He woke feeling calm. For a moment his eyes remained closed while short bursts of warm air wafted over his face, laced with the smell of grass and roughage, a trace of wild flowers, and accompanied by a deep grunting sound unmistakably that of a horse.

This was odd. He knew it was, yet his mind was amiss of any immediate reason why, thoughts obscured by the inability to recall where he had fallen asleep. The lumpy contours of the ground, the grass against his neck and ear, the extremely uncomfortable bulge of something sticking into his lower back – all things that in no way assisted in removing the sense of being displaced. For the moment outside with a horse was the sum of all the facts he had.

Prompted by a small, unfounded sense of alarm, he opened his eyes, blinking twice at the two brown-haired nostrils flaring wide in his face and then quickly sat up, avoiding the animal by swinging to one side and landing his back against the trunk of a large tree. The interest of the horse did not pursue, instead it went to a nearby clomp of grass silently screaming to be eaten.

‘Not the best place to be sleeping, friend.’ Said the rider, saddled upright and somewhat stiffly on the horse. ‘Many a traffic pass down this road, both civil folk and those who are not. You should know that…’ The rider paused to glance dubiously over his shoulder at the woods that crowded the winding dirt road in his wake, ‘…unless you’re new to these parts?’

The suspicious tone the rider used was not at all subtle. He looked the man on the ground over searchingly, apparently not about to ride off until receiving an answer to his query. His anxious demeanour made no secret of the fact that there were more questions just waiting in line to be asked.

It was then, while being scrutinized by the rider, that the man on the ground recalled where he was and what he was doing before waking in this place, where, as it turned out, had apparently nothing at all in common with the place he last was. The incomprehensible difference between his current and previous location caused his face to distort in a way that one might look while observing an actual real life unicorn in downtown London.

‘What?’ The man on the ground uttered his delayed reply to the rider, having heard very little of what he had said. But then he realised that maybe his reply was too soft to be heard, and duly spoke up a little; ‘I didn’t really hear what you said there, buddy, wanna run that by me one more time?’

The rider couldn’t have been a day over thirty, and despite his thin build, sloping shoulders, crane-like neck and disproportionately large head, his stiffly posture gave no illusions to his bloated ego. Yet the capricious stare of his beady blue eyes - combined with his sharp beak-like nose and thin upper lip - gave the immediate impression that he was unstable and couldn’t be trusted. The only features that managed to subtract from this shifty aura, though not doing a crack-up job of it, was the air of distinctive dignity portrayed by the salt-and-pepper goatee that matched diligently to the loose ponytail of his long, wavy black hair, which was, despite his apparent age, also silvering about the temples and nape.

‘I said,’ he replied in the former suspicious tone, though now with additional impatience, ‘that it is not safe to be sleeping on the side of this particular road. You should know this, unless you are not from around these parts.’

‘Ah right, yes. Heard ya that time,’ said the man, who remained splayed on the ground with his back against the tree while keeping one curious eyebrow raised to the rider. He was feeling a little unsettled about various aspects of his current situation. One such related aspect was the object still digging into his lower back. Initially, while lying on the ground, he had figured it was just a rock, but - since it was still digging into him while sitting back against the tree - he realised that no, it was not a rock, rather his handgun lodged in the leather belt of his jeans. Being in possession of a firearm wouldn’t have always been problematic for the man, but in this particular situation such a weapon would need to be stowed away unless absolutely needed. Fortunately, the gun was currently out of sight, but that could not be said about his attire. Blue denim jeans, black Gerson boots, white snug-fit T-shirt, brown leather jacket and an imitation Rolex watch strapped to his wrist; an ensemble just as far detached from the outmoded clothes of the rider as the handgun was to the sword housed in a sheath on the riders back.

Now, having not received his idea of a substantial response, the rider was about to crack with anxiety as he continued to scrutinise the man below him. Yet somehow, despite himself, he managed to set aside the strain brought on by the man’s less than cooperative behaviour and decided to proceed with another question waiting in line to be asked.

‘Perhaps you could share your name, then?’

‘Sure.’ The man answered with an uneasy smile, and then he lied. ‘My name’s Jack. How about you?’

The rider took a moment to sneer sceptically at the man before he reciprocated. ‘My name is Theolan.’ He paused for effect, raising his chin as if he had spoken a word that should be revered by anyone fortunate enough to hear it. ‘Sir Mallicone Starlip Theolan.’ He expounded, then turned his hooded eyes of contempt down at the man. ‘Jack, you say? That is quite an unusual name. Not sure if I have had the displeasure of hearing it before, though I am sure I would have remembered. From where do you hail, Jack?’

Jack, but not really Jack, hailed from somewhere in the 20th century – though he wasn’t prepared to inform the rider of that - while Theolan, the rider, was apparently dressed for the Middle Ages. The attire of people in this, the medieval era - and more so the men than the women - normally struck Jack as ridiculous and somewhat amusing, but more in regards to the wealthier folk, and more due the always unexpected eye-popping colours than their old fashioned designs. Theolan was no exception. He wore, as wealthier men often did, a full-length tunic which, due to the man being saddled on a horse, was currently gathered about his waist to expose his lemon yellow knee-length breeches secured by silver ornamental buckles to white skin-tight leggings, which appeared more like smooth and pale skin that led to the distracting shine of his polished black shoes. The tunic, in deliberate contrast, was an extremely deep shade of purple, made from what was probably a hemp-like fabric, and closed about the torso with lightly stained wooden peg buttons. Showing beneath the open V neck of the tunic was a lime-green collarless shirt. There was also an insignia of his initials, MST, embroidered with silver stitching on the left breast pocket of the tunic.

Feeling the urge to irritate the pompous prick some more, Jack ignored the question - and besides, he didn’t have a convenient lie at the ready. It was time to get off the ground, though, so he shot to his feet abruptly enough to startle the rider who reached for his sword, then paused, hand suspended just an inch from the hilt while he watched Jack straighten his jacket and give himself a light dusting off. Jack was careful, however, not to turn and bend on such an angle that would cause his jacket to lift and expose the gun tucked in his belt. It wasn’t that Theolan would have recognised the Glock as an actual weapon, but Jack in no way wanted to encourage the curiosity of the dinosaur any more than he already had. In fact, he really just wanted the guy to ride on, because he required some time alone to think, search for his duffel bag, and prepare for his stay in this world.

‘You haven’t seen a black duffel bag around here, have ya?’ Asked Jack, eyes searching the dirt road and nearby undergrowth. It was unusual for his bag not to make the journey with him, but it was fairly common for the bag to end the journey in a different location, yet not too far away. It was nevertheless imperative that he find it before anyone else did, that is, if they hadn’t already.

‘A what, did you say?’ Theolan said, looking quizzically around. He appeared to be rather disturbed that he may have missed an import item lying about.

‘It’s fine.’ Jack was glad that the rider hadn’t seen it. He clapped his hands together, pouched his lips in a blasé manner. ‘But if you don’t mind pissing off now, Theo, I’d like to tend to my business. Thanks for all your concern, though.’

Theolan was genuinely shocked by this, mouth gaping in astonished horror for an annoyingly calculated amount of time, and finally thought of what he believed to be an adequate affront before departing.

‘I merely feel it my duty to assist the impoverished whenever I can,’ he said, and rode off slowly as he concluded the insult, ‘be them at times a lost cause, it seems.’

Jack smiled, slightly amused by Theolan’s attempt at offending him. He stood thoughtfully rubbing the short stubble of his face with thumb and finger until the rider had disappeared around a bend down the road.

Judging by the beads of dew still lingering on the tips of grass and leaves and the low angle of the sunlight breaking through the canopy of the trees, it was still early morning, while drifting aromas of food accompanied by periodic faint voices and other sounds of activity told Jack he wasn’t too far from a township of some variety, most likely in the direction Theolan had headed. Both these things were promising. Early morning meant he wasn’t pressed with time to get his shit together, and having a town nearby was convenient for quickly establishing a way to blend in.

The most immediate concern was finding his duffel bag, if it was even around to be found at all. As much as trees and other clustered landscapes provided a decent place to lay low when arriving in a new place, it really could result in more frustration than need be when locating his belongings.

Still, searching the immediate road and forest for the bag did have its benefits. If he wasn’t previously certain about whether he was actually on Earth – and given that the majority of immediate plants and trees did show a striking resemblance to the flora found on Earth – it was stumbling upon a bizarre rat-size creature in a small clearing several meters from the road that confirmed his suspicions. He was not on Earth, at any time in history.

As luck would have it, the rather cute creature which resembled a lizard in head and body shape with a bluish scaled underbelly, but soft white feathers lining its face and back and wings, was nestles somewhat snugly in the fold of his duffel bag.

‘Get off!’

One can never be too careful when dealing with unfamiliar forms of life. What might at first appear to be a cute little bundle of sleeping joy can - in response to as little as a wave of a hand and a few short words - quickly turn that bundle of joy into a formidable savage beast that screams like a demon unleashed from hell.

Jack launched himself backward shielding his face with one arm against the sudden frenzy of gnashing teeth, beating wings and slashing claws. Before he knew it he was down, face to the ground, hand grasping protectively to the back of his head while the other hand groped desperately for his gun. Never in his life had he felt in such mortal danger over a creature so small and feathery. He felt the skin of his shielding hand being shredded by its claws, small yet powerful talon-like feet sinking into the flesh of his shoulder, and a bitter freeze of air pouring over his neck and head as he drew the gun from his belt, propped his elbow on the ground to aim the weapon at the sky, and then squeezed the trigger. The thunderous crack of gunfire cascaded through the forest and across the land, leaving in its wake a silence that made Jack instantly groan with regret.

‘Well that sucks a great deal,’ he said, lifting his head to take a cautious look around. Concluding a moment of wait, he pushed up and sat back on his heels to better survey the area and ensure the little beast had truly fled. His hand was bleeding from cat-like claw marks, his shoulder was throbbing, his favourite leather jacket was torn, and the skin of his neck was beginning to thaw from whatever had started to turn it into a hide of ice. But the little terror of a beast was gone and, more importantly, it had not returned to sleep on his duffel bag.

Unfortunately, aside from the personal damage and a stinky little deposit the creature had left on his bag, every soul within a good distance would have heard the gun fire.

Jack used a leafy branch to brush away the faeces that the nasty little beast had left on his duffel bag, checked the contents of the bag to ensure everything that was normally inside was still there, used some disinfectant and a bandage from the bag to treat the wound on his left hand, placed his Glock in the bag, zipped up the bag but left an opening large enough for easy access to the Glock if he absolutely needed it in a hurry, and then started his journey into town.

His shoulder was still throbbing and he needed to take care of the injury as soon as he could, but carrying his duffle didn’t irritate the wound because even though he was right handed and it was his right shoulder that had been damaged, he normally carried his duffel over his left. This, as one might guess, allowed easy-to-reach access to anything in his duffel, not just the gun that, under some circumstances, would be carried around in his belt as it had been when he arrived in this world. He was, however, not willing to indefinitely carry the gun around in his bag on this world either, at the moment it just didn’t seem practical or secure in many ways, so he had planned on trying to organise a new system when he arrived in town, that is, if there was anyone in the community able to accommodate his needs.

The walk to town wasn’t long, no more than ten minutes, and Jack passed no other travellers along the way. The medieval-like village, as would be an apt description, was actually quite spectacular, if not modest. A quaint, pretty riverside community with a backdrop of forested mountains that rose to jagged rock peaks that towered like stone knives cutting though small islands of fast moving clouds. It may have been windy all those miles high, but there was barely a breeze to be felt at Jack’s level where he stood for a while on the stone bridge at the entrance to the village.

The morning air was fresh, crisp and clear, and the few trees that lined the riverbank did very little in obstructing the pristine view of this pretty hamlet. For the moment he hadn’t been noticed, so he took advantage of that to observe all he could of the buildings and activity before entering.

The main road through town was hard dirt with sparsely laid shades of blueish grey cobbles. Nearest the river, just off to the right of the bridge, was a stone and timber stable that housed a few animals, one of which appeared to be the horse Theolan had been riding, and two other animals of similar size but comparatively different species. Opposite the stables was the gated entry to a timber mill with two great waterwheels. The mill span a portion of the left riverbank and up behind what looked like a Blacksmith establishment. Beyond the blacksmith and stable was a mix of both homes and other businesses, most of the buildings constructed of timber logs, mortar and wood-tile roofing, though with a few exceptions, such as the grey stone walls and steep slate-tile roof of the most prominent structure in the village - likely a tavern of sorts with possible rooms for rent - and positioned between the main road and the water where, farther upstream from the mill, the river meandered toward the rise of the lush foothills.

A few residents were out and about, including the blacksmith, his current hammering of metal was one of the few sounds Jack could hear over the sound of the river rushing beneath him. He also noticed a stable hand - a young lady maybe in her teens - delivering water to Theolan’s horse. There was also another woman, who from a distance appeared older than the stable hand. She was making her way up the road from the tavern towards the blacksmith and passed by three men who had grouped to converse by a horse and carriage, one of whom turned to greet the woman. She stopped to reciprocate with a small curtsy before continuing on her way. Overall, there seemed to be much ado about nothing in this community at present, no one seemed to be out sorts or in any type of panic over to the earlier gunfire, which was very good, and so Jack took it in his stride to walk right into town like nothing at all was a matter.

Other villagers came into view as Jack moved from the bridge. Two children appeared from behind the grass roofed living quarters next to the stable, maybe eight years of age, a boy and a girl playing some unfamiliar game involving a stick with a ball attached to its end. They stopped playing when they saw Jack, both of them standing still as if mesmerised, the boys mesmerisation was mixed with distrust, the girls with mocking amusement. By the shift of her eyes to glance past Jack, she must have known what was coming –

‘You there! Stand!’

Jack stopped abruptly, stood for a moment as commanded, and then turned to see the speaker was a town guard. The guard had stepped out from behind a tree that loomed by the gate of the mill.

‘I am standing,’ said Jack, and heard the young girl snicker behind him. He then heard both children scamper off, likely to find a new, safer place to play.

Meanwhile, the Blacksmith, his place of work now just several meters away, stopped what he was doing to stare on at Jack’s interaction with the guard. As normally expected of a blacksmith, he was a hefty sort, though not the fat kind of hefty. He was dressed in tanned trousers and a brown leather apron that didn’t seem to have done a good job at protecting his tattered yellow-ochre shirt over the years. Matching his tattered shirt was his cold stone face - much of it lost behind a dark beard - though the parts that did show were well scarred. One eye was missing. Nose crooked like it had been broken many times since he was born some 40 years prior.

The guard said, ‘Why are you here, stranger?’ losing not even a portion of the severity in his tone. He was just a tad shorter than Jack, Jack being a few inches north of 6 feet, but the guard more than made up for this with a massive barrel chest, plated with iron armour that seemed to have been forged to conform specifically to the shape of his torso and shoulders. The rest of his duds, a term, Jack later discovered, used to describe a guards uniform, was strikingly similar in design to that of an ancient roman soldier, with a deep red under-tunic, iron Baltea skirting the crotch, and leather sandal-like footwear. The guard however wore no helmet and held no shield. Both hands were gripped at the ready to the hilt of the very large swords sheathed and hanging from his metal hip belt.

Jack wasn’t really feeling threatened at all. He could take care of a lone guard with a sword if need be and had in his life been confronted by much scarier personalities, such as the tiny winged beast he had encountered in the woods only 15 minutes earlier. So he smiled for the guard, slightly, consciously making an effort not to come across as patronising.

‘No need for that,’ he said, glancing to the guard's sword, ‘I’m just a traveller passing through, maybe up for some work if there is any coin to be made here.’

Relative as age can be in a medieval era, the guard was not a young man, perhaps in his 40’s and having at least a good ten years on Jack. His hair was short, on the redder side of auburn with no real style to it, his eyes were slitted and green, providing a naturally accusing stare, and his features basically matched his body type; broad, thick and strong. Somehow defiant of these brutish features was the man’s recent and surprisingly clean-shaven and rather soft skin, unblemished and void of any visible scarring, which Jack thought was a curious quality for a man in his profession. Either he was very good at his job, or just didn’t get much action. In fact, at least appearance-wise, it would have seemed more fitting for the blacksmith and this guard to have traded places.

In any case, the guard was likely not the smartest guy around, taking way too long to deliberate on what Jack had said. His initial reply was a long cold stare of his accusing eyes, followed up by a deep irritated groan, and then tempered with a loud grind of his teeth. His hands did not show any signs of leaving the grip of his sword.

‘You know, work?’ Jack clarified, giving a quick, uneasy glance at the blacksmith who continued to stare on without expression. ‘Money? Coin? Occupation? Making a living for one’s self. You are aware of this concept, right?’

‘I know of no work in Greenfalls,’ said the guard finally, forcing yet a deeper tone, ‘Ask at the Greenfalls Inn – and watch your behaviour while you’re here! I’ll be keeping a watch over you, stranger.’

Jack smiled his reply, slightly amused by the guard’s choice of words. ‘Well, thank you for watching over me, sir. Having a guardian may come in handy.’

The guard appeared very confused by this. His hands remained braced to his sword and eyes followed Jack as he walked away.

The woman that had been seen walking toward the Blacksmith before Jack entered town, had since disappeared into the Blacksmiths stone-walled and slate-tile roof home. It was the only building in town - far as Jack had seen - to be constructed of the same materials as what he thought was the local tavern, the same he now knew as Greenfalls Inn. Considering this, and the fact that the woman appeared, at least from a distance, to be about the same age as the Blacksmith, he figured it would a safe assumption that she and the Blacksmith were married, or at least a couple. And, of course, Jack being a man who did what he could to win the favour of people he intended to conduct business with, he also decided that using this knowledge of the pair and their home would be a good start to getting a fair deal. Nothing like a well placed compliment to curry favour.

‘Greetings there!’ Jack declared to the blacksmith with a smile as he stepped into the sheltered work area alongside the house, ‘I see both your house and your wife are made of the finest materials, you must be a man of great taste!’

It was only as Jack finished saying these exact words that he realised the many ways it could go wrong. Accordingly, he took a step back out arms reach of the large man.

The Blacksmith, who hadn’t yet taken his eyes off Jack since he started conversing with the guard, continued to stare deadpan at the stranger, not a move or even so much as a flicker of an eye to suggest he was in the slightest way affected by Jack’s approach or his choice of words. He actually stood staring for an uncomfortable amount of time, causing Jack to wonder if he should just walk away, before, at last, he did reply in a flat, candid manner.

‘If you desire my wife for the night, I’m willing to work a deal, but you will be escorting her to the Inn. No shenanigans in my home, you hear? Besides,’ he finished, while turning back to the anvil and raising his hammer for another strike at his current job, ‘I don’t care much for watching.’

Jack was a tad set back by this response, it wasn’t expected in the least. He watched on, jaw slightly dropped, and blinking each time the Blacksmiths hammer connected.

‘That isn’t actually what I was after,’ said Jack between strikes of the hammer, ‘I was just saying… good taste you have. You know, that sort of thing.” He shook his head and decided on forsaking any further explanation. ‘I actually just came over to see if I could have you forge me a weapon. Or maybe you have one ready for sale? I’m also looking for a leatherworker, if you know anyone.’

The Blacksmith finally pulled an expression in the form of a curled lip or, as it were, a sneer. He stopped hammering as well, placed his hammer and the item he was working on next to him on a stone bench. He looked at his open kiddie-pool sized fire pit, which was barely producing any heat at all at the moment, he regarded his house as if it were holding secret value, and then he slightly nodded in direction of a small establishment across the street next to the stables. Above the door of that building was a sign that read Amber Wears.

‘Amber deals in leather goods, amongst other things,’ told the blacksmith, then gave Jack a curious, if not condescending, look. ‘And unless your senses are dull and your brain is slow then it should be obvious that my forge is not at full capacity today.’

Jack was slightly off-balanced by this, he wasn’t expecting to have his intelligence insulted by the brute who was turning out to be smarter than Jack had first given him credit for.

The Blacksmith continued. ‘My hearth is in use two or three full days each week when the boys are available to keep it fully heated, everyone around here knows that. Hell, even the King knows that. If you want to place an order in, I’ll get to it eventually.’

‘Right, of course,’ said Jack, eyeing the fire pit - or hearth, apparently - then glanced over at the large furnace on the far side of the yard. Though the hearth was dwindling in heat, the furnace appeared to be full charge, smoke billowing from its roof.

‘But if you want to look at what I have in stock,’ added the Blacksmith, ‘we can venture into my basement.’ His final words stopped short with a severe dead look into Jack’s eyes. ‘That is if you have the coin.’

‘I have a means to pay you, yes,’ replied Jack, though he wasn’t sure the man would accept it.

‘Then follow me.’

Jack nodded, started to follow, and said, ‘Name’s Jack. And you are?’

‘Folk call me Torn.’

Torn did not lead Jack through the house to the basement. Instead, there was a hatch outside on the ground built into the large stone tiles near the rear wall of the house. The hatch was of double doors that were sealed shut by a large iron bar laid over them. One end of the bar was fixed to the ground tiles by a hinge fixture which was bolted to the stone tiles, the other end was held in place by an iron latch - also bolted to the ground tiles - with a heavy mechanism that Torn unlocked using a large key to release that end of the bar.

There was nothing wrong with keeping ones goods locked up, Jack thought, but this seemed a tad excessive for such a seemingly peaceful little town.

The bulky Blacksmith lifted the iron bar aside as if it were nothing, he opened the double doors, then clambered down into the darkness of his basement. Jack hesitated, but followed cautiously. The daylight from the above opening was ample to guide his way down the crooked staircase to the floor, where he stood patiently until Torn lit a fire inside a meter-wide iron ring cupola in the center of the room.

The large stone basement, covering the area of a small house, had a strong wet-sock odour of mould with a hint of what was possibly urine. The display, however, was impressive: Three walls covered from ceiling to floor in shelves and racks and cabinets displaying the many item Torn had for sale. Hundreds of item were here: Weapons, tools, utensils, all manner of metal-based household items and other things that Jack couldn’t explain off hand. The fourth wall held a wooden arched door, closed, next to which was a dark wood tabletop the size of a dining table, one length of the tabletop was bolted to the wall, the other was supported by logs under both corners. On the table, against the wall, was a bookshelf, and on the opposite side of the table to the door were several timber and iron braced barrels stacked to the ceiling.

Jack stood at first bewildered by what he was looking at. He marvelled at the work it would have taken, not only to dig out a subterranean room like this with nothing but primitive equipment and elbow grease, but how many hours must have gone into the manufacturing of all the crafted metal items on display. Torn had been busy. Sure, Jack knew next to nothing about the world he was in, or the land he was on, or even the surrounding towns or cities, but he still couldn’t help question just what a place like this had any business doing in a town like Greenfalls.

Hell, Jack remembered the words Torn had spoken outside, even the King knows that.

Jack lowered his duffel to the floor.

‘Take your time,’ said Torn, folding his arms while he remained standing by the cupola, ‘All my range weapons are over there.’

Jack was already on rout to where Torn had nodded in reference. Half of one wall was dedicated to shelves and racks sporting various kinds of bows, crossbow-like weapons, slingshots, and other projectile equipment Jack wasn’t entirely sure about.

‘You take me for a range man?’

‘Of course,’ Torn announced a small amused snort, ‘I know the look.’

‘Jack glanced over his shoulder at the man. ‘The look?’

‘Close contact isn’t for all of us.’ Torn eyeballed Jack up and down, making it clear he didn’t think much of his clothing. Jack’s clothes may not have been any fashion Torn was used to viewing, but it was obvious they hadn’t seen much action. Torn would have likely been hard pressed to find anyone with clothes as clean as Jack’s were. Perks of living in the 20th century. Of course, Jack knew it wouldn’t be long before this primitive world stripped away his clean and crisp appearance.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Jack, as he reached out and ran his forefinger along the curve of a metallic bow. He was no metallurgist, but then he didn’t need to be one to know that metal flexible enough it craft a bow wasn’t easy to come by, especially in this era. The metal was cool to the touch, like other metal, but it was grained, seemingly impure, yet the blue-tinted grains seemed to have a type of random yet set pattern to them. It reminded Jack of weapons made of Damascus steel he had seen once on display in one of Earth’s museums. ‘What sort of metal is this, Torn?’

Instead of directly answering the question, Torn let Jack know just how ignorant the question was by asking his own question in response:

‘What far away land are you from, Jack?’

Jack chuckled. He knew there wasn’t much point in trying to hide his outlandish circumstance, at least not from the Blacksmith. Torn, despite his brutish size and beaten face, had a certain refines dignity about him, and that was something Jack felt like he could trust. Even so, he wasn’t prepared to spill everything. That would be a tremendous mistake, that is, if Torn was of the mind to believe him at all.

‘A land very, very far from here, sir.’ Jack turned to Torn, stuffed his hands modestly into the pockets of his jeans. ‘I doubt you would have heard of it.’ He took his eyes to the sunlight shining down from the open doors in the ceiling. ‘Things are a lot different around here.’

Torn somehow revealed a smirk without actually changing the expression of his deadpan face. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

There it was, that moment between two strangers wherein they seem to connect on a deeper level by undefined and unspoken means. Jack and Torn stood there, stare fastened to each other as they - had anyone been watching on - would have appeared to be busy reading each other’s thoughts.

‘How long will you be with us?’ Torn finally ended the moment, a new, cryptic tone in his lowered voice.

‘I can never really tell at first. Depends on why I’m here and what I need to do. Both of those things aren’t clear at the moment.’ Jack broke eye contact, taking his look to the closed door beside the table. ‘I guess you have all your good stuff hiding in the other room.’

Torn sneered again. ‘All my stuff is good.’

‘No offense, I just feel a man like you can do better than what you have on display in this room.’

‘Feelings are for women,’ Torn said, but he smiled at last.

Torn explained the three materials smelted to create the metal called Mironyn, used to craft the bow Jack had asked about, was actually one of the most used flexible metals in the land. Of course, this knowledge, aside from making Jack look like a complete ignoramus, paled in comparison to the information Torn soon shared about the metals of even greater quality used in crafting the weapons waiting in the other room. Jack had been correct. Torn’s better craftsmanship was indeed held in a separate room.

This other room was smaller, it too was illuminated by an iron cupola, but dedicated solely to weapons, and such were on displayed in a way one might imagine ritualistic tools be placed on stone shelves of a subterranean cultists chamber. Each weapon had its own stone shelf, yet more than just a shelf, rather a cavity chiselled out from the natural stone formations of the walls. And again, on one of the walls, was yet another door, closed, arched in shape, and made of a very heavy timber.

‘You really have been busy, haven’t you?’ asked Jack, shaking his head in dismay.

Torn replied, ‘Don’t be absurd, man. I am not a crazy idiot. This room is part of a vast network of underground caverns left behind from an older civilization. My father merely discovered this area of the caverns and built his house upon it.

More information about the previous civilisation would have to wait for another time. For the time being, Jack was in need of establishing his situation, which, for now, meant choosing a weapon or two and then finding a means of paying the Blacksmith. He then needed to go and visit the leather worker across the street, and then possibly rent out a room at the Inn for the night.

Per Torn’s advice, Jack selected a bow. Not a long bow by any means. It was shorter than a meter in length and came with a quiver of iron arrows to suit, as standard length arrows for standard sized bows would not work In it. The bow, according to Torn, was crafted from a very rare naturally occurring metallic element called Absint. It was therefore duly expensive, more valuable than gold, and items crafted from it were even more rare and usually only commissioned by kings, royalty, and other self-important types. The greatest things about Absint was its strength, its flexibility and, somewhat most importantly, it’s extraordinary light weight - all the combined qualities needed in creating an almost weightless compact bow with the power and accuracy that exceeded its larger counterparts.

Jack also chose two daggers. These daggers had 11 Inch double-edged blades made of a metal that looked and felt suspiciously like titanium, though Torn referred to it as Stir. The daggers came with iron hoops with strap that could be used to holster them from ones trouser belt. Torn also pointed out that if Jack actually wanted a leather sheath for the weapons he would need to be asking Amber across the street about that.

In the end, paying for the weapons came with greater difficulty than Jack had hoped. Even though he and Torn seemed to have been getting along just fine for the time being, the Blacksmith was not a man to take business lightly, not even among friends. Jack attempted to offer Torn some gold plated coins, which were in fact just dollar coins from 20th century Earth and a land called Aus. To Torn, however, despite their unique exotic quality, they were nothing more than an insult. Still, Jack must have made some sort of good impression not to have Torn kick him out of his store without a weapon, and instead had a little work for Jack to do. And by a little work, what he really meant was a big and dangerous job that may or may not include murder.

Minus the bow for now, Jack left Torn’s Blacksmith with duffel on shoulder and his new daggers dangling open blade from his belt. When he stepped out on the street he looked down toward the bridge. The guard was still near the tree by the Mill’s entrance, his eyes were still stuck like glue to Jack, his hands were still fixed to the hilt of his sword. Apart from that, the sun had snuck behind the mountains on its angled ascent of the morning sky, causing an eerie type gloom to be cast upon the ancient village, where, aside from the guard, the community seemed utterly absent of any activity.

Jack felt like antagonising the guard, so he did. He contrived a ridiculous smile, a little wave of one hand. The guard in response widened his stance, hands tightening their grip on his weapon. Jack chuckled and walked the rest of his short journey across the street to Amber Wears.