CH 1 — The Artist
Being alone was nothing new to Eisbaer. She was used to it and liked to think of herself as adaptable and (mostly) of sound mind. No, that didn’t worry her. What did was the severe shift in circumstances. Such as not being able to logout, or more importantly, the absence of her cozy room and half-finished projects just a table away.
What she needed was a distraction, as sitting around and hoping to be rescued was futile at this point. Days had gone by with her wandering around the confines of the city, as clueless as the next person and having little to show for it. There were people still treating this like one big game, grouping up and striking out to fight monsters and complete quests. She’d be doing the same too, providing support for her reckless brother.
But he wasn’t here. He’d had his hands full with a failing marriage and a chronically ill child. Yet despite all that, he was the lucky one. Even though he was the sort who would kill for this very experience. Eisbaer longed to be home, amongst the half-finished dollhouses and an assortment of miniature furniture and food dishes. She’d dedicated many long nights and days to her craft, her biggest coping mechanism, next to the escapism novels and games provided.
The only problem was that her artistic skills did not translate well into the virtual world. Not without extensive practice and adjusting to the lack of tactical sensation.
But first, she’d need to focus on her main class to survive in this world, which might involve... socializing. Grouping up and completing quests, obtaining better gear... But finding party members had always been her brother’s specialty. Eisbaer was more than content to play alone or tag along with his friends.
She was in a real bind here.
“What do you think I should do, Treant?” She would have to give it and its future iterations a proper name at some point, but for now, “Treant” would do.
Treant merely stared back at her. It wasn’t much of a conversationalist. But what it lacked in speech and combative skills, it made up with undying cuteness. Treant was little more than a walking log with a gnarled mouth and claws, but it got the job done.
“I know I should be out there, exploring and playing the game until I’m rescued, but what’s my motivation, exactly?”
Treant swayed from side to side, but still offered no input.
“Thing is, I’m more of a homebody. I don’t care to go out of my comfort zone.” Sighing, she held her hands aloft. “I’m an artist, Treant. I should be creating, not out in the pits. But I also need art supplies. Like clay. And that’s where you come in.”
Her lovely tree companion picked idly at its teeth with a ragged claw.
“…That’s true. We’re essentially shopping for essentials, all while cutting out the middle man.” She crouched beside Treant and lightly patted where she supposed its shoulders were. “You brilliant block of wood, you.”
Treant growled in contentment and resumed its prodding. She supposed she should give it a name at some point. Calling it Treant was a little…crude. Why not Trent, instead? Or Trenton. Trenton the Treant…
Eisbaer tapped its shoulder with the butt of her staff. “I dub thee Trenton, my most steadfast companion.”
The newly dubbed Trenton stared blankly, claws loosely dangling at its sides.
And thus, under the cloak of darkness, Eisbaer and Trenton made their way to the Misty forest. Trenton was graciously desummoned and reunited before crossing the safety line of the city, for the sake of extending this iteration’s lifespan. Eisbaer hated the idea of being caught out without her companion. Trenton was no great beast or protector, but she noticed the wariness of other players (if you could call them that) who were of equal or worse standing than her. No, it was the stronger ones you really had to watch out for, but most flat out ignored her.
They saw her flimsy armor and rationalized that she was beneath them, undesirable for looting or companionship. Invisible in life and death. Splendid. Maybe her work in the real world, the world where everything made sense, would garner greater attention and bolster her being into a household name. Faye Edwards, miniature artist, unmarried, and rumored to a closeted lesbian, by God! And they’d put the much loved model of her childhood home on display in an art museum, and all her family and old classmates would clamor around it, saying “Oh yes, I knew Faye from way back when! Such a lovely and talented artist, but the poor thing was so dreadfully shy! How I regret not befriending her.”
“They’d have to care enough to send out search parties and eventually declare you missing,” she muttered to herself, startling Trenton. That raised another question she wanted to avoid right now, which was how much time had progressed while she was stuck here? Would she continue to age or forever remain young, only to crumble into dust upon returning? And how would she explain where she’d been all this time, without being institutionalized?
How was she expected to stay sane without her antidepressants—no, she wasn’t getting caught up in those thoughts again, not out here. Eisbaer pressed a finger against her temple. It would be better once she was back in the inn she called “home,” playing with clay and fashioning more horrific pieces that were somehow worse than her childhood creations.
Trenton tugged at her robes. They’d been walking for a while now, following a beaten trail off the main path, towards the sounds and source of a river. “Yes, good Treant.” It was foolish, and anyone who happened upon the duo would be right to say so, but better to be thought a fool than to fall prey to one’s inner turmoil. That, and talking to the semi-sentient tree creature, forced herself out of her own head and gave her a sense of motivation.
“This is new to me, too. Before today I never would’ve thought to dig up my own clay. No, it was safer and cheaper to buy from certified suppliers. Some of my peers assured me it wasn’t as intimidating as it seemed, but I never liked digging in dirt—ironic, I know.”
She gathered up the ends of her robes and carefully picked her way around a promising deposit of clay. “Just cleaning the clay is an entire process, and I don’t feel safe doing so out in the open.”
As she spoke, Eisbaer began poking the clay with a stick, testing it for firmness. Trenton waddled around, mimicking the gesture by digging its claws into the riverbank. Not quite digging, but raking the earth, it grunted and pulled out a half buried branch.
“I had a hamster once—do you know what a hamster is?” After a moment of silence, she continued. “They love sand. They love digging and playing with it. Some can even be trained to use it was a litter box.” Sand was good for the hamsters, who also used the sand as a dry bath, but also good for her, in that it soothed her weary brain. You’d think that sifting sand would bore someone to tears, but marveling at the smooth sand and the discarded pile of tiny stones fascinated her in ways she couldn’t explain.
“But in order to trust them with the sand, I had to first filter out rocks and other debris, after letting it all sit in the oven first, of course. Heat transformed the stiff dirt into a finer strain of sand, and produced very little dust when it was all said and done. There’s a similar process with clay, but instead of heating in an oven, you soak it in water and pour out the grit and filth through a mesh. Or so I’ve been told.”
Eisbaer clicked her tongue. Too many in-depth talks about the thrilling lives of hamsters, and not enough about escaping this virtual prison. But who would she ally with? Clearly not the NPCs, their inept guards who only cared about selling their wares and preventing scuffles within the safe zone. The other players were...well, she lacked the social skills to approach any, and had no plans of her own.
All she could do was occupy herself with beloved hobbies and limited exploration. During the chaos, some players saw fit to assault other players and loot fallen bodies waiting to respawn. She’d heard whispers of far worse things, of sexual slavery and hard labor. But would people really commit such harsh acts, even virtually?
It made her shiver just thinking about it! Especially when those same voices implied that most of the victims were players like her. Players who had animalistic features.
She initially based her avatar on a beautiful vampire that matched her dark skin on the outside world. A Black vampire that wasn’t the ashy variant prevalent in older movies and even a few current ones. Black people could be pale without looking unmoisturized! Her brother was far less impressed with her spiel and teased her over her love and fixation on the Gothic. Just like he teased for leaning a little too much in her username.
Her feet resembled the white paws of a polar bear, and she even had a cute little tail and slightly tufted ears. That was as far as she was willing to go, not wanting to be misread as one of those “furries”. That was a step too far, in her opinion. Everyone wanted cat ears these days, but to live in a fur suit?
“Can you imagine me in a bear suit, Trenton?”
It stared back at her, unblinking.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Because if what she heard was true, things could be very bad for her.
Much like everyone else, she learned she couldn’t alter her appearance beyond choice of clothing and makeup. Those cute, chunky paws she once coveted were now buried beneath her flowing robes. She’d trimmed the fur from her ears, so now they looked more elfin in nature. The tail was the easiest to obscure, being too short to notice unless she undressed. At some point, she gave up on shoes and hiding her footprints, opting instead to only go out at night.
Her skin was now sensitive to the sun, it seemed. That was never an issue before; it was just an added flare for roleplay. But now it was the bane of her existence. Who loves the sun? Surely not her! But at least she didn’t drink blood.
And even if she craved it...how would she go about procuring it? With Trenton’s help? Definitely not!
Trenton was good for felling small animals and fending off assailants. It was certainly better suited for that than collecting clay, but Eisbaer appreciated its company, all the same. And together, they filled a sack with a substantial amount of clay (well, not a ton, but a girl could dream), and Eisbaer hefted the lot into her arms.
Inventories were still a thing, thank goodness, but hers was nearly full to the brim. Even now, she couldn’t help but be a packrat. One needed money for food and lodging, after all. And what she didn’t keep, she intended to sell for a tidy profit. Perhaps she could even sell some of her pottery at an even higher rate.
“Won’t know until we try,” she said to her faithful companion.
Trenton had to be resummoned, so it didn’t disappear in the middle of the trek home. At times like these, even a treant was a great guard dog. It growled at a few late night adventurers and scared off several dogs and one very brazen squirrel.
But once they crossed into the safe borders of Wolefin, Eisbaer bade farewell to her little friend. Other players had far more colorful pets and companions, but she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. Or be approached by a party in need of her specific skills. But they’d have to train her, first…it was no coincidence that her artistry skills had a leg up on her fighting prowess.
Eisbaer took in the lightening sky above Wolefin, modeled after an early nineties New York. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason, with several notable landmarks far too close to each other. While she was no great historian, she’d seen more than enough TV shows and movies to get a feel of the landscape.
The Statue of Liberty stood where the World Trade Center once resided, for example. And the Golden Gate bridge cut through a lake in town square…it was all very jarring, but she tried to ignore it.
“Home sweet home,” she said, ushering Trenton into their basement apartment. Cookie cutter houses lined the residential area, but she managed to snag a home with character. A small apartment below a bagel shop.
She had a tiny kiln down here, situated near the only window. In the far corner, she had a small cot, a tiny kitchen with a hot plate and mini fridge, and a bathroom with one of those deep Japanese tubs. That tub and the kiln were her favorite parts of this room.
“I would never live like this on the outside.” Not that she could afford her own kiln on the outside; there was a studio she and a few other artists shared.
Sighing, Eisbaer retrieved the clay from her bag and set it on her worktable. Now that the hard part was over, she was finally free to rest. “Goodnight, or good morning, Trent.”
Trenton offered a parting wave, just like she taught it. She briefly considered teaching it sign language, especially as it grew. The conversation might not be as stimulating as a human, but would make her days a little less lonely.
Utterly alone and in the safety of her home, Eisbaer disrobed and hung up her clothes. But there was still so much to do before she could rest. She couldn’t sleep with dirty paws or mud caked hands.
I wish I were home…
Sienna Eggler
