Session 1: A Half-Elf and a Crusader Wake Up in a Forest

You wake to the sun blazing against your face. Its piercing rays sting like a fresh sunburn to your still-tired eyes. “I’ll wait for my alarm,” you think. You reach for your blanket only to come up with a fistful of grass.

"Grass?!" you say, shocked by the sensation. Your eyes snap open only to be met by a white blast piercing the depths of your retinas. "AHH!" you groan, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes. You sit there rubbing your eyes for a moment, trying to get your bearings. While your eyes adjust, your ears pick up every sound. In the distance, you can hear birds chirping, the knocking of woodpeckers, and the chittering of squirrels above you. Your eyes take forever to adjust; even when they do, you can’t look at the sky without the sunlight feeling like rods of red-hot iron. You look up and notice a canopy of trees protects you from the worst of the sunlight; instead, something shiny in front of you is reflecting it. You look down and see what it is. A tall man sits in front of you, armored from head to toe with only the open helm revealing his mouth and thick beard. Etched swirls ride the steel, shallow and imperfect, as if someone chased the pattern by hand, a thick red cross painted across his chest, and a giant sword as long as you are tall rests on his back. "Who are you?" you ask, pointing at him. His head hostels, as if he too was asleep until you called him. He takes a moment to stretch, the armor clanking as he does so.

“What are you doing?” he finally asks when he notices you.

“I asked you first, asshole,” you shot back, feeling every hair on your body stand on end.

"Is that any way to speak to me?" the man asks, lifting his helmet and revealing a face you know almost as well as your own. He's tanned—just not enough to hide who he is.

"Dad?" you blurt, your face twisting in confusion as you jump to your feet. "What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?"

"Me?" your Father asks, also climbing to his feet. "Have you seen yourself?" For the first time, you look down. Your boxers and T‑shirt are gone, replaced by a loose tunic, knee‑high boots, and a cloak.

"What? How did—why—" You spin, yanking down your hood to get a better look at your clothing.

"Dear Lord, what did you do to your ears?" your Father asks.

"What about my ear—" Your words die as your fingers find them: sticking out and narrowing to fine points, not the small, round ones that used to hug your head.

"First year in college and you mutilate your ears like that?" your Father asks, grabbing them. "I mean, sure, I got a tattoo at your age, but this? This is just ridiculous."

"Let go!" you shout, pushing his hand away and stepping back. Something bangs against your side.

*clack*

You glance down: a sword is sheathed and strapped to your left side. "Wha—how di—this doesn't make any—why—" A strong, armored hand stops your turning, forcing you still. You look up to see your Father’s face looking more disappointed than shocked. "Dad, are you not freaked out by this?"

"Son, look at me. Take a deep breath." You try, but his calm only serves to pour gasoline on the fire of your anxiety.

"Stop panicking, watch my breathing," he instructs, his voice collected and controlled. Somehow, locking eyes with him helps you control your own breathing, and you slowly gain control. "That's it, in and out, nice and slow." You fully match his breathing, and after a few cycles, you hear the *THUMPTHUMPTHUMP* of your heartbeat slow and quiet. *Thump… Thump…* it slowly fades into the calm chatter of birds above.

"Calmer now?" your Father asks.

"Yeah," you say.

"Good. Now, let’s take a moment to analyze our situation and get our bearings. We're in a forest. In strange clothes. We have no idea where we are. No way to contact the outside world. And no idea how to get back. Did I miss anything?" His words are calm, precise—and so maddeningly correct that your words are lost in your chest. "I'll take that as a yes," he says, releasing your shoulders and looking around. His lips cock to the side, and he strokes his beard, like he always does when he's thinking. "Alright," he says, his thinking ending just as suddenly as it began. "Panicking will get us nowhere. I need three rocks and a stick."

"Three rocks?" You ask, repeating it to make sure you heard him correctly. "Why do you need three rocks?"

"And a stick. Gonna try an old trick I learned in the Army. Ahh, look—here's one," he says, bending to pick up a rock. "Two more to go."

"Dad, I don't understand."

"Neither do I, but that's never stopped me before," he says a little too quickly. His words are somehow both calming and confusing, but you look down anyway, scouring for stones. When you've gathered what he wants, your Father smiles.

"Perfect. Now watch as I figure out where we are," he says, jamming the stick into the ground. He uses the largest rock you found to beat it, then places the rock at the tip of the stick's shadow.

"Dad, how is a stick and three rocks gonna help us?"

"You'll see," he says, turning away from the stick and gesturing for you to do the same. You follow suit, standing next to him and staring off into the woods.

"OK, can you please start explaining now?" you ask.

"No, not yet. I know it's really strange, but if I tell you now, it might not work, so I need you to trust me. Do you?"

"Less and less with every sentence," you say, perhaps more honestly than you meant.

"I've done more with less," he says with a clap. "Now what we're gonna do is sing the Star‑Spangled Banner." You stare wide-eyed at his face, desperate for the hint of a smile—any sign he's joking. It never comes.

"The Star‑Spangled Banner?"

"Yes."

"The U.S. national anthem."

"That's the one.”

“Dad, that’s ridiculous.”

“There’s a method to my madness,” he insists, bursting into song, but you don't. No matter how much he taps or shakes your shoulder, you refuse. He carries on through to the end, holding the last note for what feels like an hour, then falls silent. "You didn't sing," he says, as if genuinely surprised by your refusal.

"No, because it's ridiculous. We suddenly appear in the woods, and you expect me to sing a song for no reason."

"I'll have you know there are actually two reasons," your Father says, holding up a closed hand. "One: it's a good measure of time," he says, flipping up a finger. "And two: it makes me feel better," he says, flipping up a second.

"Keep time for what?"

"The stick," he says, turning and placing the second stone at the shadow’s new position, just next to the first stone. He turns again and looks at you with a smile. "Now we sing another one. I'm thinking the Japanese national anthem."

"I don't even want to ask why anymore," you say, dreading the no doubt insane excuse he has prepared.

"It's because that one always calms me down."

"Why do you need to calm down?" You ask, without thinking.

"I don't know—couldn't be that I'm just a tad distressed by finding myself in a strange forest, in strange clothes, with a strange sword, with my son whose ears have been mutilated so he looks like an elf ready for the ren‑fest—and I'm just a bit better at hiding it than you." His raised eyebrow could hold up the sky. Then, just as quickly, the tension melts. "Nah, couldn't be that. That'd be ridiculous. I just wanna do pointless stuff cause nothing matters."

You try to think of a response, but nothing comes to mind. You relent and sing "Kimigayo" with him, still unsure how it helps you figure out where you are. When you finish, you both turn back, and your Father sets a third stone on the ground and smiles in satisfaction. Why three stones in a line should satisfy him is beyond you—but you don't have to wait long for an answer.

"Alright, son, do you know what this tells me?"

"No idea."

"This tells me two vital pieces of information. Number one: this isn't a dream."

"Huh?" You ask, tilting your head. "Isn't that a given?"

"I mean, that was always in question." He snickers. "I'm suddenly wearing armor in the woods with you. That sounds like a dream to me."

"OK, but how does this tell you it's not a dream?"

"Have you ever been in a dream and known you're dreaming?" he asks.

"Sure."

"Have you ever looked at a clock while doing that?"

"...No," you say, not sure where he's going with this.

"Well, next time you do, look at a clock. Note the time, look away for a second or two, then look back. It'll tell you a completely different time. Sounds crazy, but I've done it."

"OK…" you say, trying to piece his logic together. "And this is relevant how?"

"Look at the rocks. Notice how they're in a mostly straight line?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if this were a dream, I'd expect the rocks to be in any given direction without rhyme or reason—meaning this isn't a dream, at least not one that follows conventional dream logic. So I don't think I'll be flying over to my mansion made of rice to watch Star Wars with Kid Rock any time soon."

"What?" You take a step back, shaking your head, trying to follow his line of gibberish. "Why would that happen?"

"I have strange dreams sometimes—usually when I take melatonin—but that's beside the point," he says, shrugging off your surprise. "The second thing it tells me is our cardinal directions."

"OK, now how the hell does it do that?" you demand.

"Think, son. Which direction does the sun move through the sky?"

"East to West. Everyone knows that."

"Right. Now here's something you may not have thought about. What direction do shadows move?" You pause. You've never stopped to consider it.

"Don't feel bad—I never thought about it either till I was learning land nav for the Army. Since the sun moves from east to west, shadows move from west to east. That's why we use the rocks." He points to the first stone. "The first rock will be at the westernmost point, and the third at the easternmost. It isn't perfect due to the Earth's curvature and tilt, but it gives us a rough idea. Now that we know east and west," he says, pulling up the stick and drawing a line between the first and third stones, "we also know North and South. Isn't that something?"

"Ohh. OK, I get it," you say, as if the last puzzle piece finally clicks. "So, which way do we go?"

"That's getting to the third thing it tells me."

"You said it only told you two things?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It did, but I just thought of this while we've been talking," he says, standing. "The compass actually isn't as useful as I first thought."

"What do you mean? Now we'll know which direction to head to?"

"No—we'll know which direction we're heading," he corrects.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Tell me, son—what direction should we go to get home? Or at least to reach a bus stop?"

"Well, we'd need to head…" You trail off, realizing his point. You know the directions, but what good are they if we don't know where you are or which way home is?

"Yeah. That same lightbulb went off for me, too," your Father says.

"So then what do we do?" you ask. He paces a moment, his lips again cocked into his cheek, then stops beside the stick and faces North.

"Give me a number between one and eight," he says.

"Six," you say without thinking. He stretches out his hand and points east.

"We're going that way."

"What?"

"We're gonna head East."

"Why East?"

"Because six was East."

"You're basing our direction on the number I said?" You ask, certain, that can't be a good idea

"Yes. Exactly."

"That doesn't seem like a good idea."

"If you have a better one, I'm all ears," he says, crossing his arms. You think for a moment, then sigh when nothing comes.

"Fine," you say, defeated.

"Good. Before we head out, let's take an inventory. Check your pouches and backpack to see what's inside. Maybe your phone's in there somewhere."

"My phone. How did I not think about it?" You shove your hands toward your pockets—only to find your pants don't have any. You feel around your waist instead. Along with the sword, you find two pouches. You shake them: one sloshes, one jingles. More curious about the jingling, you reach in and pull out a coin. Silver flashes even in the canopy shade. You take a moment to look and see that it has words on it. "Frontier Silver," it reads in distinct English letters.

"Find something nice?" your Father asks.

"Is this anything?" you ask, handing it to him. He holds it toward the sun to examine it.

"I've seen a lot of coins in my life, but nothing like this," he says, passing it back. "Find anything else?"

"Just this pouch," you say, grabbing the sloshing one.

"That looks like a waterskin. Open it and smell before you drink. The last thing we need is dysentery." You do as instructed. The liquid is odorless—more so than the leather. You cup a hand and pour a little of the clear water in. "Yeah, that's water," You think, drinking from your palm and tasting leather.

"Check your bag," your Father says. "Might be something useful in there," he adds, reaching into his own. You're surprised you didn't notice the backpack earlier, but considering how much you were panicking, it figures. Two small axes are tied to the sides.

"Why do I have so many weapons?" You think, moving them aside, and clicking the bag open. It looks like a camping pack you've seen in ads—just more… primitive. You unbuckle the bedroll and start digging. "Alright, let's see what I have." You pull out a stick topped with cloth. "What the hell is this?" You set it aside and pull out a box with wood, a piece of metal, and a shiny rock. "The hell is this?" The cloth-topped stick smells faintly of oil—more torch than flag. The little box is a bundle of tinder, steel, and a chunk of flint; you thumb the stone and raise a crescent of dust. Next comes a small sack. Inside is a strip of dried meat. "Jerky?" You think, tasting it, then jerk back and spitting it out. "Salty" is all you can think of as the taste digs into the center of your tongue.

"Find something?" your Father asks.

"Just some stick and jerky," you say.

"What's that on your back?" You reach and feel a smooth leather cylinder attached to your belt at the base of your back. "Backpack must've hidden it," is the best explanation you can come up with.

"Hold still," your Father says, grasping the case and opening it. "If I had to bet, I'd say this is a map case."

"That'd be useful. Could tell us how to get out of here."

"We could only be so lucky," he says, unrolling paper. "And we are! Come look at this." You step around to see the map in his hands. The parchment is aged and the pictures crude—but it's a map.

But a map of where? The edges are torn; the illustrations, faded. You can make out a landmass taking up the right side, with a few islands to the left. An arrow points North—or what you assume is North—but otherwise it's an enigma.

"Any idea?" you ask, looking to your Father who's stroking his beard. He glances at you before pointing at the northernmost island off the coast.

"What does this look like to you?"

"An island?" you say, unsure.

"Not the island—the text," he corrects.

"What text? I don't see any."

"You're looking at it upside down." He flips it toward you. "Now what do you see?" he asks, pointing just below the northernmost island. You take a look, now that it's right side up, you make out the distinct and unmistakable words over the islands.

"Hokkaidō?" you say, almost afraid the words are wrong. “And Shikoku?”

"Good. You see it too," your Father says with a sigh of relief. "Thought I was going crazier than I already am."

"But that doesn't make any sense. If that's Hokkaidō and Shikoku, then why does Honshu look like that? Where’s Kyushu? And why’s there land to the west?" You fire off the questions as fast as they form in your mind, but he has no answers.

"The way I see it, there are a few possibilities. A: The map isn't correct, and we should disregard it. B: This is a different Hokkaidō, don't ask me where another island with that name is. I've never heard of it. Or C: This is a new land that just so happens to share the same name and apparently uses Japanese script. Don't ask me how that's possible; I have no idea. The only thing I can say is this map looks… familiar."

"Familiar?" You glance from the map to him.

"I can't explain it," he says, shaking his head. "But I feel like I've seen it somewhere. Not all that surprising, I've seen a lot of maps in my time."

"So what do we do?" you ask. He cocks his lips onto his cheek as he rolls up the map.

"As of right now, this doesn't change anything," he finally says when the map is rolled. "We don't know where on this map we are, if anywhere, so we'll still head East till we get a better idea."

"Yeah, that makes sense," you say, fully understanding his logic for the first time.

"Good. Now hand me one of those axes and pack up while I explain how we're gonna keep mostly straight," he says, sliding the map back into the cylinder. You pass him one of the axes from your pack, and you both return to your bags to repack while he explains.

"OK, here's what we're gonna do. I'll look out and direct you to a tree. Once you're there, I'll mark the tree where we started and then come to you, and we'll keep doing that."

"Why mark the trees?" you ask.

"Two reasons. One: it helps us keep our heading straight. Two: if we somehow get turned around, we'll know it when we see the marks. And three—just thought of this—if someone else comes through here, they'll see our marks and maybe come looking for us."

"What people?"

"Well, let's say that map refers to the Hokkaidō we know, and we're somewhere approximating Japan. There are a few national parks, but none of them are that big—at least not compared to American parks, especially out west. Why, I remember a story I heard about a group that—"

"Dad!" you cut in. "Can you save the long‑winded story for later?"

"Yeah, sure, fine," he says, disappointed. "Point is, if we're in a park, there'll be trail maps, pamphlet boards, and rangers wondering who's marking trees. They'll follow and find us."

"Won't they be upset at us for marking trees?"

"Maybe," he says, throwing his pack on his back. "But if I have to choose between not being found and being found and getting gripped at, I'll take the gripe," he says, chopping a mark into a trunk.

*thock* *thock* *thock*

"You ready to go? I need to be home before church tomorrow."

"Yeah," you say, swinging your bag onto your back. “But is that really a priority right now?”

“If I’m not there, who’ll play the organ?” your Father asks as you set off.