David Gallant and his friends had decided that it was time for a change a few months before Altera was released, having bought into the hype surrounding the fantasy game like so many others. They'd said their goodbyes to the people who didn't feel like switching over, and together, him and a mere handful of the massive group set out to take a stab at a brand new environment. Plus, it wasn't like they couldn't switch back if they didn't like it. Somewhere in the vast cosmos, David was sure that something had laughed when he'd said those very same words out loud. Okay, he wasn't that sure, but he liked to think that he there was some sort of entity capable of appreciating the irony of that, setting aside the greater questions that such an existence would force him to think about. Not now, not when he had other, more important things to occupy his thoughts.
They'd all been so happy just a few short days ago. Everyone getting together and enjoying the thrill of discovering all the secrets that were hidden in a world like this. Shouting and cursing at each other in that way that people did when they were surrounded by kindred spirits. Unspoken, unacknowledged, the Spellbinders were friends in the way that people rarely were in the real world. They'd all felt that same pull, to experience something beyond the monotony of everyday life and seek out something more thrilling. While he hadn't seen anyone outside of his crew since the game became real, he doubted that most people took it as well as his group did. That wasn't to say that he and his friends weren't shaken by what happened. The suddenness of watching someone you knew get murdered mere hours after arguing with them about something as inconsequential as a faction name in a video game wasn't the sort of thing that one just shrugged off. Some of them were haunted by the experience, miserable at the thought that the last thing they'd said to a close friend was an insult, regardless of how little they might have meant it. Not all of them were willing to let circumstances get the better of them. In fact, few gave in to fear, realizing that the only hope they had in this world was to grow stronger, if they wanted to live long enough to find a way out. Even still, everyone was shaken to at least some degree.
Everyone except for one.
David had thought that this would bother him more, the idea that he lived or died by the rules of such a dangerous place as Altera should have freaked him out. But it didn't. He'd watched a man get torn in half by a giant with his own two eyes, and after it was all over, he didn't feel much of anything more than the appropriate amount of sadness that one would feel knowing that an acquaintance had met a bitter end. Had he truly become so desensitized, or had he always been this way, and never been provided with the opportunity to find out? Perhaps his mother had been right. All those years playing "inappropriate" video games as a teenager might have really done some damage. But even if they had, shouldn't he at least be afraid? Most people would be terrified of a world where giant worm-monsters could burrow up out of the ground and swallow you whole, right? But, in truth, this was the sort of life he'd always wanted. He hated the monotony of day to day life in the real world. The grey haze that blurred one day into the next in a repeating cycle of sameness wasn't present here. Each day was different, presenting new challenges to be overcome and new experiences to...experience. If the cost of that life meant that he might die, it was a price that David Gallant would happily pay.
But, looking over at his Spellbinders from where he sat, some distance away on one of their fortress's many benches, he knew that they didn't feel the same way. They'd been scared, and turned to him as the de facto source of leadership in this crisis. His relieved acceptance of this new reality had rubbed off on those who had chosen to follow him to some extent, but it wasn't their real feelings. Surely, something must have been wrong with him if this was the world he wanted to live in, that terrified others so. But, pushing himself to his feet, he knew that he didn't care. It's not like he was hurting anyone, right? It was just that, when everyone else left Altera (assuming it was possible to do so) David would rather stay behind, if he could.
He stretched out his arms, pushing them to the furthest lengths they could reach before leaning backwards, hands on his lower spine with the intent of stretching it. It crackled with the motion, and David gave the satisfied moan that people made when they stretched out.
Or, Byron made it. That was the name that he'd given this body when he'd made it.
Byron made his way to the outer wall in long-legged strides. He'd been such a clutz his first day in the game, his real life body had been much different from this one. This one was built like a mountain, strong and tall and heavy, as opposed to his more normal other body. He'd gotten used to the difference quickly, and now he moved with the same natural grace as he did in normal life, though perhaps with a bit of stiffness that could be caught by those with sharper eyes. His footsteps clanged audibly against the stone, ringing in his ears with an unmistakable sound. His strides, long though they were, didn't seem to be carrying him as quickly as they should. Byron still had his Mountain Waltz on from his earlier time outside, helping to grind low-level creatures with a few of his weaker guildmates. Stopping, he brought a fist down in front of his face, taking in a deep breath before flicking his hand to his side with his exhale, deactivating the ability with a combination of will and physical motion. Now, his steps moved him at the expected pace, allowing him to move briskly to the outer wall of the rather appropriately named Fort Spellbinder.
A proper castle, with a fat tower growing up out of each of the four corners, and a large central one that rose up out of an even larger keep, it was square and sturdy, set upon a veritable island of stone and metal. Just yesterday, it had walked around on eight great legs made from rune-covered bronze, but that was no more. After the game had been made real, none of the Spellbinders could figure out how to activate the premium account rewards that allowed them to animate the castle, allowed it to walk like a spider across the land. Climbing up a set of stairs to reach the top of the battlements, Byron looked down at the blasted landscape that he and his followers had made their home. On the border of the game's most dangerous zone, it had seemed like a great place when the game was just that. It would have allowed them easy access to the high-level content, where the really exciting stuff normally was. Now though, it just meant that they had to constantly worry about the ultra-lethal monsters that were less than a day's walk away coming and killing them all during the night.
One of his guild members shouted down from a corner tower. "Hey, boss! Somebody's coming to visit us on horseback!" The rough tones of an orcish voice called out from the guard tower. Byron was pretty sure that they had a different name here in Altera, something more unique to this world, but he didn't remember it. They'd be orcs in any other fantasy setting, they were orcs in Spellbound Online (the last MMO he got really into, where the Spellbinders had taken their name from) and they were orcs in his head. Byron gave a thumbs-up to the man on the tower before turning to call down to a few of his comrades in the courtyard, "One of you lazy bums earn your keep and open up that main gate, yeah?!" He yelled, laughter coloring his voice with a bright friendliness. Two voices answered him in unison, with a third slightly off-timed as they went to go and open the gate, "You don't pay us at all, you cheapskate!" The response was accompanied by shaking fists, even from those who couldn't be bothered to yell back at him. Byron himself hopped over the back end of the battlements, landing in the courtyard with a powerful thud. The fall-damage hurt, but nowhere near what having dropped off that height in real life would have. More just a dull ache in his legs that would soon fade.
In some ways, this world really was still just a game. Byron moved to the main gate of the castle, waiting patiently as two Spellbinders wound the impressive hand-crank, raising the great portcullis. "You guys don't need a hand with that, right?" He asked, sending his hands towards pockets that weren't there. Plate mail didn't usually have pockets.
"No, we've got it. You think somebody's getting back from scouting?" One of the gate-raisers asked, prompting Byron to shake his head.
"No, it looks like a courier," Byron said as the portcullis locked open, and the messenger stepped through the gate.
"I've got a message for you. Someone paid good money for me to give you this letter, sir," she said, pulling a letter out from a small pouch at the waste that was clearly too small to hold it. Byron nodded in response to the canned dialogue line, taking the letter and opening it. He frowned, glancing over at the courier who delivered the letter, but she was already leaving.
"Well, this is suspicious as all hell," Byron said crumpling up the letter and tossing it over his shoulder and into his inventory. "Does anybody have any idea where 'Bedlamville' even is?" Byron turned to the sparse handful of Spellbinders that were in the castle courtyard, most of which who shrugged, except for the orc on the tower who'd told him of the coming rider.
"Where what is?" The watchman yelled, prompting his leader to respond.
"Bedlamville!" Byron yelled back, cupping his hands around his mouth.
The response came down from the tower, shouted over the battlements. "That's somewhere near Thryvald, I think!"
Byron groaned slightly. That was quite the trip to make. He should have hitched a ride on the back of the courier, since their horses were so much faster than normal PC mounts. "I'm going to go ring the big bell," he grumbled, marching towards the keep in the center of the castle, cutting across the courtyard grass. He couldn't remember anything about a "Man in Red." Admittedly, he'd always been a bit forgetful, but still. If this was about Vanguard, why couldn't the letter say so?
How hard could it have been to write "Hello, members of vanguard. Please come to this spot so we can talk in person," and just send that out with a marked map? Byron's thoughts rushed through his head as he made his way to a large bronze bell, intending to call a meeting among his guild so that he could inform them all that he'd be leaving for a while. Long, likely uncomfortable journey or no, he'd promised to contribute to this "vanguard" deal, and he'd always been a man of his word. His group took the news as well as could be expected. They'd be losing their biggest gun, and the reassuring presence that Byron had on the group in exchange for more information as to what was happening. Where they were now, they were too far from any of the major player groups to get the news as it came in, and were almost completely reliant on what they could glean for themselves, which wasn't nearly enough to go on. There was talk of sending a group along of Spellbinders along with their leader, but Byron shot it down. He was the only one who had made the trek out here without dying when it was just a game, and to ask anyone else to risk their lives for his promises was wrong. Besides, if there was one thing that a high-level conjurer would never be, it was alone.
He would set out first thing in the morning. There was a pretty easy straight line between here and where they found Bedlamville on the map. Byron remembered it a little now. He'd passed through it when he first spawned, and hadn't really bothered to look around. He brought scarce rations for the trip, as the sash he wore seemed to provide the lion's share of his bodily needs. A simple rag of cheesecloth contained two links of sausage, a small cut from a cheese wheel, and a handful of raisins would be enough to sustain him along his journey. He rode on a custom mount, a skeletal horse that was as dead as the creatures he summoned to aid him in battle. Together, they road ceaselessly, neither of them needing to stop to eat, drink, or sleep along their journey. The horse was an undead monster, and Byron received many of the benefits of being one through his sash.
On his skeletal horse, Byron made it to Bedlamville in just under two days. The night was black as pitch, clinging to the guild master like ink in water. Heavy footsteps sounded out against the chill air as Byron made his way into town and away from the stables, where his horse stood, still as a statue. Cold blue flames burned in empty eye sockets, and all the other animals gave it a wide berth. It was pretty spooky, but it fit the aesthetic he'd been going for at the time. Now, he wished he'd had something that didn't make the stable boy scream. Too late to worry about that now, he supposed. Dark as it was, he could scarcely see where he was supposed to be going. Clenching a fist out in front of him, he slowly expanded his fingers as a dark purple sphere grew to the size of a baseball in his hand, then tossed it underhandedly onto the ground in front of him, "Rise, Dead Praecantor," Byron muttered. The ball hit the ground with a maddening cackle and an electric screech, a skeleton appeared. It was accompanied by a puff of deep purple smoke, which quickly dissipated.
Legless, it floated several feet off the ground, clad in rotten robes and so much rusted jewelry that it clinked and clattered like keys wherever it moved, drifting through the air like a balloon. "Make me some light, will you?" Byron's words rumbled out of his mouth, and the undead mage responded to his will, holding out one decrepit hand out before it and causing it's fingertips to alight in five cold blue candles. They shed enough light to see by, so Byron could read the signs on the buildings even in the inky darkness. The guildmaster blew air between his lips, making them flutter in a vaguely flatulent sound. Under his breath, he read aloud the names of the signs he passed. "Hunter's Retreat, okay. No idea what that is. Let's see...oh, Barkley's Blacksmithing, alright. Merchants. Gotta go that way." Heavy footfalls were the only sound that the necromancer made for a while, keeping out an open eye for the Golden Retreat, where he was meant to be.
He found it eventually, dispelling his summoned light-bearer with a snap of his fingers. Pushing open the door to the inn, he knew that he was not the first to arrive.