Gasi

Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart," Greg sang, his voice carrying through the crisp northern air. He leaned back against the repaired gate as he sat on the ground, the rough wood digging into his spine through his thin clothes. The white sword at his side pulsed gently, almost in time with his song, as he continued, "...tell you, I tell you, the Wyvernkin comes."

The familiar words from CloudBrim felt weird on his tongue, like a piece of home that didn't quite fit in this medieval hellscape. Greg let out a sigh, his breath misting in the cold air. It had been three whole weeks, and some change, since he'd landed in this frozen knockoff of Lord of the Rings. The town was finally getting back on its feet after the Wildling attack, which was something, he guessed.

Wildlings.

That's what they called those psycho barbarians who'd tried to turn him into a Greg-kebab. Not berserkers, or barbarians, or even Vikings. Just... Wildlings.

Greg snorted, shaking his head. Kind of a lazy name, if you ask me. Wildling sounds like something you'd call a toddler on a sugar rush, not a bunch of murderous fantasy hobos.

He shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable spot against the gate. The wood was rough and splintery, probably giving his back more acupuncture than he'd signed up for. But it was better than standing around like an idiot, he supposed. His gaze drifted over the landscape beyond the gate – endless snow and trees, like someone had taken a Bob Ross painting and sucked all the joy out of it.

Three weeks, Greg thought, chewing on his lower lip. Three weeks of being stuck in Ye Olde Shithole, and I'm starting to feel like someone dropped me off in the wrong fantasy world. He'd been hoping for elves, magic, maybe a cool guild hall where he could pick up quests.

You know, standard isekai stuff.

But nooooo. 

What he got instead was a whole lot of British people. Which was bad enough on its own, but British peasants? That made it so much worse.

Like, so much.

"Because nobody fucking showers," Greg muttered under his breath, wrinkling his nose at the memory of his first few days here. The smell alone had nearly sent him running back to the Wildlings. "Nobody seems to have fucking soap, either." He shuddered, remembering the weird looks he'd gotten when he'd asked about basic hygiene. "Hell, these people think I'm crazy for heading down to the river every other day to dunk myself."

Greg's stomach growled, reminding him of the sad excuse for lunch in his hand. He glanced down at the strip of dried meat, tough as leather and about as appetizing. "My Isekai Fantasy Adventure is Lamer Than Expected," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Or at least Darker. Way darker."

He took another bite of the medieval jerky, his jaw working overtime to chew the leathery strip. How have they not invented sandwiches yet? he wondered, not for the first time. When did they even invent sandwiches, anyway? Note to self: look that up if I ever get back home. Could be my million-dollar idea here.

The thought of home sent a pang through his chest, a mix of homesickness and guilt that he quickly shoved down. Can't think about that now, he told himself firmly. Gotta stay focused. Gotta figure out how to get back. Or at least how to not die.

Speaking of not dying, he hadn't felt his soul grow anymore ever since he had shown up in the village. By the time all the chaos had ended and he'd cut down five more Wildlings, it had shot out three whole times.

One of those had left him feeling way more… intuitive. 

Like, not smarter, but more capable, almost. Like he could figure things out way easier, if he put some practice into it, he was sure of it.

He wasn't sure if it actually worked like that, but he had taken to sword training pretty well, fast enough that the head guard had asked him if he'd ever held one before.

The second had gone… nowhere. 

His soul had left him with another giant fart, even though he could tell that what he could have gotten would have been something really good. The Light in his soul could feel it too, it would have been incredible.

Would have been, he frowned, taking another hard bite out of the jerky.

The third was pretty good, though. Nothing to write home about, but solid.

It let him enchant stuff.

Granted, at first, he had been super excited about that, but it turns out it wasn't all that impressive, not like it seemed. First of all, he couldn't make anything all that powerful. He was pretty sure something like glasses that made you read faster would be out of his reach, let alone give you X-ray vision. On top of that, the time too.

The fuckin' time.

It took a whole three days to enchant each item, which was all sorts of bullshit. The enchanting alone took like an hour of focusing his attention on something, and then it took literally seventy-two hours to set in and activate.

Like, come the fuck on.

Multiply three days each times his windbreaker, t-shirt, jeans, underwear, boxers, socks and shoes, and you can see why he wasn't a happy camper.

Granted, now he had a pair of pants and a shirt that wouldn't get dirty, a jacket that kept him even more warm, underwear that wouldn't tear, and shoes that were much tougher as well as socks that wouldn't get his feet wet as easily. If it weren't for that wait, he might have already set out on his own to explore with Ash and find one of those major cities with a castle, instead of sitting here in the middle of Fantasy Greenland.

Greg sighed as movement caught his eye, and his gaze flicked to the right as a figure rounded the corner of the town wall. Another guard, sword at his hip, trudging through his rounds like he was programmed to.

"Hey, Lorn," Greg called out, raising a hand in greeting. His voice came out a bit too loud, too eager, but hey, human interaction was human interaction, right?

Lorn, the guard in question, simply looked at him and nodded. It was the same vague stare he always gave Greg, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of the blond-haired stranger in their midst. At sixteen – or 'six and ten' as these weirdos said – Lorn was barely older than Greg, but he might as well have been from another planet.

Greg's eyes skimmed over Lorn's appearance for the hundredth time, taking in the bland brown hair, bland brown eyes, and the blandest outfit this side of a medieval Walmart. Thick brown wool cloak, gray tunic, gray breeches, brown leather boots. The guy was so generic he could've been an NPC in the world's most boring RPG. The only thing that stood out was the tall spear he carried, like most of the guards. Actual swords seemed to be a rare commodity around here.

Lorn turned away without a word, continuing his rounds as usual. Greg sighed, watching him go. Another stimulating conversation in the books, he thought wryly. Really nailing this whole 'make friends and influence people' thing.

The silence settled back in, broken only by the distant sounds of the village and the whisper of wind through the trees. Greg shifted again, trying to ignore the growing numbness in his butt from sitting on the cold ground. His mind wandered, as it often did these days, to the villagers and their reactions to him.

They weren't sure what to make of him, that much was clear. Showing up in the middle of a barbarian raid, even if he did kill a bunch of them and save a few people (including the village chief's daughter, which he thought would've scored him more points), had left them feeling... well, conflicted.

Greg could practically feel their eyes on him sometimes, could hear the whispers that stopped whenever he got too close. His ears burned at the memory of some of the things he'd overheard. "Strange lad," "Touched in the head maybe," "Some lost southron, I figure." It was like being back in high school, only instead of jocks and popular kids, it was a bunch of medieval peasants who thought bathing too much made you sick.

Trying his best to understand the townspeople past their weird fantasy British, Irish, Scottish, whatever accents and Ye Olde English style of talking, he was pretty sure most of their gossipy whispers were about him.

Which made sense.

He was fresh and new, and before you had TV, you took all the chances you could get for something interesting.

"At least they answer my questions," Greg muttered, taking another unenthusiastic bite of his jerky. "Kind of." He chewed thoughtfully, trying to piece together everything he'd learned over the past few weeks. It wasn't much, and what he did know didn't make a whole lot of sense. He'd be much more thankful if the answers he got did make more sense, but these people really didn't know a lot about anything.

He was in some country called Westeros, apparently. A place with seven kingdoms, all ruled by seven big Lords, who were in turn ruled by one king. Which doesn't make any sense, Greg thought, furrowing his brow. Isn't the whole point of being a king that you don't answer to anybody? But whatever, not my circus, not my LARPing monkeys.

Right now, he was stuck in a town called Frostfall, which was in one of those kingdoms called The North. Greg rolled his eyes at that. The North. Real creative, guys. I bet it took you all of five seconds to come up with that one.

"Frostfall, The North, Wildlings," Greg sighed, shaking his head. "Come on."

Something RPGs and Isekai animes didn't prepare you for was how boring the past honestly was all the time. Without dragons to slay and Demon Kings to fight, it was just a lot of everyday repetitive blah.

Like, right now, bored out of his mind.

Like, mind-numbingly, brain-meltingly bored.

At least Ash got to run around in the woods before coming back every few hours. To check on me, like I'm his responsibility. He shook his head at his bear cub's antics.

Till the bear made another round, it was just his job to stare out at the endless expanse of snow and trees and more fucking snow. How do people live like this? he wondered, shoving another piece of jerky into his mouth and chewing mechanically. It's like being stuck in a never-ending loading screen.

He sighed, his breath misting in the frigid air.

He was just about to shove the rest of the jerky into his mouth when a familiar voice called out, slightly muffled by the thick wooden gate. "M'lord Greg!"

Greg's eyes widened, the jerky frozen halfway to his mouth. Shit, is that...? He quickly swallowed the tough meat, wincing as it scraped down his throat, and jumped to his feet, brushing the snow off his jeans.

Act cool, Veder. You've got this.

He'd barely managed to straighten up and clear his throat when a smiling face poked out from behind the gate, auburn braids swinging. Gwenna's smile was as bright as ever as she fully stepped into view, her laugh like a bell cutting through the crisp air. "Ah, knew I'd find ye."

Oh god, it is her. He felt his face heat up, a blush rising to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. Gwenna, the chief's daughter, the girl he'd saved from a wildling attack nearly a month ago. She was pretty in a wild, girl-next door sort of way, with high cheekbones and dimples that showed when she smiled, and long lashes that framed her expressive eyes. Her auburn hair was braided intricately, the twin tails resting on the shoulders of her deep green wool dress and grey cloak, the braids bouncing as she skipped.

Stop staring, you creep, Greg chided himself, forcing his gaze away from her face.

"Lady Gwenna," he said, offering what he hoped was a cool, lopsided smile. "I thought you weren't supposed to be outside the gate?"

Gwenna giggled, the sound making Greg's stomach do a weird swoopy thing he wasn't entirely comfortable with. "I'm no Lady," she said, her accent thicker than the snow around them.

"You're the chief's daughter, right?" His smile morphed into a grin, unable to help himself as he talked to her. Something about talking to Gwenna always made him feel a little bolder, a little more... himself. Or at least, the version of himself he wished he could be all the time.

"That don't make me a Lady," Gwenna shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. "It takes more to be a Lady, you know."

"And what makes me a Lord?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in what he hoped was a suave, questioning look. Probably looks more like I'm having a stroke

Gwenna mirrored his expression, her own brow arching even higher. Her gaze flicked between his face and his clothes, lingering for a moment on the sword at his waist before returning to meet his eyes. "Nothing 't all, mi'lord."

Ugh, this again. Greg barely fought the urge to groan and roll his eyes. Ever since he'd arrived in Frostfall, the villagers had been convinced that he was some sort of lost noble, a 'lordling' from the South. No matter how many times he told them otherwise, they just wouldn't believe him. It didn't help that this whole "lord" thing had become a running joke of Gwenna's that she seemed particularly fond of perpetuating. He could still remember the first time she'd called him that, right after he'd helped her to her feet during the Wildling attack.

Back then, it hadn't been a joke – she'd genuinely thought he was some kind of nobility. The "m-milord" had spilled out along with a nervous curtsy that Greg had immediately tried to shut down.

He wished it stopped there.

Apparently, being as concerned with being clean as he was along with white teeth before people figured out fluoride and toothpaste meant you were some kind of noble.

It really didn't help that when people asked where he came from, he simply told them he didn't remember, that he just hit his head and woke up in the forest.

That just made them think he was a runaway "lordling". These people really like adding -ling to the end of words. Shouldn't that make Wildlings young Wilds, if we're going by that logic? His right eye twitched trying to understand how these people handled English… or whatever their language was, cause there was no England here. Either way, makes no sense for them to think I'm a noble or whatever.

Although, it could have been how bright and well-made his clothes were compared to everyone else's. It didn't help that he stood out like a sore thumb among the villagers, with their rough-spun wool and muddy colors. His bright blue windbreaker, jeans, and sneakers were like a neon sign screaming 'I'm not from here!' Hell, the most colorful clothes he saw in town was Jenna's dress.

Or maybeeee it was the weird-shaped white sword.

Yeah, Greg tilted his head to the side. That might do it. 

Slicing a few wildling's arms off and the one he'd cut in half had been really impressive, because swords weren't supposed to be that sharp.

Well, most swords.

This low-fantasy world apparently had some sort of magic enchanted swords called Valerie swords that only a few special rich nobles could afford. Weird name, but he wasn't gonna judge.

This place had all sorts of weird names for things.

Like again, the North.

Which, to be fair, was more lazy than weird.

"How's the guard'n going, m'lord?" Gwenna asked, her head tilting quizzically.

Oh, yeah, he'd been a guard for a while now. Greg shook his head at the question, giving Gwenna a shrug and a slight smile to go along with it, trying to pull of nonchalant. "Same as usual."

Gwenna's dad had given him the temporary job for as long as he stayed in the village, which was appreciated, because he had no money. Her dad, the headman, or chief had even been nice enough to let him sleep in what they called the hall, a big old building with beds that travelers could sleep in.

Food was free, too.

Even if it wasn't all that good.

Gwenna nodded, her braids bobbing. "Aye, 'tis rather dull work, starin' at the snow all day," she said. Then, her eyes brightened, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Though I suppose 'tis better than muckin' out the pigs, aye?"

Greg blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. "Uh, yeah, definitely," he said, hoping his confusion wasn't too obvious. "I mean, pigs are cool and all, but I'd rather not get up close and personal with their... y'know."

Gwenna laughed, the sound bright and clear in the crisp air. "Aye, 'tis a stinky business, that," she agreed.

Greg felt his cheeks redden further. "So, what brings you out here, not-a-Lady Gwenna?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation away from pig shit. "Besides gracing this humble guard with your presence, of course."

Gwenna's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Ah, ye've caught me, m'lord. I've come to rescue ye from the perils of guard duty." She gestured dramatically at the snowy landscape beyond the gate.

The blond blinked again. "You did?"

"Aye, me da's wantin' to have a word with ye," she said, her tone slightly more serious now. "Sent me runnin' to fetch ye, he did."

The chief? Greg felt a flicker of unease.

While Gwenna's father had been nothing but kind to him, the headman offering him food, shelter, and even a temporary job for as long as he was in town— with what he assumed was good pay, Greg always got the sense that the man didn't entirely trust him. Especially when Gwenna was around. Oh god, he doesn't think... I mean, we're not... Gaaaah, get it together, Veder!

"Huh..." Greg said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Any idea what he wants to talk about?"

Gwenna shrugged, the motion causing her braids to bounce again. "Didn't say. But he seemed right serious about it."

Great. Just great. Greg's mind raced, trying to think of anything he might have done to piss off the chief. Maybe he's seen the way you look at his daughter, idiot, that annoying voice in his head chimed in again. Greg felt his face grow even hotter.

"Well," he said slowly and carefully, "guess I shouldn't keep him waiting, huh?"

Gwenna nodded, her own expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Aye, best not to. Shall we go together, then?"

He kept his expression neutral, hoping his inner panic wasn't showing on his face. "Sure, why not?" he said with a casualness he definitely didn't feel. "Lead the way, m'lady."

Gwenna rolled her eyes at the title but smiled nonetheless, turning back towards the gate. Greg followed, his mind racing. What could the chief want? Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong?

As they walked through the village, Greg couldn't help but marvel at how different everything was from his own time. The houses were simple, made of rough-hewn timber and thatch, with smoke curling from the chimneys. People went about their daily tasks —tending to animals, chopping wood, mending clothes —with a diligence and purpose that was so unlike the leisurely pace of modern life.

No smartphones, no internet, no video games, Greg mused, dodging a pair of scruffy chickens that clucked indignantly at his passing. Just good old-fashioned hard work and the constant threat of death by starvation or wildling attack. Ah, the simple life.

He glanced at Gwenna, noting the confident way she navigated the muddy paths, the easy greetings she exchanged with the other villagers. She's so at home here, he thought, a pang of something like envy or longing twisting in his chest. She knows exactly who she is and where she belongs. Must be nice.

Greg had never really felt like he belonged anywhere, not at school, not online... He was always the odd one out. Granted, he was still the odd one out here, but at least now…

I'm a hero, he thought to himself. I saved Gwenna, I protected the village. I matter.

It was a heady thought, one that made him stand a little taller, his steps a little more confident.

He was so busy trying to get his blushing under control that he almost ran smack into Gwenna when she stopped in front of a large, log building. The mead hall, Greg recognized, where the chief conducted village business and hosted feasts and gatherings.

"Well, 'ere we are," Gwenna said, turning to face him. She was standing very close, close enough that Greg could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the flecks of blue in her grey eyes.

"Uh-huh," Greg said eloquently, his brain short-circuiting at the proximity. Words, Veder, use your words! "I mean, yeah, great, let's do this."

Gwenna gave him an odd look but didn't comment, instead pushing open the heavy wooden door and gesturing for him to enter. Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself. Alright, Veder, game face on. Time to talk to the chief. You got this.

Greg Veder walked into the dimly lit mead hall, his eyes adjusting to the change from the bright, snow-reflected sunlight outside. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meat, and despite his nerves, Greg's stomach grumbled in appreciation.

He stepped further into the hall, Gwenna following close behind. The large room was dominated by a central hearth, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. At the far end, seated on a sturdy wooden chair that might generously be called a throne, was Chief Harl himself.

Chief Harl was a solid, stocky man, Greg knew that. At 5'9", he wasn't exactly towering, but he was built like a stone wall—broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that looked like he'd been cutting wood for years, which probably wasn't inaccurate. The man had a thick black head of long hair tied back, and his beard was just as full, and only a little unkempt.

Dude looks like he could bench press a bear, Greg thought, suddenly feeling very scrawny in comparison. Note to self: start working out. Or at least figure out the medieval equivalent of protein shakes.

The chief's sharp grey eyes turned onto Greg as the blond approached, always watching him whenever he was around. Greg swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in his throat.

"...uh, Chief Harl," Greg greeted, bowing his head to the seated man and hoping it came off as respectful rather than awkward. He winced internally at the crack in his voice. "You wanted to see me?"

The chief's eyes narrowed for a moment, and Greg fought the urge to squirm under that piercing gaze. But then Harl shook his head and looked over Greg's shoulder, his expression softening slightly.

"Gwenna, leave us. Your mother has need of ye."

"Yes, Da." Gwenna's voice was soft, almost hesitant. Greg glanced back at her, catching her eye for a brief moment before she turned and left, her footsteps fading into the background noise of the hall.

With his daughter gone, the chief regarded Greg with inscrutable eyes, his bearded face unreadable. "Aye, that I did," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, like stones grinding together. "Ye stumble to Frostfall with no knowledge of yer past. That change yet?"

Greg blinked, thrown by the question. "Uh, no, Chief." Unless you count the fact that I'm from a whole different world and time, but somehow I don't think that would go over well.

The chief leaned forward, the firelight glinting in his eyes. "Then we talk about th' future."

"The future?" Greg repeated, his head tilting to the side in confusion. Was this good? Bad? He tilted his head to the side, confusion evident on his face. Please don't let this be some weird medieval marriage proposal thing. I'm way too young for that.

"Aye, yer future." Chief Harl gestured to his right. "This 'ere's me younger brother, Merek."

Greg's head swiveled to the right, finally noticing the man who'd been standing there, leaning against the wall, the whole time. Huh, brothers. 

Where Chief Harl was solid and well-built, his younger brother was lean, almost wiry, standing a few inches shorter—barely an inch taller than Greg—and lacking the bulk of a man used to a weapon in his hand. His face was clean-shaven too, the lack of beard making him look a good deal less rugged. But it was his clothes that really set him apart. They weren't fancy, per se, but they were different from Harl's rough practicality—less thick fur and rough tunics, more tailored lines and finer materials. All in all, they were clearly made with more expensive stuff and trimmed with something better than simple wool. Even his belt had a few more pouches than necessary.

Huh. Guess the medieval equivalent of a businessman is a... tradesman? Is that a word?

"Merek's a trader, sharp as they come," Harl continued, the gruff man nodding as he spoke. "'is lot rolled in yestermorn, and 'e's off again tomorra."

The younger brother stepped forward, his movements smooth and graceful compared to Harl's solid presence. He looked Greg up and down, assessing him with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hi," Greg said, raising a hand in an awkward wave.

Merek closed the distance between them, extending his hand for a firm handshake. His grip was strong, his smile genuine but with a calculating edge that made Greg's skin prickle.

"Aye, pleasure t' meet ye, Greg," Merek said, his voice lighter than his brother's but still rough around the edges. "Heard a fair bit 'bout yer... exploits 'round 'ere."

Exploits? Is that what we're calling nearly getting killed by Wildlings and bears these days?

Greg returned the handshake, trying not to wince at the man's grip. "Thanks, I guess. Mostly just been trying to keep my head down." And attached to my shoulders, but who's counting?

Merek's eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile didn't waver. "Heh, keepin' yer head down, aye? I've heard ye've done a fair bit more than that. Sounds like ye're just th' kind o' man I'd need on th' road."

"What road?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, ye know, this 'n that," Merek replied with a vague wave of his hand. "Mostly makin' sure me goods get near th' Dreadfort in one piece. Not a short trek, an' them roads... well, they've a mind t' be tricky."

The Dreadfort? Why does that sound like a place where they sell spooky Halloween decorations year-round?

Merek stepped back to stand next to his brother, and Chief Harl took over, his voice firm. The time for pleasantries was clearly over.

"Aye, Greg, ye know this village ain't much, an' we don't need no trouble, right? Now, me brother, he's headin' to th' Dreadfort come mornin'. Needs a strong lad at his back, like ye. Figured ye might be up fer it, eh?"

Greg blinked, taken aback by the sudden proposition. "Huh, I mean, I wasn't planning on leaving Frostfall just yet—"

"Thing is, see," Chief Harl interrupted, barreling forward like a conversational juggernaut, "Reckon if ye end up near th' lords, ye might, see, start rememberin' yer folk, might jog somethin' loose."

Oh. Oh, I get it. Greg stared silently at the man, wheels turning in his head. This is just to get rid of me because of Gwenna, isn't it? He couldn't help but feel like it was. He wasn't sure why though. It wasn't like he'd done anything inappropriate—hell, he hadn't even held her hand! And he wasn't going to do anything like... well, like that, in the first place. He wasn't some creep.

Not that I'd mind if she wanted to... No, focus, Greg!

"What d'ye make o' that, then?" Chief Harl asked, his gaze unwavering.

Screw it, let's just ask. "Why do you want to send me off so bad?" Greg blurted out, his tone a little more accusatory than he'd intended.

The chief's expression hardened, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. "Ain't 'bout sendin' ye off, lad. It's 'bout puttin' yer... skills where they're needed. We're simple folk 'ere; don't have much call fer a fighter, or some runaway lordling, whatever ye are, not like th' Dreadfort does."

Ouch. Way to make a guy feel wanted.Greg swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "What if I want to stay?"

Harl sighed, looking Greg dead in the eye. "If ye stay, ye're welcome, long as ye keep th' peace. But think on this—there's more t' th' world than Frostfall. Ye're meant fer more than 'ere."

The words hit Greg like a punch to the gut, a mix of resentment and reluctant understanding warring in his chest. As much as he'd grown to like Frostfall, with its simple routines and kind (if a bit rough around the edges) people, he knew Harl was right. He wasn't meant to stay here forever. He needed to figure out how he'd ended up in this world, and how (if possible) he could get back to his own.

Might as well, he mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. I guess I haven't gotten any more experience since I've been here. Maybe this is the universe telling me I'm spending too much time in the tutorial area.

After a moment of hesitation, Greg nodded, deciding that the open road would probably let him grow. "Sounds like a plan. I don't have much holding me here... No offense, Chief."

Harl nodded, looking almost relieved. "Nay offense taken, lad. Better ye be where ye can do some good. That's all any man can ask, eh? A chance t' see where his path takes 'im. Merek'll set ye right on what's needed."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k words (100 GP)

Wannabe White Knight (250 GP)

Kill Interesting People [Wildling x 10] (200 GP)

Roll: Fast Learner (400 GP) - "You learn skills incredibly quickly through practical work. It may take you a week to learn the theory behind a spell, but once you start practicing it you'll have it down within hours. This can apply even to things you might not expect. Some field work in archeology may really drill in your head the best way to locate ancient sites and treasures."