Second Life writes first
The first thing you notice is the cold. Mud soaks through your boots, the sky is the color of wet slate, and somewhere behind you a wagon wheel groans over a rut. When you turn around, a broad-shouldered farmer has pulled his cart to a stop and is staring at you with open suspicion.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” He squints at your clothes, then at the rucksack, then at your empty hands. “Walking the king’s road without a horse this late in the season is either stupid or unlucky. Which one is it?”
Behind him, a girl with a lantern peers out from under a canvas flap. She says something quick in a language your head translates before you can stop it. “Her name is Ilse, and she thinks you look like a runaway bard.” He shrugs. “Town is a half-day’s walk. You can ride in back, or you can keep walking and explain yourself to the gate guard.”
What do you tell him, and do you take the offer?
