he worked with. Kurda glowered and shook himself like a dog to shed the snow, earning dismayed cries from the nearest council members as they were showered in icy spray.

  With a huff, he slammed down into a massive stone chair near the front.

  CRACK.

  The sound of the chair gaining a new fault line resounded through the chamber, working as well as any gavel to silence the room.

  Trailing in behind him, red-faced and scowling, came Emrick, who represented Textiles and his home world of Ulsan. His forehead told its own story with the new darkening circle of a bruise.

  “I want it to go on the official record that: I. Knocked.” he insisted, his nasally voice rising. “And then this brute punched me! Through the door! Add that to his damages—as well as fixing the chair. Again.”

  “Bah. Door ain’t broke. Wer' jus’ a bit o’ renovatin’ that wer' needed.”

  Kurda shrugged, unconcerned.

  “It needed a wender.”

  He gave a snort and waved a massive hand towards Emrick’s bruised forehead.

  “An’ tat tere bruise? Good fer charatur. A good artersans' knows dat'.”

  Jorik watched the exchange with weary amusement. Those two were always at it. No council meeting went long without Kurda and Emrick finding some excuse to snap at each other.

  He was pretty sure Kurda was fully aware of who was at his door before creating his new window.

  Tonight’s little scuffle would just give both of them new fuel for fights for the upcoming weeks.

  Jorik swept the room with his gaze. He noted with relief that the last of the stragglers had arrived behind Kurda and Emrick. Most likely at a very staggered distance.

  They were sleepy-eyed, barely awake, cursing and grumbling. But they were all here.

  The council was present at last.

  Time to begin.

  Jorik pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He loudly cleared his throat, hoping to gain the attention of the bickering duo.

  Their argument continued unabated.

  Jorik sighed, then in a loud command voice boomed.

  “Artisan Emrick, Artisan Kurda!”

  Emrick stopped mid sentence, and the duo turned to look at the guard. Dawning realization hit them that they were the only two holding back the silence.

  “Er… ya.” Kurda muttered.

  “Guard Jorik,” Emrick stated, his face a different shade of red as he quickly took his seat.

  Jorik nodded at them, then continued to speak.

  “Councillors, Artisans, Realm Representatives,” he spoke, his voice lower than before.

  “I know the hour is late, so I shall be brief.”

  This earned a few grunts of approval, and one sarcastic “Please do.”

  Jorik continued, voice steady.

  “Shortly after midnight, a lone traveler approached the southern gate. No method of transportation, no banner or signal. On foot.”

  A ripple of murmurs passed through the room.

  “He was heavily wounded. Bleeding. Covered in an ungodly number of Aurora Hopper corpses.”

  This drew confused faces, sharp looks, and furrowed brows.

  “Yes,” Jorik confirmed, “you heard that right. Hoppers. They were frozen stiff and wrapped around his body. He seemed to have fashioned them in a desperate attempt to armor himself, or stay warm. Or maybe it was just some form of madness. But theories aside, let me recount exactly what happened.”

  He let his words sink in for a beat.

  “I rang the warning bell and the standby watchman arrived and confirmed what I was seeing. We hailed the traveler as he approached, but from our assessment he was delirious with blood loss and could not hear us.”

  “The traveler made it to the gate, and upon observing no visible weapons, I chose to exit Varnholt through the side entrance and engage him.”

  Jorik’s expression shifted slightly, somewhere between disbelief and lingering amusement.

  “I attempted to communicate with him, but the traveler said nothing. He looked right at me, smiled, and gave two symbols with his hands.”

  Jorick mimicked the scene to the council.

  “First, he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then followed it with a great, bloody thumbs up. I assume he was trying to indicate he was… fine.”

  He demonstrated both gestures as he spoke.

  A ripple of quiet amusement moved through the room.

  Regardless of realm or world, some body language was simply universal. The meanings might shift slightly, but most fingered folk would understand: the traveler was very much not okay.

  “After the traveler finished gesturing,” Jorick continued, “he collapsed. My standby and I retrieved him immediately and brought him to a healer.”

  He let that settle within the crowd.

  “The healer is with him now. His condition is critical. His entire body seemed to be covered in scratches and deep bites. When I left, the healer was still struggling to remove the corpses that had frozen to his body without further injuring him. He is alive.”

  Jorik paused, folding his arms, then adding.

  “But barely.”

  The room had gone still. No more chuckles or side conversations.

  “It is possible that he had some form of insignia buried away, but I doubt it.”

  Jorick reached to the side of his belt, pulling a small, sealed pouch from beneath his cloak. He walked over to Emrick and offered it to him.

  “I had the healer clean and sterilize some of the fabric he was using. Artisan Emrick, if possible, I would have you examine it.”

  A few of the councilors leaned in to look as Emrick opened the bag and removed the cloth. The thin man scrunched his nose as if expecting it to smell.

  It was thoroughly stained by blood, human and…other.

  Emrick ran the cloth through his fingers with practiced ease. He whipped out a jeweler’s loupe and absorbed himself in the examination of the silky scrap. From his lips came small mutterings as he snaked the cloth through his fingers again and again.

  Jorik shook his head.

  Crafters.

  “And that, Councilors… is all I know in regards to the traveler. I will cede the floor to Artisan Emrick.” Jorik then walked to the back of the hall and took his seat.

  Hushed conversations filled the hall.

  After a few minutes of silence and Emrick toying with the scrap, impatience finally won.

  “Well? Emrick? Can you tell what it is? I want to go back to sleep.” A surly voice called out.

  The question drew a few sharp glances. The tension in the room had been building.

  Between the late hour, the unsettling nature of the traveler’s arrival, and too many unanswered questions, voices had started to rise in small clusters, edges of frustration creeping in.

  Emrick gave an absent little grunt as he continued to pass the cloth through his fingers and peered through the jeweler’s loupe.

  “Patience!” he snapped. “This cloth is nearly ruined. It’s more bloodstain than material.”

  He clicked his tongue in annoyance.

  “And of course, if the Identify quest had been voted on like I have insisted, any of you could have figured out this cloth.”

  This drew a few groans from the room.

  From a few chairs away, Kurda rumbled in amusement.

  “An’? Who here has been stoppen’ that from happenin’ eh?”

  Emrick’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed and threw daggers at Kurda.

  “YOU! YOU STONE-ADDLED SIMPLETON. YOU voted for the quests to expand facilities!”

  Kurda blinked, then scratched the back of his head as a sheepish look spread across his face.

  “... Oh.”

  A few councilors burst out laughing. The tension in the room eased.

  Emrick sighed, returning to examine the cloth.

  For a few moments, he worked while quiet side conversations blossomed through the hall.

  He turned the scrap between his thin fingers, then paused.

  “Hmph… odd,” he muttered under his breath.

  He leaned in closer to his loop, then squinted.

  “This stitch… this fiber…” Emrick continued to mutter, “Surely not.”

  After a heartbeat, he looked up, voice sharper. “Jorik. Did this traveler carry any pack? A Satchel? Any other supplies or clothing?”

  Everyone had quieted and swept their eyes across the hall to the guard.

  Jorik shook his head. “No pack. Just what he was wearing… and his… extra layers.”

  Emrick's brow furrowed. He held the cloth up, letting the magical light crystal in the ceiling pour down through it.

  “This… resembles the material from the base garments we all arrived in.”

  The crowd in the hall watched Emrick with curiosity, waiting for his next words.

  He tapped the cloth with his thumb. “It’s the same base material, a silken material that is flawlessly woven. It’s unmistakable.”

  Several in the room exchanged glances.

  Emrick exhaled, a mix of bafflement and disdain permeating his voice.

  “Whoever this traveler is… he’s wearing his original arrival garments. Not the enhanced replacements we received from the hub.”

  With that, Emrick put the cloth back into the pouch in a quick motion and looked grossed out.

  “I was barely able to examine the originals, of course,” he added with a sniff. “Even if you separate or remove an article of clothing, it still disintegrates when the owner touches the hub.”

  He shook his head.

  “So this fool has been wearing that,” He gestured at the bag. “For nearly a month...”

  A deep rumble came from Kurda’s seat

  “Erficent’!” the big man declared, with clear amusement.

  This drew a round of chuckles from the room.

  Emrick rolled his eyes and continued.

  “You call it efficient, I call it disgusting. Who wears the same garments for almost a month?”

  “Wait… you said they get replaced after you finish the first quest?”

  Heads turned to the speaker, Councillor Serel, a slender woman with gleaming golden hair.

  Her people were similar to humans from Earth, but with distinct differences. Abnormally tall and lithe, every one of their kind had hair that seemed to radiate soft light.

  Their skin shimmered faintly, as if tiny gemstones lay hidden beneath the surface, catching the light with each subtle movement. The effect gave them an otherworldly, almost celestial appearance.

  Emrick gave a small huff and adjusted his sleeves.

  “Technically, no. You complete the Foundations of the Universe quest by getting to the area that houses the hub. The quest finalizes, then the completion prompt instructs you to touch the hub to receive your rewards and learn about local quests.”

  He sniffed. “At which point your clothing is replaced.”

  Serel rolled her eyes. “So… if he still has his original arrival garments th–”

  “Then he never touched a hub!” Emrick interrupted, with obvious exasperation. “I just explained that. He has been wearing the same clothing, like some heathen, and… and…”

  Emrick faltered, and his eyes grew wide with the dawning realization.

  Serel crossed her shimmering arms, her smooth skin catching the light in shifting patterns. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips as she continued to stare at Emrick.

  Kurda glanced between the two, eyebrows furled as he pieced together the implication. His face brightened with realization as he boomed:

  “Oie Sural? Do yer' mean they been out there for nearly a month?!”

  Serel’s sparkling emerald eyes shifted over to him, and she nodded.

  Kurda glanced at the pouch, then nodded sagely.

  “Vary erficent.’”

  A hush fell over the chamber. Silence reigned.

  Jorik’s voice was calm and quiet.

  “In all the twisted stars and hells below…”

  But it carried clearly through the room

  “Where has he been?”

  —— ? ——

  Several buildings away, the traveler known as Simon was having a very bad dream.

  In the quiet of the infirmary, the healer heard a faint moan from his patient.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” he murmured. “These have to come off. I hope your dream from the potion is at least a pleasant one.”

  The wounded Simon had finally escaped the worst of his fevered hallucinations.

  Although the one about Brazilian waxing had nearly broken him.

  Now, deeper in the potion’s grip, his mind drifted toward quieter memories...

  Or perhaps they were only dreams.

  He wasn’t sure anymore.

  *Ding*

  A faint sound echoed through the fog of his thoughts.

  Simon’s half-conscious mind latched onto it. A familiar noise. The start of... something.

  Something important.

  The memories came in flashes.

  The old server room.

  That ancient, wheezing computer.

  His fingers poised above a keyboard.

  And then, the voice. The message. The moment everything changed.

  In the healer’s quiet room, Simon twitched in his sleep.

  And in the depths of his fractured dreams.

  The story began again.

  —— ? ——

  — AUTHOR NOTICE —

  ~TheBusyBard

  ——————————