Patches of gravel.
Thousands of twigs.
Mud.
Mud. Mud. Mud.
So much mud.
It’s a plague on the land, staining the lowest branches of the furthest visible trees a grayish brown.
Beside me, looking half-disgusted beneath a strained smile, Lazul murmurs, “Thankfully, the flood waters didn’t damage the house.”
Eerily slow, I turn toward the peeling horror story known asthe player’s farmhouse, swallow hard, and interrupt Lazul where I have always wanted to, asking: “So whatdiddamage it?”
Laughing awkwardly, he continues his script without answering me, “It’s not a lot to look at right now, but the soil here is rich and the magic running through it is plentiful. Our carpenter, Gabbro, should be able to make living here more comfortable if you gather enough supplies and meet his modest fees.”
Modest.
The last house upgrade is a million coins.
Modest, my left toe.
Amid my grimace, my eyes land on an outhouse I’ve never seen before—complete with a chipping half moon on the door. That…certainly isn’t in the game. And I definitely do not want to discover what my brain has concocted for the interior.
One might say I am extremely invested in keeping this dream from turning into a nightmare.
While I’m forcing myself to think about decidedly chipper—notchipping—things,Lazul opens up the pre-farming tutorial dialogue. “There might be some basic tools inside the house, but do you know how to tend a farm?”
Classic.
In just a few moments, I shall be unable to do anything but accept theturnip quest.
Any good farm simmer knows the grand challenge of procuring three turnips in so many days. I’ve yet to stumble intoa farm sim where the introductory NPC—in this case, Lord Lazul himself—doesn’t inexplicably keep a pack of turnip seeds on his person at all times.
For funsies, I grin and chirp, “Nope!”
Lazul covers his mouth, going off script, “Oh dear… I certainly don’t.” His attention flutters past the dilapidated farmhouse—and the disconcerting outhouse—beyond the thick trees toward where a row of brush obscures what should be a narrow path… If this were third-person top down view instead of first, I may be able to navigate close enough for the blocked path to show on the very edge of my screen.
Alas. I can see naught but muddy debris and oceans of six-foot-tall grass.
All the same, my heartbeat jumps much too realistically in the cavity of my chest when Lazul says, more to himself than to me, “He’d know how, but I doubt he’d be willing to help.”
He?
Hecouldn’t possibly refer to…
Gripping my sweaty palms in the khaki skirt I’m wearing—my favorite starter outfit of the majestic five options—I swallow and wet my lips. The way my body is reacting you’d think I was wide awake. Or at least pining after a real boy with more than a dozen pixels for eyes.
Alas, again.
I am not thinking of someone real.
And I am also not thinking of aboy.
BecauseSamson?
Samson isallman.
