Prologue:

It's cold.

It's been cold for as long as I can remember.

Wake up, cold. Brush my teeth, cold. Walk to work, cold. Suck it up, cold. Go drinking, cold. Walk home, cold. Fall asleep alone, cold. Repeat.

It can't be helped, though. I was born in the northern region to a family with too many kids already, and through 20-something years of life, I've come to know the different kinds of cold there is. There's the fresh morning cold which shows the first signs of winter, that pricks your skin like tiny glass needles digging in to your pores. There's the bitter mid-winter night cold that bypasses four layers of clothing and blows into every corner of your body and soul, leaving you shuddering and wishing for shelter. There's the summer cold that sneaks up on you and knocks you out of commission for a week as your body struggles to cope with the virus.
And then there's the cold stare of your boss as he glances over your performance report during the bi-annual employee evaluation.

There's the cold touch on your shoulder that the girl gives you as you leave your usual hostess bar, followed by a "Please come back again!" perfected to the point where you can't tell if it's sincere or not. And finally there's the worst cold, the coldness when you come back home from another strenuous day at work, to find a dark, empty apartment, unchanged since you finished moving in the furniture years ago, blinds drawn, dust settling on bare surfaces, picture frames askew on the walls, a physical reminder that nothing changed today, nothing will change tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that.

Money does nothing for me. The only way it could warm me would be to take it all out of my bank account and light it on fire, and even then it would only last for a fleeting moment. My peers seem to be doing fine on money alone, or at least that's what their faces tell me and the people around them. Maybe it's all an act, trying to tell themselves that all the time they've spent on education and getting a good job hasn't been wasted by going out and spending the money they earn on frivolous things and expensive dinners, but I'm not one to judge the intentions or motives of others. All I know is that it doesn't work for me. So the money I earn just accumulates, accumulates, and accumulates, with no real purpose.

-

My city is surrounded by mountains, which have made it a center for ski tourism and a place for hikers and travelers to meet, rest, and share stories. They flock to the bars and inns, rejoicing in the oddities and unfamiliar cuisine of a strange country, and bring a certain light to a city otherwise shrouded in white and grey. Their wind-bitten faces never seem cold. I believe they move around too much to get frozen in place.

I was once out to one of the peer pressure drinking events that my coworkers force me to attend when I met one of these travelers. I'd been minding myself and thinking of excuses to leave early when one of my supervisors flagged down a lone traveler drinking by himself and invited him to our table. By chance, he ended up right in front of me. He stumbled through some mismatched greetings in our language, and I did the same in English. Once common ground had been established, he started telling stories about his travels to the best of his ability. Tales of hard work, weird people, dangerous situations, helping strangers, and so on. As the liquor flowed, so did his words, and after a while I found myself listening intently, and despite not understanding half of the words that came out of his mouth, I understood the full meaning of what he was relaying to me; freedom of choice. Every story had sprung from him making a decision on his own, one that he hadn't been forced into through social circumstances or etiquette. It's the kind of freedom that's intoxicating to hear about, but impossible to live without severe repercussions. I would often reflect back upon the stories he told me that night, and after a while I realized that he never told me of his homeland or his family. I'm not even sure if he told me his name, but if he did I'd forgotten it.

One thing that stuck with me more than his stories was the warmth he emitted. Watching his expression change as he got more engaged in relaying his tales was like sitting in front of a hearth, sucking in the radiating glow of the shuffling embers. The more I kept recalling the events he described and the way he described them, the more contrast I found between the life he's living and the life I am accepting.

-

It's Saturday. Traditionally, I'd do nothing on a day like this. Sleep in, eat some processed food, watch TV, drink myself stupid, and pass out. But today doesn't feel like Saturday. In fact, it doesn't feel like any specific day at all. If I were to describe it, it's the kind of feeling you'd have as a child when you woke up in the morning. You knew it was day, you knew things had to be done, but what day and what things didn't matter as long as something happened. And this feeling isn't letting go of me. Get up, shower, breakfast, clothes on, out the door, and now what? My typical cycle has already been broken, but this has only increased the feeling of Not-Saturday.

I start strolling. Down the street I usually go when I'm heading to work. No, that doesn't cut it, turn left here. Then right here. Straight ahead. Then left again. Why isn't this feeling disappearing? I've never been in this neighborhood before, I've gotten my dosage of new, what's going on?

Shopping? That's tried and done. No amount of designer furniture or brand clothing changed anything. Besides, this here is not a
shopping street. Laundromat, flower shop, cafe, hiking store, foreign restaurant, public bath-

Hiking store?

-

"Cash or card?"

"Card, please."

On the counter in front of me is an assortment of items. Backpack, sleeping bag, tent, boots, gas stove, firelighters, cooking gear, and a compass.

"Would you like a bag for this?"

"Yes, please."

"Thank you very much, and happy travels!"

The clerk sends me off with a smile. Happy travels. The words linger and stir as I stand on the sidewalk. A feeling rises in my gut and takes hold of me. One step. Two steps. Many steps. Before I know it, I'm sprinting back towards my apartment, the gut feeling spreading to every limb, every muscle, every cell in my body. It feels as though I'm on fire.

My apartment is a mess. I've scrounged everything I need from every corner that they were hidden in. Passport, wallet, a few cans of food, spare clothing, and a dusty road map. Everything is packed in my new backpack standing upright in the middle of my room. The khaki-and-black patterns of the cloth and straps somehow manage to look more colorful than the paintings and carpets I've used to try and make my place homely. I pick it up by the strap with one hand and sling it over my shoulder, grabbing the other strap and securing it on my back. It doesn't feel heavy, despite there probably being a good fifteen kilos inside. I exit my place, toss my key in my landlord's mailbox, and take out my compass.

South. It's that way.

And so I started walking.

Chapter 1:

As I drift back in to consciousness from a deep, black sleep, the low sound of rushing water fills my ears. My eyes slowly adjust to having been unused for a while, and after blinking a couple of times I can focus on the ceiling above me. Dark green polyester in a triangle frame comes into focus with the last, or first, streaks of sunlight trying their best to pass through it, coloring the inside of the tent in a matte shade of orange brown. I place a hand on the ground and raise myself up to a sitting position. I shift the woolen blanket I'd been sleeping under off me and try to raise myself from the foam mattress, only to have my legs buckle under me. It takes another try for me to get up, and as I begin to unzip the tent door the scent of wood smoke and freshwater greets my sense of smell like fresh bread in the morning.

The scene outside is that of a humble little campsite, built in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. The sun is setting above me, the last streams of light navigating their way through the thick crowns and branches of the surrounding trees, bathing the campsite in striped patterns of orange streaks. The temperature is approaching zero from the visibility of my breath and the sharp pangs of cold on my skin every time a slight breeze finds it way to the clearing. Apart from the tent I've been in, there's a low tarp shelter set up opposite of it with a sleeping bag underneath. Between the two, there's a smouldering campfire with an old, dented coffee pot brewing on top of it, the sooted aluminum bellowing in the light of the embers. A neat stack of firewood is next to it, and not far from there, a hatchet is stuck in a tree stump, flakes of fresh wood strewn around it. Water canteens and a satchel of what I assume is food is placed near a tree, a couple of pine branches tied to the tree above to keep any rain from spoiling it. As I take all this in, I hear heavy footsteps approaching me from the direction of the rushing water.

"Ah, you've finally awoken. It was about time." A tall, bulky man, dressed in a thick parka, cargo pants, and brown leather boots, with a bushy brown beard and a woolen tuque on his head stand a couple of meters from me, three decently sized fish hanging from a rope he's casually holding along his side. A crude fishing pole is slung over his right shoulder.

"I was beginning to wonder if you ever would." He hangs the fish from a branch on the tree with the food under it and grabs a steel mug from the pile of cooking supplies. He approaches the campfire and squats down in front of it with a grunt, and carefully pours a cup of steaming liquid from the coffee pot into the mug. "Here, drink this." he says as he hands the mug to me.

I accept it with the same dumbfounded expression I've had since I stepped out of the tent, and try my best to speak. The words won't come at first, with the difficulty of not having spoken for a couple of days, but they finally find their way out.

"Erh, thank you. Where am I? What happened? What is this?" the last question followed with an indication towards the mug in my hands. I take another look at the man, his gleaming auburn eyes fixated upon me, a slight smile visible through his thick beard. "Wait, haven't I met you before?"

"That," he says, nodding towards the mug, still poised in front of the campfire, "is tannin tea, made from pine needles. It's rich in vitamin C, among other goodies. As for where, we're at my campsite, a good ten minutes walk from the nearest road, and a short walk from a river filled with delicious trout." He throws a thumb over his shoulder towards the bundle of fish. "As to what happened, I found you, I saved you, and you've been out for 3 days."

A sudden pain hits the front of my head as hazy memories start spilling back. After leaving the city limits, I'd walked for one and a half day before running out of my preliminary supplies. With no shops or houses around, I'd walked until my legs gave away under me. That took another day. I'd been adamant on not taking one step north, my willpower alone forcing me to walk despite being dead hungry and heavily dehydrated. The last thing I remember is the gravel road underneath me rapidly approaching my face. I put a hand to my temple and slightly stagger, my legs still not used to carrying the weight of me again.

"Whoa, hey, easy now. Come, take a seat near the fire." The man hints toward a spot on the ground, and as I place myself there he springs up and brings the woolen blanket from the tent and hands it to me. I wrap it around myself and take a sip off the tea. It's slightly bitter, with a hint of tree sap, but it warms me from the inside as the blanket warms me from the outside. The man grabs a few pieces of firewood and puts them deliberately on the fire, the embers sparking steady flames to erupt from them. The light dances around the camp, and as they brighten the surroundings I take another look on the mans' face.

"I remember now!" I burst out. "You're that traveler I met at the tavern! What was it... F... F... Frank... Fred! Fred, was it, right?"

The man lets out a quick, deep laugh as his smile widens. "That's right, I'm glad you remember me."

"How come you can speak my language perfectly now? Last time we spoke we could barely communicate."

"Let's just say I've been practicing. I see that my stories didn't fall on deaf ears. I was hoping they would inspire this kind of reaction in you."

"Yeah, well, that reaction almost got me killed."

"In fact, it did."

I almost choke on a sip of tea. "I'm sorry, what?" I cough out.

"When I found you, you were dead. Hypothermia had gotten the best of you. I had honestly expected you to prepare a bit better than you did, but I guess it had to be a spontaneous action for you to break a cycle that heavy. Spontaneity rarely allows you to think things through."

The words didn't really sink in. "I'm sorry, did you just say that I died?"

"Yes, and I saved you. And now we're enjoying a nice cup of tea. I'll explain everything in due time. But first, let's eat." With that, Fred rises up, fetches the fish and a cloven piece of wood. Using the wood as a cutting board, he scrapes the scales off the fish, takes out the guts, removes the bark from three sticks and puts the fish on the sticks to fry over the campfire. With that set up, he sits back down. All I can think during this process is how crazy either he is, or I have become. For a while we just stare into the flames, mesmerized by their primal beauty. Fred is the first one to break the silence. "I guess you have a lot of questions. Let me start by getting the obvious one out of the way; if you died, how did I save you? It's actually rather simple."

"If you're going to claim to be a wizard or something, I'm gonna stop you right there." I interrupt. "How would you ever prove that to me if that were the case? You might as well just have stumbled upon me when I was unconscious, nursed me back to health, and then conjure up these wild allegations to mess with my head. Though you don't come off as a person who'd do that."

Fred closes his eyes and nods slowly. "That's all very good points. SKepticism is a good trait, not all I've done this with have taken such an approach to my explanations. To those who do, I simply point something out. Look at the sky."

I bend my head backwards and stare into the settling night sky. The first stars are showing themselves on the darkening violet canvas of spotted clouds. The wind is rustling the trees surrounding the clearing, ringing with the sound of leaves, mixing with the crackle of the firewood giving away to the heat of the fire. The moons are gaining strength, lighting up the night with a pale, silver light.

"There are two moons." I say. Mouth agape, I look back down at Fred who's snickering quietly to himself.

"Indeed, there are two moons."

"Who - what are you?"

"A God would be the term you'd use. I prefer 'Meddling Entity'."

I gulp and lick my lips. My throat suddenly feels dry. I take another sip of tea before speaking up again. "What is this place?"

"Earth-but-not-really. This is my version of it. The one you came from is in the domain of another entity, one who's rather obsessed with chaos, if I may say so. This one is more shaped to my tastes. I brought you here because I believe you deserve better than what he could offer you."

The reality of the situation is starting to sink in. A rush washes over me, a sense of adventure and excitement that usually follows when you step out of a plane that just arrived at the destination of your holiday. I shiver involuntarily. Fred picks up two of the fish sticks and inspect them before handing one to me. Fred starts to nibble on it as I turn it on the stick and look at it. It's turned a golden, crispy brown, and the savory smell of the singed meat makes my mouth water. I dig in right away. "But why me?" I ask with a mouthful of trout.

"Have you ever had a neighbor who didn't take care of his front lawn? Garbage strewn about, weeds growing tall, but among the carnage there is a single flower growing. You walk by it, day after day, seeing the flower lose its vibrancy from the weeds intruding on its territory, until finally one night you sneak out with a garden shovel, dig up the flower, and replant it in a pot in your window and nurse it back to life. That's kinda what I'm doing with you. I see potential in you. You're a traveler by heart, I can feel that, but you were in the worst possible environment. So I planted a seed of curiosity in you, watched it grow and take hold of you, and up until it killed you out of your sheer willpower to follow through on it. So I interfered. I'm sure the god of your home realm doesn't mind, otherwise he'd be here by now."

Fred finishes talking right as I finish my fish. Seeing this, he hands me another one. "Eat up, you'll need the strength."

I swallow a bite of fish. "So you go to Earth, my Earth, meet me in a tavern at random, instills the idea of traveling in me, watches over me as it takes hold, brings me back from death as it kills me, and transports me to this Earth-but-not-Earth. But for what?"

"So you can travel, of course!" Fred's smile widens, and pearly white teeth show themselves from underneath the beard. "As I said, this world is tailored to my tastes; lots of beautiful nature, nations and cities with their own strange culture, technology present, but not depended on, plenty of history as civilizations have risen and fallen, and with a hint of magic hidden in the corners. And two moons, so you never really go blind at night. It's perfect for travelers."

I look up at the night sky again. The alien sight of two bright half moons cements the fact of this new world in my mind. I sigh, not a deep sigh of despair, but the kind of sigh that feels like it lifts a weight from your chest, leaving behind space for taking in new experiences, new emotions, new people. I've been brought to a new world full of wonder by a god who's clearly given me his blessing. Yet, something feels off. I can't shake the thought in the back of my head that I'm not seeing the entire picture.

I look over at Fred, who seems delighted. "I can't say this isn't amazing. But what's the catch?"

"You're gonna have me teach you how to be a proper traveler."

"Erh, what?"

"Eat up. I told you you'd need the strength. And put out the campfire when you're done. There's a bucket of water over there for that purpose. Training begins tomorrow, make sure you get enough sleep."

And with that, Fred stands up, turn on his heels, and slips in to the sleeping bag underneath the tarp. Within minutes, a steady, deep snoring starts emitting from the shelter.

I take another bite of my fish. "What a strange god." I mutter to myself. Fred, in turn, responds with a grunt from his sleep.

-

"Widen your stance. And relocate your right hand at the top of the swing."

Chop.

"Drive it through on the down swing. Don't expend too much energy when raising the axe."

Chop.

I wipe a couple of sweat beads off my forehead and gently place the axe against the tree stump. I turn towards the laid-back god barking advice at me. "Fred, I think I got the basics of lumberjacking down already. I've been cleaving wood for hours."

Fred, previously sitting under a tree, shading himself from the sharp northern midday sun, stands up, places his hands to his sides and slowly shakes his head with closed eyes. "What you're doing can't be called lumberjacking, at most it's mediocre wood chopping. There's a lot of fine techniques to learn when it comes to driving steel through wood!" He flashes one of his beard smiles and urges me to pick up the axe and continue.

It's been a week since I woke up in Freds' camp. He wasn't kidding when he said I needed my strength. Training began at sunrise the morning after our fish banquet, and he'd been drilling the type of experience that usually takes years of outdoor trips to foster into my head and body since then. We'd started off with the basics on what essential gear to bring when wandering, how to set up a tent and tarp shelter, how to pack a backpack properly, and gradually moved on to more difficult topics such as how to catch fish with improvised fishing gear, how to light a campfire with flint and steel, and what plants are and aren't edible. We had subsisted on fishing and foraging, boiling water from the nearby river to drink, and I'd slowly regained my strength to the point where I can chop wood for an hour without needing a break.

The day before, we had set up rabbit snares in the surrounding hills. Today, one of them had paid off, and for lunch Fred hauled back a decently sized critter that he showed me how to flay and gut. As with any of our meal times, this was the time for conversation, and for every day that passed the number of questions that I had only grew larger. Fred seemed reluctant in answering most of them with detail, as he kept saying that I'd have to go out and figure out this new world for myself. One question I'd been putting off, mainly for the sheer ridiculousness of it, was something he'd mentioned on the first night. As I was digging in to a roasted leg of rabbit, I drop it on him.

"Fred."

"Hmm?" He responds, mouth full of wild game.

"The first night you mentioned that there's magic hidden in the corners of this world. I've been wondering, what exactly is this magic? So far all I've seen is a regular forest, no magical creatures or spirits in the trees. Of course, it might be different in civilized areas, but I still have no idea what to expect."

"Well," he starts, "You don't really have to expect anything wild. It's not magic in the traditional sense of being able to throw fireballs and summon ghosts and such. It's more of an attunement to different aspects of this world. As new aspects appear, such as the development of technology, new aspects of magic appear. It shows in certain people who will have a flair for certain things, and with enough training, or natural talent, they can perform feats that defy logic. This world is also home to certain races that are directly influenced by the magic of the environment they're in. An example would be the person who's been spying on us for the last couple of days."

I swallow hard when he mention another person. Apart from Fred, I haven't met anyone else so far. After spinning my head around, scouting the surrounding forest for signs of life, but unable to see anything other than the straight pine trees and various plants and bushes that make up the terrain, I turn to him again. "I'm sorry, who are you talking about? It's just you and me here."

"Really, you haven't noticed her?" With that, he points his index finger toward a hill a bit up from the camp, in a part with a larger density of trees and underbrush. He flips his gloved hand around and flicks his finger upwards.

From behind a bramble bush, a figure springs up, back crooked, limbs pointed towards the ground. Within a second, it takes off, bouncing between trunks and outcroppings as a deer in flight. From a distance it appears as a blur of green and brown, and with that it's gone beyond the hill.

"What in the world was that?" I ask, looking at Fred like he's a magician that just pulled out a pigeon from a hat.

"That was an alf, of the northern region kind. They live in deep forests far from civilization. Usually they don't venture more than a days' walk close to civilization, but this one seems young, and therefore naturally curious. She's been observing us without end, and as far as I can gather, it's only her. She must have sensed my presence, and wanted to know what was going on."

"You're telling me that was an elf, like straight-out-of-fantasy elf? It moved like a wild animal." I say, eyebrows indicating my disbelief.

"Alf, not elf. And they're more like plants, in a way." Fred responds, ripping off a hunk of meat with his teeth. "I'm quite fond of them, to be honest. The result of a romantic relationship between a druid and an elm tree about 5000 years ago." He laughs loudly to himself, putting on an expression of reminiscing on good days long past. "Ahh, Relifan, that guy was a hoot. Weird fellow, but always good for a chat and a drink. If only he could see how his children have fared since then."