'What merits afford the gift of transmigration? Only the gods know. But what is most important about it is the hope of a new and better life filled with the wonders non-existent in the previous world. Though death is painful, I would say this is a gift worth dying for.'
After meeting with the divine and a brief loss of memory, Ammiel is snapped into consciousness by the sight of the starry night sky. Standing in the middle of a forest clearing, surrounded by chirps, coos and rustling leaves, a calmness washes over him. He takes in a lungful of fresh air. Basking in the moonlight.
The gods gifted him with a pouch of silver coins and an identity card. He ties the pouch's string around the belt loop and tucks it underneath his trousers. Placing the few coins he took out into his pocket along with the card. Now he needs to find a place to sleep.
To the right, he can make out a series of smoke trails rising into the air. A tiring walk through the trees leads to him facing a high wall. Left or right? Neither direction has any defining characteristic. So he decided to turn right.
The cobblestone wall bends as he follows it. He comes upon a pair of dark vertical barred gates. Stationed there are two individuals with basic spears. Above them, a light fixture shines out into the dirt road.
When Ammiel exits from the trees, the guards become tense. Readying their spears.
As he reaches closer, one of the guards points their spear at him and says, "Stop right there! Why are you out at this hour?"
"I was just enjoying the night sky. The smoke sometimes blinds the view a bit." Ammiel raises his hands in defeat.
The other guard orders, "Let me see your IC."
"IC?"
"Your identity card, boy! Are you slow or something?"
Ammiel cautiously approaches and gives him the card. The guard looks it over for a minute and returns it.
"Heading to Diyarton, cheeseboy?"
Ammiel decides to play along, "How'd you figure that?"
The guards begin laughing.
"The bottom right corner of the card. I swear these lads are becoming more clueless." The other guard says.
"Go on. Next time, you should be in by sundown. I don't want some pompous kid dying around here."
Ammiel passes through, and now facing the challenge of finding a place to rest his head. Going back to ask the guards for assistance is not an option. He doesn't want to seem any more incompetent. He'll just have to find someone else to ask.
The street is wide with lampposts arching over from the edge of the sidewalk. Buildings here only reach five stories high, and are made from reddish-brown bricks.
There's a merry tune that can be heard. It's backed by lousy singers. A few buildings ahead, two men in black stained overalls stumble out. Leaning on each other for stability. A tavern up ahead? He quickens his pace.
The tavern. Ammiel couldn't make out what the name of the place is. The light above the sign barely illuminates. By just standing at the entrance, he can feel the music's strong vibrations. Now in, he sees that the wooden tables and chairs have been disorganized into separate groups.
Many have collected themselves to the far left where the band is playing. Their sloshed vocals overshadow the performer on stage. In the middle, a few tables have been lined together. The burly men sitting there regard him with a stern eye.
While making his way to the counter, the vibrations in the air become unpleasant. Every shout and clink of glasses resound with a growing head ache. The room reeks of alcohol mixed with dirt and greasy sweat of sunbaked labourers. With an empty stomach, all he can do is gag.
Ammiel drops to his knees. Covering his ears does not mitigate the noise. Pulling his shirt over his nose does not drive away the stench. It's now too bright for him to see, as if every beam of light has converged towards his eyes. The sensations become too overwhelming and he passes out. Everyone stops what they were doing. The tavern is silent. People eye each other in confusion.
***
Ammiel observes the few, low stance beds that line each opposite side of the room. The door on the right swings open. A man in a loose overcoat enters. In his hand a clipboard. He's all smiles. Closing the door with a bit of a dance.
"You're awake!" The man says, standing by the foot of the bed.
Ammiel doesn't respond.
So, the man continues to say, "I am Dr Lors. Last night two heavy men carried you like a duffel bag to the doorstep of my humble clinic. As far as I could tell, you're doing alright. The testimony of two chuggers cannot be trusted. Boy, what exactly happened yesterday? Do you even remember?"
"Yes, I remember. The tavern became obnoxiously loud for some reason. And I could smell things as if my nose was buried in dirty laundry. Everything was bright. I couldn't see clearly."
"Is it the first time you had this kind of episode?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's for the first time, huh. It makes no sense, but no matter." The doctor strokes his chin.
"What are you saying?"
"Any undue stress or mental issues?"
"No, as far as I know."
"Then it's safe to assume that you have a heightened, subconscious control over esens. Core types tend to have sensitive sight, hearing and smell. Shroud types are more touch sensitive. What bothers me is that this is the first time you've experienced such a sensation. It should've occurred earlier. During your adolescence—"
Ammiel is listening to the doctor speak. None of the terms mean anything to him. Whatever he speaks of must be common knowledge in this world. How does one feign ignorance in this situation without looking like a fool?
"—Gaining a more conscious control should mitigate it. I'm not saying you won't experience another episode, but at least you'll be better able to calm your erratic esens."
It's been less than a full day since being in this world. A life of intrigue is waiting to be seized. Yet all he has achieved is a health visitation.
Ammiel asks, "Doctor, am I free to go?"
"Wanting to leave so soon? There's no need to keep you here, I suppose. Stay clear of enclosed crowded spaces. If you can."
"Of course." Ammiel hops off the bed and takes his belongings from the bedside table.
Dr Lors escorts him out the room into a narrow corridor leading to a waiting area. The doctor shakes his hand before ushering him out the front door.
Before leaving, Ammiel had asked if there was any library around. Only to find out such an establishment would be unprofitable in this town. Mostly labourers live here. Any books would have been specially ordered from Diyarton. About Diyarton, why would the gods give him an identity card manufactured there. Is that where he should be heading? No other place has been mentioned.
Standing outside the clinic, the view of the sky is just pillars of smoke rising above the buildings from some distant source.
A group of overalled labourers are waiting by the sidewalk metres away. A hissing sound can be heard, with a slight shaking of the ground. Ammiel watches the junction where the men are, wanting to see what is approaching from the road out of view. Then a massive snake peers around with someone riding atop its head, and parks right next to them. Sheltered seating has been fastened around the great length of the snake's body. It twists and bends as the snake slithers.
The snake's brown scales stick out like steps all the way up to the carriage on its back. The people use them to climb to their seats. Once everyone has boarded, the snake begins to slither. As it passes by him, he can see its body contort and expand. A sight that makes him wonder what other creatures this world possesses.
Enough gawking, he says to himself. He needs to figure a way to get to Diyarton. Maybe he'll find purpose there. And reading more about this world is a priority. His stomach rumbles. Where can he find a place to eat? And some water to drink. The sun is quite hot here.
Searching street after street, he finally comes across a bakery. He peeks through its front window and spots racks of bread being put on display. He opens the door, and a waft of sweetness hits him in the face. In the glass display under the counter are desserts and ready-made sandwiches. He's the only customer inside.
After overestimating a single silver coin's value and receiving dozens of copper coins of varying sizes as change, he strolls out the store with bag of sweetbread. The lady at the counter was kind enough to give him directions to what she called a giant-lizard rank. Where he can find someone to take him to Diyarton.