Unique visitor cataloged
Level: Unknown
Visitor? Level? He glanced about, but nothing made sense. He was in a field of golden wheat, the stalks waving in a soft breeze flowing down from the mountains to the west. Their peaks were jagged and tilted, like shark teeth rising from the plains. Behind him was a small clearing, black soil surrounded by a circle of stones. The sky was a comforting blue, with nary a cloud. If only the sun wasn’t so bright…
No. That wasn’t right. Nick squinted. In the sky, there was a second sun, except it was black instead of yellow. Dark blue veins stretched out from its circumference, seemingly frozen.
Initial assessment commencing
Archetype: Unknown
Special Classification: Unknown
Statistical allocation determined by approximation of visitor’s physical and mental self-definition
Nick flinched again. It felt like a spike was driving into his forehead. Stats? He didn’t care about that. He didn’t even know where he was. The last thing he remembered, he was…he was…
Where?
He glanced down at himself. His clothes were wrong. They were plain brown suspenders and a white shirt, the fabric surprisingly soft on his skin despite its thickness. A sort of farmer? That wasn’t him, not him at all. He was a…
…researcher…
Nick dropped to his knees and clutched his head, fighting off a wave of pain so intense he feared he would vomit. He forced himself to breathe in and out, his gaze focused on the wheat before him. He watched its subtle movements near the roots, watched a little black bug crawl along the dark soil before vanishing beneath.
Again came the same soothing voice. It was female-coded, pleasant and calm, and with every syllable the ache in his forehead faded.
Assessment complete
Level: 1
Agility: 1
Physicality: 1
Endurance: 1
Archetype: None
Special Classification: None
Nick forced himself back to his feet. Ignore the hole in the sky. Ignore the dwindling pain. Focus on what can be dealt with in the here and now.
“Level one?” he tentatively asked aloud. He didn’t know why, but instinct told him the voice would hear and respond.
Simplified estimations of overall caliber of being
“Fascinating,” Nick said. Curiosity got the best of him, and he started walking through the wheat in search of where the field ended. “So, uh, do you have a name, voice, so I can call you anything other than ‘voice’?”
I am Cataloger
“Nice to meet you, Cataloger. I’m Nick.”
I am aware of that user attribute
He laughed, and it felt good to move. With the lifting of the painful fog around his mind, he grew more aware of his surroundings. The mountains to the west were beautiful, if distant. Their snowcapped tips rose in stark contrast to the flatness of the field before them. To the south, perhaps a half mile away, he saw a small stream whose water was siphoned off into little rivulets to water the field.
To the east, Nick could see a village, so he set off in that direction. Perhaps, once among people, he might get an explanation for whatever was going on.
“User attribute,” he repeated aloud. Part of him knew it should be strange talking to a voice in his head calling herself “Cataloger,” but at the same time, it felt normal. It felt…right. “I’m guessing you’re not much for small talk, are you?”
I provide information and guidance for unique visitors
“And I am a unique visitor?”
Yes
Nick paused a moment. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Unknown
Time to get used to that response, he suspected. He waded through the wheat as if it were water that went up to his chest. Given how its golden glow continued onward for seemingly miles and miles to the west, it was like being lost in an ocean. Scattered throughout the field, he saw people in similar overalls hacking away with sickles that gleamed in the bright midday sun.
Nick thought to call out to them but decided against it. Let them work. He’d find someone in the village to talk to, someone who could explain what was going on. Maybe…maybe he was a farmer here and had passed out from the heat? He certainly felt thirsty. Perhaps dehydration? Given how much his head hurt, that could explain his difficulty remembering things, like where he’d been, or what the name of the village ahead even was.
Location: Meadowtint
Description: A small farming village, population one hundred and seventeen, largely dedicated to wheat production and harvesting
“Meadowtint?” Nick asked. It carried no familiarity on his tongue. If this was his home, there were no attached positive feelings or emotions. He pushed onward, glad to see the end of the field. The village seemed pleasant enough, about thirty homes arranged on either side of a main dirt road splitting through them. Their thatched rooftops were the color of the field, their walls wood and clay plaster. Beyond the village, from what little he could see, was a dirt road leading toward a distant little river; on the other side grew what appeared to be an oak forest whose contrast to the nearby field was stark.
Several people milled about the well in the center of the village. Nearby, an older woman sat in a rocking chair beside the door to her home, protected from the sun by a rickety awning. Nick approached, strolling over as if they were acquaintances…which they might even be, if he was suffering from memory loss.
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“Hello there,” he said. “I fear I might be a little lost and confused.”
The woman hunched over in her chair, slowly rocking back and forth with the press of her heels. He thought she was busy sewing or crocheting, but her gnarled hands were empty when she looked up. Her silver hair was covered in a bonnet, her dress, a mixture of faded blues and pinks. Her eyes, though, were the color of night, as if the pupils had swallowed her irises.
“Lost?” she asked. “You’ve wandered off the beaten path, stranger. How does one lose themselves in Meadowtint, here where the west ends?”
“I somehow managed it,” Nick said, doing his best to not recoil. The woman’s tongue was a shade of black, as if she had spent the past minute licking tar. He smiled at her, trying to be disarming, while she stared at him until, suddenly, her eyes grew wide with terror.
“Vaan almighty, protect me,” she whispered harshly, shriveling into her chair. Her hands clenched into fists. “Though I am weak, through him I am strong.”
Her voice was getting louder. Nick glanced about and saw others in the village, simple farming men and women, staring at him.
Several still held their sickles from the fields.
“Though I am frail, he is my iron. Though I weep, he dries my tears.”
Nick retreated from underneath her awning, his hands up to show he meant no harm. Villagers arrived from every direction, surrounding him with unnerving silence.
“I give my heart to the Conqueror of Time, and in his hands, I am made safe.”
The nearest man lifted his sickle. He wore the same clothes as Nick, only they were far more worn and faded. His skin was pale, too, pale and almost gray. Not tanned, like it should be for someone who spent their days in the fields. His eyes were the same as the old woman’s—black.
“Demons in the village,” he said, his tongue appearing as a void in his mouth. “Vaan be with us.”
“What…what are you?” Nick asked, horrified by the pallid nature of the man’s skin, the emptiness of his eyes, and the dark color of his tongue. Text appeared above his head, the black font faintly outlined in white to ensure clear legibility.
Cedric: Level 1 Human
Archetype: Villager
Sickles, rakes, and knives rose skyward as the other villagers readied their weaponry.
“Vaan be with us,” they called in unison.
Nick chose a direction and ran, attempting to burst through the growing crowd. Shouts accompanied his sprint. When the people did not move, he tucked his shoulder and rammed through, saw open road, and then screamed as a sickle raked across his back. His vision flashed red, and then strangely, a red bar appeared in the upper corner of his left eye. Nick might have given it more thought if not for the pain flooding his body.
Thankfully his momentum carried him, and once free from the crowd, he dashed along the center road, eastward, toward the river and the oak forest beyond. As he ran, he noticed the red bar stayed firmly in place in the corner of his vision regardless of where he looked. It was like the little floaters one noticed if looking for them in one’s vision, always there no matter where one turned.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane. This is a dream, or a nightmare, or, or…
Nick didn’t see who fired the arrow, only felt it thud into his side. He gasped, and when his mouth opened, a faint spray of blood dribbled down his chin and onto his clothes. The red bar shrank, now half its original size.
Health, he thought as he ripped the arrow out. Only now did he see the archer lurking at the edge of the village, an older woman with a straw hat and a hunter’s bow. That’s my health, isn’t it?
A graphical representation of your body’s overall condition
Nick hated the idea of this Cataloger thing having access to his thoughts, but there was hardly time for that now. He had to run. He followed the road toward the river, and when he glanced behind him, he saw a huge group of people giving chase with crude weapons held at the ready. He’d no clue what he’d done to upset them, but he knew for certain he was no “demon,” whatever that meant.
Now aware of that first bar, Nick noticed there was a second below it, similar in shape and simplicity, except slightly longer and filled halfway with solid green.
“What is that?” he asked Cataloger, and was disturbed by how weak and out of breath he already sounded, given the distance remaining to the river.
A graphical representation of your physical endurance
“And what happens when it runs out?”
You will need to rest—or to use a human colloquial term—“catch one’s breath”
Nick eyed that little green meter in horror. With his every step, it emptied at a shocking pace. It certainly felt like he was about to drop from exhaustion. His legs ached, and his lungs burned when he gasped for air. But that made no sense; if he pushed on, if he forced himself to move, he should be able to run for so much longer…
The meter emptied, and it felt like Nick slammed into an invisible wall. He gasped in air, his chest tightening and his legs wobbling beneath him as he slowed to a walk. His every step felt like pushing through molasses. Pure stubbornness kept him stumbling across the grass toward the river.
Another glance behind him, one he instantly regretted. Still the villagers of Meadowtint gave chase…and they were so much closer than before.
“To the river,” he muttered, resuming his sprint. “Just…cross the river.”
Any attempt at running ended immediately. The damn green bar—it drained in seconds. His chest constricted, and even his throat felt narrowed in a way that reminded him of how his brother had once described an asthma attack.
…brother…
Again that searing pain in his mind, somehow worse than the ache of the arrow wound in his side and the cut on his back. Nick stumbled, dropped to one knee, and gasped.
“Just a dream,” he said. “This cannot be real.”
The world of Yensere is real by most definitions, with interactions, emotions, and events that are both consequential and long-lasting to the individuals who experience them
More answers unasked for. Nick pushed onward, refusing to argue with a voice in his head. After what felt like forever, he reached the river. Nick could practically feel Cataloger’s presence hovering nearby, eager to tell him the river’s name, but she blessedly remained silent. He pressed through the mud that formed the bank and then waded into the water. It only came up to his knees, which ruined his hopes of using its lazy current to swim away from his pursuers.
“Suffer not any demons to live!” a deep-voiced man shouted. Nick glanced back, saw the man leading the others, taller than them, his pitchfork raised above his head like a battle banner.
Nick waded onward as fast as he could while making sure he didn’t push himself too hard, all so that damn green bar could steadily refill with his every exhausted gasp of air. Surprise, though, had him momentarily stumble in the mud-slick water.
There, on the opposite riverbank, was the strangest woman he’d ever seen. Her skin was pale, her blond hair even more so, and cut short, just below her jawline. Her eyes were such a vibrant blue they seemed to glow despite the distance. She wore armor made of silver chain, yet azure fabric flowed throughout it, hiding the creases, covering her chest and waist, and coming together to form a sort of skirt that ended just below her knees. Her boots were of slender plate. In one gloved hand, she held a sword. Her other was bare, and she pointed its palm toward him.
Frost: Level
Archetype:
Special Classification:
“Sorry about this,” she said, “but we all have to learn eventually.”
Blue mist coalesced into a sphere that hovered just shy of her palm and then shot across the river. It slammed into the water between Nick’s feet but made no splash of impact. Instead, the water froze, ice stretching several feet in all directions and then locking together into one thick sheet.
Nick twisted, shifted, tried to move. Nothing. The ice had him trapped in place.
“What is this?” he shouted, baffled. “What are you doing?”
There was no hiding his panic—the villagers were right behind him. He heard the splashing of their steps. The woman grinned at him playfully, amused. It’d have been downright charming if he weren’t afraid for his life.
“Everyone dies the first time they come here,” she said. “Don’t worry, Nick. You’ll get used to it.”
Nick’s jaw dropped. “Get used to—”
Pain spiked through him as he felt the sharp teeth of a pitchfork stab his back. He gasped, his arms flailing to push them away, but he still could not move. The ice had him imprisoned. Another hit, a slash with a sickle across his side. Blood splashed to the river. The villagers surrounded him, muttering, murmuring, always that word on their black tongues, that same expression in their dull, hollow eyes.
“Demon. Slay the demon.”
The red meter that was his life flashed just beyond the edge of the box. The pain was unreal. Nick awkwardly collapsed onto his side as the ice dissolved, releasing him. Above him, he saw only bodies, cruel in their aims, heartless in their words. The largest of them lifted his pitchfork and aimed it for Nick’s throat. For once, Nick saw a bit of life and light enter the man’s eyes when he spoke.
“Vaan be praised.”
Down came the pitchfork.
Health: 0
Visit terminated