Umber’s First Darksday of Harvestfall, 1442, somewhere in the Whispering Wilds.


    A gentle breeze brushed against Leoric’s face as he opened his eyes to the soft glow of the midday sun. The sky above was a clear blue as the sun stood at its zenith.


    A charcoal-black moon hung in the sky, visible despite the hour and presence of the sun. It unsettled Sophie, though Leoric knew better. This world followed a lunar calendar, and by the shape and colour of the moon, he could tell the day. Today’s waning gibbous meant it was early in the month—“Umber’s First Darksday,” as the status window displayed. Waning Umberan, in the vernacular. Translated to Sophie, though, it was just meant the fifth of the month.


    Leoric took a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs with the fresh scents of wildflowers and dew-kissed grass. The wind whispered through the leaves of ancient trees, their canopies shimmering with iridescent hues that danced in the light.


    He stood on a grassy hill overlooking a valley dotted with multiple farmlands. The crops shifted softly in the wind in a mesmerising dance.


    Leoric felt the comforting weight of his traveller’s clothes. His long, tufted ears swayed gently with the breeze, heightening his awareness of the surrounding sounds—the distant murmur of a flowing river, the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, the melodic calls of birds greeting the morning.


    He glanced down at his boots, sturdy yet supple, feeling the firmness of the earth beneath them. The connection to this land was immediate and profound, as if he had always belonged here.


    Leoric raised his hands before him, turning them over slowly. The tanned skin was smooth, the muscles lean but defined. Intricate patterns adorned his leather gloves—swirling designs that seemed to mimic the flow of wind itself. He flexed his fingers, marvelling at the responsiveness and the absence of any disconnect between thought and action.


    A nearby sound drew his attention—a gentle tinkling, like chimes stirred by the breeze. Following it, he found a clear pond nestled among a ring of stones. Kneeling beside it, he gazed into the still water.


    Staring back at him was a face both familiar and new. Almond-shaped eyes of deep brown reflected a quiet strength, framed by softly curving eyebrows. His hair, dark brown with subtle blonde highlights, fell in gentle waves around his face, the middle parting allowing strands to curtain just above his eyes. The long, graceful lines of his features exuded an androgynous beauty, enhanced by the elegant sweep of his ears rising above his head.


    A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The visage was everything he had hoped for—confident, striking, free from the doubts that often shadowed his real-life reflections. Leoric felt a surge of unexpected comfort and confidence. In this form, the insecurities that had plagued Sophie seemed distant, almost trivial.


    “This is me,” he said in a whisper that emerged richer and more melodious than he had expected. It resonated with a depth that sent a pleasant thrill through his body. The alignment felt with this body was seamless, natural.


    Standing up, Leoric took a moment to adjust the quiver at his back and the bow resting against his shoulder. The weight was reassuring, a promise of adventures to come.


    As he made his way back to the main path, and scanned the horizon, trying to find his first destination, Leoric started wondering about the odd starting location. He had not appeared inside a class guildhall, or at the entrance of a city. There was not even anyone near him. No other players, no guides, no NPCs. Just him, the vast expanse before him, and the wind.


    It felt as if the game knew exactly what would be the perfect way for him to start his journey.


    Yes, this was perfect.


    His tufted ears twitching slightly as they caught the myriad sounds of the morning. The wind carried with it the rustling of leaves, the scampering of small creatures through the underbrush, and the distant melody of birds. His keen senses stretched outward, tracking the faint noises around him. For a moment, his focus narrowed on something—tiny feet, maybe a rabbit or a squirrel, moving through the bushes just beyond the clearing.


    His eyes could not see the source of the noise. But he was tracking it all the same. The precision of his hearing astounded him—every rustle, every footstep, clear as though it were right before his eyes. The clarity was almost unnatural, and for a moment, he marvelled at what this body could do.


    Lost in the sounds of nature, he did not notice the slow creak of wooden wheels until a cheerful, slightly wheezy voice called out, “Ho there, stranger! Mind stepping aside? These old bones and this stubborn mule have a schedule to keep.”


    Leoric turned around. A Pint burrovian, barely past his knee in height, stood there, guiding a small donkey. The animal was pulling a cart laden with an assortment of goods—bundles of herbs, small crates, and mysterious burlap sacks.. The anthropomorphic bunny had soft grey fur, large expressive eyes, and wore a simple vest with many pockets bulging with trinkets.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Leoric realized he was standing squarely on top of a cobblestone road. “Apologies,” he said, stepping to the side. “I was... admiring the view.”


    The bunny man’s nose twitched. “Can’t blame you for that. Zephyrdale is a sight to behold, especially this season.” His bright eyes scanned Leoric up and down, noting the bow and ranger’s garb. “You from around these parts?”


    Leoric nodded, thoughtfully. “Yes. The name’s Leoric. Not native from here, but I moved here to join the ranks of rangers and learn to wield the bow.”


    “A ranger, then? Fancy meeting you, Leoric. I’m Pipkin,” the burrovian said, offering a tiny paw. Leoric crouched slightly to shake it, careful not to overwhelm the small creature. Despite the size difference, the handshake felt earnest.


    Pipkin gestured to his cart. “I’m headed to Windfall Meadow, just beyond those hills. Bandits sometimes skulk along the way, and while I’m not one to scare easily, an extra set of eyes wouldn’t hurt. Fancy joining me? I could offer some coin, or perhaps share a meal once we arrive.”


    Leoric considered the offer. There was no glowing exclamation mark hovering above Pipkin’s head, no quest log prompting him to accept or decline. It felt organic, a natural progression of events rather than a scripted tutorial.


    He felt a pull—a desire to wander and explore, unburdened by obligations. But accompanying Pipkin would not tether him; it might even lead to unexpected opportunities.


    “Travelling in good company beats going alone,” Leoric replied with a smile. “I’d be happy to walk with you.”


    “Excellent!” Pipkin said with joy, his ears perking up. “Stick close and keep those sharp eyes peeled.”


    As they set off together, the donkey snorted softly, and the cart wheels creaked along the well-worn path. Pipkin could surprisingly keep up with Leoric’s stride, and did so with no complaints. Leoric assumed that the game made sure there was no clear disadvantage for playing a different species for movement speed. Otherwise, the ability to kite enemies — running in one direction with enemies chasing behind, all the while peppering them with arrows or spells — would be the exclusive realm of taller species.


    The landscape unfolded before them—fields of swaying grasses that whispered secrets, clusters of wildflowers that burst with colour, and gentle slopes that invited further exploration.


    “So, what brings you to these parts?” Pipkin asked, glancing up at Leoric.


    “A new beginning,” Leoric said thoughtfully. “I’m seeking... something different. Freedom, perhaps.”


    Pipkin chuckled. “Aren’t we all? Zephyrdale has a way of giving folks just what they need, even if they don’t know they’re looking for it.”


    They walked in companionable silence for a while, the sounds of nature filling the gaps. Birds flitted from branch to branch, their songs weaving a melodic tapestry. Small creatures scurried in the underbrush, and occasionally, ethereal sprites darted above the flowers, leaving trails of light.


    Leoric felt a profound sense of peace. The immersion was unlike anything he had experienced before. There were no intrusive interfaces, no reminders of the game’s mechanics—just the world and his place within it.


    “Tell me, Pipkin,” Leoric said, “what can you tell me about Windfall Meadow?”


    “Oh, it’s a quaint little place. Home to folks who prefer the simple life. Good food, better company. And this time of year, the Harvest Festival is about to begin. Music, dancing, stories—the whole shebang. It’ll be on Stillday.”


    “Sounds delightful,” Leoric said, genuinely intrigued.


    “Indeed, it is. Perhaps you’ll stick around for it. A wanderer like you might find it... enlightening.”


    Leoric caught a twinkle in Pipkin’s eye, but chose not to press further. The path ahead seemed to glow softly, as if inviting him onward.


    As they crested a small hill, the meadow came into view—a patchwork of farmlands, cottages with thatched roofs, and a central square where a large, ancient tree stood sentinel. Colourful banners were being hung between lampposts, and the distant sound of a fiddle carried on the wind.


    Leoric took it all in, a gentle smile forming on his lips. This world was vibrant, alive, and full of possibilities. The weight of his real-life concerns felt lighter, the tightness in his chest easing with each step.


    “Welcome to Windfall Meadow,” Pipkin said, announcing the city proudly, as if he had grown up here. “Safe and sound, thanks to you.”


    “I hardly did anything,” Leoric said with a chuckle.


    “Sometimes presence is protection enough. Now, about that meal I promised...”


    As they made their way into the village, Leoric felt a sense of belonging he had not expected. Children waved as they passed, artisans nodded in greeting, and the aroma of fresh bread and spices filled the air.


    Leoric marvelled at how natural it all felt. The lines between player and character blurred, leaving only the experience. In this place, he could be whoever he wanted—unbound by expectations, free to explore and discover.


    Perhaps this is exactly what I needed, he thought. A new world, a new role, and the freedom to choose his path without hesitation.


    The sun climbed higher, casting a warm glow over the eatery in front of him. Leoric looked ahead, the sounds of laughter and music drawing him in.


    “Make your way inside. I’ll be right behind you,” Pipkin suggested, as he freed the donkey from its saddle and bridle.


    “Sounds good,” Leoric replied, leaning down as he stepped forward inside the building. None of the people living in Zephyrdale and surrounding cities were as tall as he was, and the architect behind this construction clearly did not think to make some necessary adjustments.


    Leoric raised an eyebrow as notifications suddenly popped into his field of view. He must have just officially completed Pipkin’s escort quest?


    “You have reached level two for the ranger class.”


    “You have unlocked the rolling shot action.”


    As he stepped inside, he noted that most of the patrons were Pint burrovians, halflings or Wind sylvani. In the meadow, he was towering over everyone. It did not seem to dissuade them from acting friendly with him. As soon as he entered, strangers welcomed him to join their table, imploring him to regale them with tales from beyond the village.


    The Harvest Festival would fall on Halcyon — or Stillday, as Pipkin had called it. The seventeenth of the month. This was twelve days from today. Leoric already knew that he would be gone from this place long before then. But perhaps he would try to make it back in time for the festival.