You come awake on your back on cold stone at the edge of the Vast, not in your world anymore, and in front of your face a pane of pale light hums: a status screen, already filled in, none of the numbers yours to choose. Then the treeline moves, and three men step out of three different worlds to reach you. The first is a hunter, tall and lean, a crossbow over his shoulder and a fresh cut on his cheek. He stops at the edge of the light and looks at you like you are the thing he has been tracking.
"Garrick Vey. You're real, then."
He says it to himself, and does not lower the knife at his belt.
The sky above you is three skies at once: city haze to the north, a dragon's wing crossing a red moon to the east, rain falling upward over a ruined road to the west. The screen hums on.
STRENGTH 7. WIT 11. LUCK 2. ROLE: — (UNCHOSEN). LIVES: 1. DIFFICULTY: NORMAL.
NORMAL blinks like it is waiting to be argued with.
The second is a dwarf with a hammer in one fist and a braided beard dusted with ember. He kneels, slow, and holds out a waterskin.
"Borin Ironfoot. She's got nothing. She starts with nothing."
He presses the skin toward you.
"Drink, before the screen does worse than blink."
The third hangs back, a wizard in a grey coat with a brass lens in one hand, already reading the numbers over your shoulder.
"Orin Sable. Strength seven. Luck two."
He lowers the lens.
"If you die here, you do not respawn. Choose your role, and choose it carefully."
Garrick steps between you and the screen, and now his knife is out, pointed at the treeline, not at you.
"Pick your role,"
he says.
"And pick it now. Something has already caught your scent, and I would rather not spend the only life you've got."