Game Master in Another World

Life in the village settled into a quiet, unbroken rhythm. I drifted through their days, a silent ghost watching women mend torn trousers and men sharpen sickles for the coming harvest. But beneath the idyllic surface, the village had its fractures.

I spent my evenings observing Norma’s house. She kept it impeccably, tending to her two children while heavy with her third. 

One particular evening I stayed near the window, watching the house settle into its usual routine. Norma fed the children, tidied the table, and set plates aside for her husband. When he finally arrived, the light had already begun to fade.

Tom entered with uneven steps, his shirt untucked and his expression slack. He looked first at the table, then at her.

“Where’s my dinner?” he asked. His voice was low, the words heavy.

“Right here,” Norma said, keeping her tone steady. She placed the plate before him, her movements measured, precise.

Tom stared at the food without touching it. Then he picked up his fork and jabbed it into the meat. “This it? You sit here all day and can’t even keep it warm?”

“It’s been ready for an hour,” she said quietly. “You were late.”

He ate a mouthful, chewing slowly. “Tastes dry.”

“Have you been with Terry again?” she asked.

His shoulders lifted slightly, as if shrugging off the question. “What’s it to you?” He set the fork down with a loud clatter. “You complain about the children, you complain about the chores, and now you complain about me having a drink?”

Norma didn’t move. Her back was straight, hands at her sides.

He laughed, short and harsh. “Maybe if you weren’t so dull, I’d come home sooner.”

She turned away, folding a cloth that didn’t need folding. “I look after this house, Tom. I just want you sober when you walk through that door.”

“You’re lucky you’ve got a husband,” he muttered. “No one else would put up with you.”

The room was still except for the faint crackle of the fire.

Norma looked at him, her face unreadable. “We’ll talk in the morning,” she said. “For now, you can sleep it off elsewhere.”

The chair scraped as he stood. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he leaned close, voice low and deliberate. “You think you can take anything from me? You’d be nothing without me.”

She said nothing.

Behind them, one of the children stopped moving. The wooden horse slipped from a small hand, landing with a hollow sound that echoed through the room.

In those moments, seeing these living, breathing people endure small tragedies, my helplessness chafed at me. I was no longer running a campaign; I was witnessing lives I could not touch.

The next morning began with motion. A carriage stood near the edge of the village while an older couple loaded sacks into the back. The woman moved briskly despite her years, arranging baskets and checking ropes, while the man tightened the straps on the harness.

A small group of villagers had gathered to see them off. One of the women called out, “Safe travels, Betty! Bring us back some good news from the market.”

The older woman smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll do our best,” she said. “Charles has promised not to fall asleep on the road this time.”

Laughter followed. The man shook his head, grinning. “One time, and I never hear the end of it.”

“Then keep both eyes open,” another villager teased.

They climbed aboard the carriage, the wood creaking under their weight. Charles took the reins while Betty waved to the small crowd. “We’ll be back by the evening, if the horses behave.”

The wheels began to turn, crushing the soft earth as the cart rolled toward the open fields. From the bags and baskets, I guessed they were carrying produce, mostly potatoes and carrots, perhaps a few onions too.

The village itself stirred with purpose. Men carried sickles to the edge of the fields, checking blades for nicks. Women swept out storerooms and cleared space in one of the empty houses. Voices carried easily on the air, overlapping in bursts of talk and laughter.

Ilza stood by the well with Norma, the two of them speaking in low tones. Norma’s expression was weary, her shoulders drawn inward.

“So, what’s Tom done this time?” Ilza asked.

Norma hesitated before answering. “He came home drunk again. Said things I’d rather not repeat. I’ve had enough of it. I told him he won’t have my company at night until he learns to behave himself.”

Ilza gave a small, knowing smile. “Probably for the best, even if it’s not easy.”

“It isn’t,” Norma said, shaking her head. “He’s my husband, and I care for him, but I’m tired of pleading for respect.”

“Maybe distance will make him notice what he’s losing,” Ilza said gently.

“That’s the hope,” Norma murmured. After a pause, her tone softened. “Still, it’s lonely.”

They stood in silence for a time, watching a pair of boys chase each other past with wooden rakes.

By late afternoon, the harvest workers arrived from the north, their carriages creaking through the gates. Their leader, a white-bearded man named Rasmus, was greeted like an old friend.

Ilza was tasked with showing him to the guest quarters. "Always an adventurer at heart," Rasmus teased her gently as they walked. Ilza’s smile faded. "Maybe. But for now, someone has to look after my parents. Since Bianca passed, they depend on me. I've chosen my path." I drifted behind her, seeing the weight of that duty settling on her young shoulders. She was burying her dreams for the sake of this village.

Once the camp was established, the village filled with songs, laughter, and the sound of mugs knocking together. Beer flowed freely, and even those who had worked the longest found energy to dance. Tom, however, sat apart from the others, his hands folded around a cup of water. I imagined myself joining them, a drink in hand, adding my voice to their songs.

The next morning, the fields stirred with early light. The men and women spread out across the golden stubble, their scythes flashing in an even, sweeping rhythm. It was a sight of total cooperation, every body moving with purpose.

As they worked, their voices rose in a sweeping folk song about the harvest, their voices rising and falling like waves across the wheat. Later, they sang a complex counting song, their voices keeping time until they reached a joyous, shouted crescendo.

I hovered above it all, the rhythm of the numbers filling my thoughts. I pictured myself among them, swinging a scythe in time, part of the living rhythm that bound them together. The work and the music felt endless, complete—a pattern that left no space for silence.

By sunset, the fields were bare and golden. The thresher’s flails struck in quick rhythm, separating the grain, while others loaded sacks onto carts. Some of the grain was set aside as payment for Rasmus and his crew.

“Thanks again, Rasmus,” Athelmod said, shaking his hand. “We couldn’t have done this without your people. Make sure you enjoy the harvest feast tonight.”

“You always treat us well,” Rasmus replied with a broad smile.

That night, the celebration filled the village once more. They played a game where some dressed as sheep and others as wolves. The sheep tried to cross a marked field without being caught, but their laughter made them slow and clumsy. Most were caught before they reached the other side.

And yet, at the edge of the celebration, Tom always sat apart, staring quietly into a cup of water. A dark spot on a golden day.

By morning, the fires were cold. The songs were replaced by the scrape of rakes and the low hum of chores. The festival was over, and life returned to its rhythm of work.

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