He’d been ordered two days of rest after his run in with the kraken. The first day, Greg thought about getting up to do a light workout. His muscles screamed in protest, and he went back to sleep. Nightmares plagued his unconsciousness, assisted by the fact that he’d now experienced near death.

  While the second day wasn’t particularly restful sleep, it was dreamless, which Greg would take at this point. He rolled off the couch early the next morning, shuffled to the kitchen, and rifled through cabinets to figure out what passed for breakfast on this planet. He found what looked like ingredients for pancakes and went to work.

  The superficial cuts and scrapes from his kraken endeavor had healed over during the night, but a massive bruise drew a thick line from his hip to under his arm. His new body had become something of a wonder to him. It was certainly more fit than he’d been on earth, at least at the time, but the recovery was something he’d never dreamed of.

  “Smells delicious.”

  Greg turned his head with a grin. Lost in thought, he’d expected to see Autumn’s messy auburn hair strolling up to him in one of his t-shirts. What he’d gotten was a four foot tall woman with more muscle mass than him, hopping up onto a barstool and rubbing her eyes. His grin faltered only slightly as he swallowed that loneliness back down.

  “Is there coffee?” Maeve asked, eyes still not adjusted.

  “Yeah, here ya go.” Greg grabbed a mug he’d pulled out when rifling through the cupboards and poured a cup. “Take anything in it?”

  “No, thank you.” She took the cup and sighed as she sniffed, then took a deep drink despite the extreme temperature of the fresh cup.

  Greg slid her the first stack of pancakes, plopped a slab of butter on top, and then poured honey over them. He couldn’t find any syrup, but that would do.

  “Muvver Bewoah” Maeve said, mouth still full as she stared down at the plate. After swallowing, she looked up at him. “Dessert for breakfast?”

  “You’ve never had a pancake?” Greg asked.

  “Pancake?” She dabbed a finger into the top cake and shook her head. “Amazing. You should sell these.”

  Greg chuckled, shaking his head. He finished his stack and piled them onto a plate to join her. He ate in comfortable silence, not even feeling the need to fill the empty air with a joke. When he finished, he looked at Maeve and frowned, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

  “I owe you an explanation.”

  Maeve raised an eyebrow at him, looking up from the tiny motor she’d taken to tinkering with between bites of the fluffy pancake. “Okay?”

  Greg rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I’ve been told I have a hard time expressing myself. It’s dealt some pretty significant self-inflicted wounds recently.” When Maeve didn’t give any response, he considered backing out of it completely, but continued. “I’m going to tell you what Brannoc told me. I still don’t know what it all means, and I hope it doesn’t change your opinion of me.”

  “You’re not some kind of pervert, are you?” Maeve said, stuffing another bite of pancake into her mouth.

  Greg opened his mouth to retort, but when he saw the mischievous grin form on her lips, he shook his head and they both shared a laugh. She had a way of cutting right through the tension that he appreciated.

  “Okay. For real this time. Amnesia baby.” He gestured toward her with an open hand. “That’s what you called me… It’s not true. I’m actually from a different planet, or dimension, I’m not actually sure how it works. When you found me in the ditch, I had just woken up in a summoning circle.”

  Maeve stared at him, eyebrows furrowed as she worked pancake out of her teeth with her tongue. Finally, she picked up her fork and pointed it at him. “Knew it. You don’t just find Gifted hanging out in gross overflow ditches. I knew something weird happened! That’s why Brannoc didn’t want me to know. He thought I was going to treat you like a little puppy.”

  Greg’s face stretched in surprise. He wasn’t confident in the reaction he was going to get from her, though he suspected it would be something caring and supportive. This was a turn. “You guys have dogs here? And why would you be treating me like a puppy?”

  “My dad was like you,” Maeve said as if it was something he was supposed to know already. “The Mother Below summoned him from a different planet. You see any other dwarves around here?”

  Greg scratched at the nape of his neck. Now that she mentioned it, he hadn’t actually seen any other dwarves. His head slowly bobbed. “I guess I hadn’t until now, but yeah. Wait, I’m still confused, why would Brannoc care how you treat me?”

  Maeve sighed and shook her head. “He seems like a cranky old bastard, but he’s not really. He’s just been through a lot, and come out a little jaded on the other side.” Her face fell slightly, still smiling, but with something somber beneath. “I think he feels obligated to take care of me.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Why?” Greg asked.

  “My dad was part of his adventuring party. There was an accident and Brannoc was the only one that made it out.” She set the fork down, staring into the plate with the same sad smile.

  “I’m so sorry Maeve.” Greg frowned. The other grave. Killean Grimjaw. That must have been her dad. If he’d ever stopped to ask the woman her surname, it wouldn’t require any speculation, but if there was any doubt, she’d squashed it with her next sentence.

  “Papa always said ‘Friends don’t apologize to Grimjaws’.” She gave him a halfhearted grin. “But thank you. My dad was a wonderful man. Not without his flaws, but he always supported me. If I’m honest, when I saw you in the ditch stark naked looking lost and speaking Etosian…I knew he would have helped you, so I did.”

  “Thank the Mother Below for Papa Grimjaw.” Greg lifted his glass of juice, which she clinked with hers. They shared a moment of silence before he nodded. “Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag…I need a crash course, because Brannoc can teach me how to fight, but trying to learn anything else from him is impossible.”

  He peppered Maeve with cultural questions. Proper ways to address different races, local governments, class structures, anything that he could think of. He’d needed this conversation months ago. As Maeve was explaining the Thirteen, democratically elected leaders from the thirteen regions of Ashoria, Greg’s mind wandered to Autumn.

  She’d been begging for him to talk to her like this for years before giving up. Now, a few months into an alien dimension, he’d finally opened up to someone. Better late than never, he supposed.

  ###

  Adventurer Supplies was not difficult to find. Maeve wasn’t great at giving directions, but the points of interest were easy enough to locate once he got to the Salt Lick. Navigating the twisting aisles of random gear was another matter. There didn’t appear to be any order. Greg would walk down an aisle of cloaks on racks as tall as he was, but find a dead end surrounded by fishing gear. He’d even popped out into a section at one point lined with barrels and a banner that read ‘BoomBoom Powder 50% off’.

  Quickly backing away from the explosive dead end, Greg ended up at a section with several small scale weapons and equipment. He picked up a few caltrops and twirled them in his fingers when a familiar nasally tone sounded from behind him.

  “Well, look who we have here.”

  Greg glanced over his shoulder, the Rillon boy stopping just a few feet away from him, his enormous lackeys in tow. Greg sat the caltrops down and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Hi, I’m Greg. Glad somebody found me. I was looking for the swords. Could you point me in the right direction?”

  “Wha…” He stared at Greg wide-eyed. “Who…D-Do you think I work here?!”

  “Yes? You don’t look like much of an adventurer. The Hulk and Juggernaut do, but…”Greg raised an eyebrow, looked up at the mountains of flesh on either side of the young man, then back down. Brannoc was going to kill him for digging at him again, but he couldn’t help it.

  “I am Horatio Rillon,” he said through gritted teeth. “Your insolence is unacceptable. I will have an apology, or my father will hear about this.”

  “Sorry, who?” Greg asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Have we met?”

  “Are you daft!?” Horatio growled, fists clenching. “You run and hide beneath Brannoc Stroud’s skirts only to mock me again?”

  “If you don’t work here, that’s fine.” Greg shrugged. “Do you know where Murray is? Friend of mine says he runs the place.”

  “Helloooo.” A pale face stuck through the rack of heavy leather armor to the right of Horatio. His long goatee made his already thin face looked stretched to the point of deformity.

  “By the gods!” Horatio jumped back.

  Greg took a quick step back as well, heart thumping, but he’d been far enough away to avoid the brunt of the jump scare.

  “Murray was called.” He stepped from between two sets of leather. His voice fluctuated in volume at seemingly random intervals. “Horatio Rillon. Memory serves, Murray has banned you from this establishment.” The figure must have been enormously tall, but his back hunched in such a way that he wasn’t any taller than Greg. He lifted a hand and waggled long, thin fingers in Horatio’s direction. “Off you go.”

  Horatio scowled, but didn’t protest. He looked around the thin man at Greg and offered a final barb. “You think you’re a funny man, but my father will hear about this, Hugh Jazz. Stroud won’t save you this time.”

  “Nice to meet you, Horace!” Greg called after him with a wave as he turned the corner.

  “His name is Horatio,” the tall man offered with a slightly cocked head.

  “I know,” Greg said. “Are you Murray?”

  “Indeed.” Murray bowed deeply, the arch in his back making Greg fear for the man’s health as face grew nearer to the ground.

  “How may Murray assist you? Here to pick arm yourself against the rising frost kissed numbers?” His question starting in a hushed whisper then raising to maximum volume.

  Greg’s brow furrowed but he shook his head. “No, I’m just looking for a new sword, and maybe some gear to hunt a sea serpent that got in the sewers?”

  Murray guided him through the shop, unimpeded by his own organization, if it could be called that. They’d collected another steel sword, a new shield, a harpoon, what Murray called one hundred feet of “indestructible” rope, a wetsuit, emergency aid kit and weighted boots before Murray led him to a counter in the center of the shop.

  “Alright, how much do I owe you for all this?” Greg asked, reaching into his inventory over his head and pulling the bottomless coin purse out.

  “MmmmMmmm.” Murray’s voice fluctuation was paired with closed eyes this time as his disturbingly long fingers glided over the items. He continued to hum for what felt like a full minute, and Greg was about to interrupt him when his eyes opened suddenly.

  “Four hundred silver obols.”

  “I can do that.” He had no idea if that was a good deal or not, but this might be the single strangest man he’d met in a land where cat and rock people existed, so he was not about to haggle. He took the time to count out all four hundred before asking. “This might sound like a strange question, but whats the exchange rate? Like copper to silver and silver to gold.”

  Murray scooped the coins up and dumped them into the sleeve of his robes. “One to one hundred. One gold is one hundred silver. One silver, one hundred copper.” Thankfully, he answered the question without strange looks or hesitation, which was a small comfort.

  “Thanks, Murray.” He said, depositing his new gear into his storage space.

  “Murray is pleased to do business with you, Hugh Jazz.”

  “Its just Greg.” He chortled.

  “My apologies, Just Greg.” Murray bowed deeply again.