Chapter 2: Chapter 2 - Etheril and the Bacchanalian

Daniel awoke in a field of grass, tucked in the indentation between two rolling hills. Golden light splashed against a clear blue sky, reaching up from the edge of his vision and giving the impression of dawn or dusk, but he couldn’t tell which.

He remembered his death with crystal clarity, but his body ached and groaned as he sat up, like he was stretching out years of stillness. He wore the same white button up shirt and slacks he had dressed himself in to go to work.

The only change in his appearance was his left arm. The sleeve of his shirt had been destroyed — not cut, but torn. Wrapped around his hand, between his thumb and his fingers, was a ring of scars. They were symbols he didn’t recognize and looked like they had been carved into his flesh a decade ago, leaving behind only faded scar tissue.

The first thing Daniel did in his new world was vomit.

Nothing came up as he rolled to his side, bile tainting the taste of his mouth. He spat stomach acid on to the grass and crawled on to his hands and knees.

The girl’s screams echoed in his head. He heaved again.

The stink of the subway air blasting him dominated his nostrils. He planted his forehead into a clean portion of grass, trying to suck in a new scent. A new mindsight.

But the mother’s face was behind his closed eyelids, permanently screaming. Liquid pooled around his eyes and dripped down his face. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or crying.

He thought about his own mom, wondering if she would see his body. Wondering if she could. Wondering if she already had. Wondering if it would be too mangled for a funeral, limbs crunched beneath the weight of the oncoming train, his innards splattered against the tracks and joining decades of accumulated stains in the subway station.

Bile rose in his throat again.

He imagined his intestines squished out of him like a cheap, premade can of spaghetti. He imagined his heart popping like a balloon, blood flooding his exposed chest cavity as onlookers stared at what became of him.

He vomited again.

Before his mind could continue its despair, pain snaked up his arm, wrapping around the limb and reaching for his throat. It wasn’t a lightning shot of pain, it was slower, deeper, his arm stuck in a pit of sand and the pressure crushing it to dust.

He lifted his torso and reared back on his knees, staring at his newly scarred arm. The pain lessened as he watched it, and he twisted his hand back and forth to examine both sides of the ring of runes.

“Is that you? The… woman from before?”

Deep pain radiated out from the scars, reaching towards his chest in long, horrible tendrils.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, shaking his hand like a spider had crawled on it. The pain retreated.

Daniel’s mind wandered in circles that made him dizzy, but each time thoughts threatened to destabilize him, the pain in his arm yanked him back to the physical world. Before he could overthink it, he found himself climbing the gentle hill to get a better view of the surrounding area.

When he reached the top, it was clear that it was dusk, not dawn. The sun, larger than he had ever seen, sank behind layers of mountains, a spiraling range of hills that grew in size until they became distant snow-capped peaks. The threat of night in an unknown world sent another rush of fear through him.

He scoured the land, looking for signs of civilization — sign posts, distant lights, roads, paths, garbage, anything — to no avail. The only thing he saw were rolling plains of grass, dotted with tall bushes of foreign flowers, and occasional carpets of familiar white ones. His mom’s favorite, a distant part of his mind knew. Daisies.

He looked down at his hand, then lifted it, trying to steady the quiver of his nerves.

“Which direction?” he asked, then rotated in a circle, stopping at even intervals. No pain came.

He scowled at his hand. “Unless your big bad is that patch of daisies, you’re going to need to lend a hand.” He repeated the process again.

This time a low rumble of pain accompanied each interval he stopped at until his hand was pointed in the direction of the setting sun. He shifted his arm back to the left, double-checking that he understood, and fire erupted up in him, a boil rolling into his blood.

“Christ, understood!” He grabbed at his left arm with his right, clutching the pained limb until it relented.

He cradled his arm and walked towards the sun.

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The first sign of civilization was what once was a farm. He had been following what he thought was a game trail, but it widened into an overgrown dirt road. In turn, the road brought him to a rotting fence wrapped around a wooden structure that had lost most of its doors and all of its roof.

He didn’t bother approaching the building — if someone lived there, they were more likely to rob him than help him. Not that he had anything to steal.

So he continued forward, the sun settling behind the looming mountains and leaving him straining to see through the growing darkness. His stomach twisted into a pit. He hated the dark, he hated the strain to see, he hated the creatures that would see him better than he could see them, he hated the unknown. A headache formed behind his squinting eyes, but the darkness did bring one gift.

Far off but getting closer, he could see orange light. Torches, he realized after another few minutes of walking, perched on either side of an open and unmanned gate. When the light of the gate reached his body, he exhaled his relief.

The dirt road turned into an equally-abandoned stone one. Large, flat rocks with plant life sprouting in between welcomed him into the small village. Most of the buildings were in rough condition. They looked like what he imagined a medieval village would look like, but dosed generously with the reality of economic decay.

Most of the small huts hosted no families, and the ones that did had their ratty shutters closed tight. A few had front gardens dotted with daisies and unfamiliar bell-shaped flowers, but their quaintness ended at the front steps that often had more than one hole punched through the planks of wood.

Only three buildings boasted any sort of life. A tavern, obvious from the laughter and stench of alcohol, to his right. The first building anyone would see coming into town.

Then further down the road and opposite of each other were two buildings, the heart of the village. One was short and wooden with a sign dangling from its porch. He couldn’t read it, but he wasn’t sure if it was a foreign language or shoddy writing. Its opposite counterpart was tall and stone, and the sound of clanging metal echoed out of the arch that served as its entrance.

Daniel approached the tavern.

A single torch glowed outside the door, a thick sludge leaking down the length of it and pooling in the metal contraption that held it. The door was off center, one side creaked open permanently from the damaged hinges. He pushed the other open and it yawned open with a low creak.

The idle chatter and laughter came to an abrupt halt when he stood in the door frame. The twenty or so occupants in the room stared at him and all he could do was stare back.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He didn’t belong, that much was painfully obvious. His tattered business-casual clothes looked absurd compared to the sturdy leather, robes, and occasional chainmail of the people occupying the tavern.

A few elbows jammed into ribs, conversation slogging forward with no one looking at who they were talking to. Hushed whispers were met with scowls that were met with more whispers. The tavern reeked of lifetimes of sour alcohol and sweat.

A fire was roaring to the left of the entrance, where most occupants gravitated to, and was burning a floral scent that did nothing to help the smell. Across from the entrance was a bar, where a slender man was seated and smiling at him. He gestured urgently for Daniel to approach.

Daniel obliged, face burning from the stares that refused to move off him. He took a seat on a rickety stool next to the man, its red cushion doing little for comfort.

“Uh… hi?” Daniel offered, eyeing the stranger. On closer inspection, he realized he had mistaken drunkenness for friendliness. The man had dirty pale skin that was burned in patches, a single pointed ear as the other was missing by half, and a trail of ocean-colored scales covering the length of his right forearm. Somehow his breath was the most notable feature.

The man tapped the left side of his chest then offered his hand. “Hi. I’m Kire. What’s your name?”

Daniel watched the other man’s motion, then mimicked the chest-tap and shook Kire’s hand. “Daniel.”

”And your patron?”

Daniel dropped the handshake and frowned. His expression must have been inquisitive enough, because Kire elaborated, his voice lower than the first time.

“Your first time then, huh? The god that brought you back, after your first death.”

He thought back to the ashy woman and her chains. His left hand ached, only relenting when he closed his fist. “I don’t know. I don’t think she ever said her name.”

Kire’s eyebrows pushed together, then one arched, a groomed black line above his equally dark eyes. He considered Daniel’s words, then turned to face the rest of the tavern, wide smile back on his face. His canines were long points, paired with secondary sharp teeth beside them.

“His name is Daniel, his patron is Irel,” he said, no shouting required in the dead-silent building.

It was as if the words broke a spell that had fallen over the bar, and passive chatter erupted near instantly. Daniel could still feel curious eyes picking apart his strange clothes and nervous nail-biting, but life returning to the area took tension out of his shoulders. He leaned against the bar, resting his hands on the old, knotted wood.

Kire turned back and sought out the barkeep with his eyes, lifting two fingers then turning his attention back to the newcomer.

“Who’s Irel?” Daniel asked, dropping his voice as low as he could. Kire nodded his approval before answering.

“Harvest goddess. Generally a good one — benign, boring and popular, no one should bother you about it. You’ll want to get the name of yours, though. It’s important.”

”Why?”

The barkeep approached with two glass mugs filled with a cold purple liquid and set them on the counter in front of the men. Kire slid a small pile of bronze coins across the bar, then added three silver ones.

“Food — something simple,” Kire requested. He watched as Daniel eyed an unusual pile of spiky oblong plants being served to another customer. “Not T’chir,” he added.

The barkeep retreated silently and Kire snatched his mug. The glasswork was impressive. More intricate than Daniel would have thought from the state of the village. “You’re going to want to drink that,” Kire said, taking a swig of his own.

When Daniel’s wandering eyes didn’t return to the mug, Kire inched it towards him with a push of his calloused fingers. “No seriously, drink it.”

He reached a wary hand to the mug, grasping its sturdy handle and bringing the thick rim to his lips. The purple liquid sloshed against them. It tasted of a sweet and rotten fruit flavor followed by a savage burn that lingered on his tongue after the liquid was gone. When his nose crinkled in distaste, Kire laughed and clinked his mug against Daniel’s.

“Bottoms up, friend. Everything goes down easier with Tish, including Tish. Especially Tish.”

The beverage was foul, but Kire was right. Each sip was better than the last, but never good. “Tish?”

”Yeah, ‘cause it’s almost shit,” Kire laughed, his accent fumbling around the swear, his cynical warmth infectious, and Daniel couldn’t resist a smile. But even with the settling of a fuzzy fog from the alcohol, his mind returned to questions.

“Why’d you lie about my patron?” The word ‘patron’ tasted sour in his mouth. The scars on his hand tingled.

”Ah, yeah,” Kire mumbled, digging around in the pockets of his thick leather vest for a small velvet pouch. He fished a gold coin from it and slapped it on the counter, then set the bag next to it. “You’re gonna learn right fuckin’ fast that our kind is on the bottom of the social totem pole. Best to stick together when you’re sharing the bottom rung, easy for us all to fall off together.”

Before Daniel could ask the obvious question, Kire continued. “What’s our kind, yeah? Well, if Tish is almost shit, then we’re shit. We’re the ones that have already died, the ones tied to a patron, the ones that aren’t from this world, the fucking cursed,” he rambled, tone and mood darkening with each word, dragging down the chatter of the closest customers. The woman to his right changed seats.

“We’re the Reborn,” he concluded, staring through Daniel, the bags under his eyes seeming to sink to a lower depth as he spoke.

“Reborn,” Daniel echoed. He had the growing impression Kire was the sort of man he’d avoid eye contact with on the subway.

“Aye, Reborn. You died in your last world, same as me. And now we’re here, and it’s a raw deal, let me tell you.” Kire tapped the gold coin on the bar, then wagged a finger. “Reason one, we’re tied to our patrons. Folks in this world worship their gods, sure, but we’re anchored to them. We piss ‘em off and our patrons take their gifts back, or worse.”

Understanding settled over Daniel’s shoulders like a wet blanket. His mind flooded with images of chains and pain. “So if your patron is Irel, people trust you because you’re incentivized to be good. Well, good for harvest, I guess.”

”Yessir. And if your patron is a proper bastard, then you’re a proper bastard — or a weak one, abandoned by their patron,” Kire finished with a burp, tapping his empty mug to get the barkeep’s attention.

The man returned, pouring from a deep pitcher to refill Kire’s mug and setting a plate of food down with his other hand. He slid the plate of flatbread and vegetable hash over to Daniel.

“Fortunately, your patron ain’t likely that much of a bastard. In my world, our gods are made. You strong enough? BAM — godhood. Makes for a real bloodthirsty bunch,” Kire said with a grimace, turning around to rest his elbows on the bar, then reaching up with one hand to gesture broadly at a sky they couldn’t see. “But these guys? They’re like, a family. Born into godhood. Dunno that nepotism’s much better, but it does make for less war gods.”

Daniel poked at the meal with the silverware provided. The two ponged fork and knife were crude but efficient. The bread was easily the most familiar of the meal, followed by the pile of grilled vegetables. None of the vegetables were clearly identifiable, but they looked to be various root plants, akin to carrots or potatoes. He pried a piece of bread off and ate it with two mystery vegetables pierced on the fork.

It was bland, and Daniel was struck by the fear that this new world may not have salt. But Kire chuckled at the expression on his face, a lightness returning to his voice. “Don’t worry, it’s the cook that’s terrible, not all the food in the world.”

Daniel’s cheeks warmed and he glanced to make sure the barkeep hadn’t heard, then realized he hadn’t heard the man say a word since he came in. “Can he understand us?” he asked, poking with the fork to gesture at the man in question.

Kire gave a noncommittal shrug, then scooped another gold coin out of the bag and stacked it on top of the first. He wiggled two fingers at Daniel. “Reason two it sucks to be Reborn. We’re, ah, let’s say blessed to always understand each other, no language barriers with us. But…”

He trailed off, side eyeing Daniel like a dog that had snatched a piece of food from the floor. “Your world got a lot of languages?”

Daniel nodded affirmative, mouth full of mediocrity going down easy thanks to hunger and booze.

“Right, mine too, last I was there at least. This place, Etheril, got a pile of ‘em too. Some of the locals will know our tongue. Common, they call it, but most won’t, and they’ll make it your problem,” Kire continued around swigs of Tish.

Daniel watched the barkeep, straining to hear the man under the buzz of the tavern. The man had grabbed the shoulder of the only waitress as she passed by and pulled her to the side of the room, underneath the large stuffed head of a single-eyed boar. He whispered urgently to her, but Daniel couldn’t make out a word. After a moment of watching, the barkeep’s glances at him increased in volume and he had to look away.

”So,” he started, swallowing a gulp of Tish to chase the last of the meal. “My patron told me I had to kill something here.”

Before he could start his question, Kire was already scowling and adding a third coin to the pile. “Reason three. We’ve all got the same goal, but the tricky bit of that is — how do we all kill the same fucker? I mean, someone has to actually stop its heart, right? So we’re each other’s lifeline but also…”

”Each other’s competition,” Daniel finished. Kire snapped his fingers, downing the last of his second mug.

“You’re gettin’ it.”

”So, what happens to us if someone else finishes the mission?”

Kire chewed on his bottom lip, chewed on the question. His eyes had wandered off Daniel, tracking the comings and goings of the occupants of the bar. It was gradually thinning.

“I don’t know. Anything I’ve got to tell you is just second-hand shit I’ve heard from other Reborns — this is my first rebirth too, just been here a long, long time. Supposedly if we die before we succeed, we’re reborn in a new world again, but with a pissed off patron. Can’t imagine someone else beating us to success is a better outcome.” Kire sounded apologetic. His eyes glistened wet, streaks of red creeping through the white and his jaw was tense, fingers pattering soft against the wood bar.

Was he lying? Half-truths, maybe?

The scars on his hand tightened, an unseen hand around his own.

Kire cleared his throat and pushed the stack of coins over to Daniel. “Well, each reason it sucks to be us is also a reason to help each other. There’s a blacksmith of sorts in town — not a proper set up, but she followed the Crawlers into town and has been serving them well enough. A little general store too, but you’re more likely to get ripped off there. Owner doesn’t speak Common and won’t like that you do.”

Daniel carefully took the coins. They buzzed with a quiet electricity when he picked them up. It didn’t hurt, but startled enough for him to drop them back on to the bar counter.

“Sorry, forgot to warn you. Those are legitimate currency. Sanctioned by the Etheril Crown. Got a little bit of magic woven in them, to track and verify. Lots of gold to be found in dungeons, wouldn’t want to crash local economies whenever a new one crops up, eh?”

Daniel shrugged his half-understanding, picking up and pocketing the coins. If he asked a question for every unknown topic they’d be here all night. He’d need to stick around Kire awhile longer. And find something to take notes with.

But he did have to ask the last big question that hung in the air between the two. “What are we trying to kill?”

Kire grinned, sharp teeth tight against one another, skin stretching until it was clear it was no grin, but another grimace. “The Primordial Beast,” he crowed, spreading his hands wide in false grandeur. “Crock of shit, more like.”

He sighed, a release of tension, and leaned in close to Daniel, his breath rank with Tish’s sickly sweet burn. “Way I see it, no one has any real idea. The higher ups,” he paused to thrust a finger at the roof, and the sky past it. “…say it’s in the dungeons, so that’s where we keep digging.”

“But it’s been hundreds of years, and here we are. My hundred and twenty third birthday was last week,” he muttered, leaning back to strike a disarming but strained smile. “Not that I look a day past twenty-three.”

The joke went over Daniel’s head and realization dropped Kire’s smile. He grabbed one last coin from the pouch and passed it over, then returned the small bag to his vest.

“Reason four — there’s no glory in old age. We don’t get to grow old and die. We keep hunting for our target until we kill it or die and get a new target.”

Kire grabbed Daniel’s unfinished mug and sucked down the last of the beverage.

“Welcome to rebirth, buddy.”