Fred's walk back to the Fear and Loathing was uneventful and blessedly goblin childfree. Munching on the sandwich he pondered that there could be no mistaking Betty's grandmother for anything other than an NPC. She spoke to script only – and with the same blank-eyed enthusiasm Fred had recognized in the fruit seller, and to a lesser extent Freda the Widow. How long Rosie had been an NPC for her to have developed so much personality and autonomy of thought? And what on earth Betty was... he shook his head as the lights of the tavern came into view. Best not to think too hard.

On entering the bar he spotted Joan seated by herself in a corner. She was nursing a drink, so he assumed her quest had been fruitful. Sliding onto the bench next to her he noticed she was wearing several bandages and looked, to put it mildly, a little beaten up.

"Rats a bit more than you expected?" he asked sympathetically. Joan nodded glumly, but then grinned as she plonked a small coin purse on the table. It clinked with the merry sound of prosperity.

"Worth it," she said. "How about you?"

"Three coppers and a sandwich," said Fred. "I ate the sandwich."

"That's fine," she said. "I made enough for us to order food and to go shopping tomorrow."

"Oooh," said Fred, appreciatively. He looked around the inn. "I wonder how much a bed costs?"

"Waste of money," said Joan, pursing her lips. "And to be completely honest I think sleeping in a bed will be weird. I haven't slept in a bed in over three hundred years."

"You might like it," said Fred. "I know I do. Last night was the first night I slept on the ground since I got drunk and passed out at my friend Theodore's party, two New Years ago. And before that–" Fred was about to launch into a detailed description of his entire sleeping history (this is the downside of slice-of-life writing) but was interrupted by Rosie putting down two bowls of stew in front of them. Stew, not boobs, just to be clear.

"Well then," said Rosie the Barmaid, looking from Fred to Joan, hands on her hips and her eyes sparkling. "Sorted out the rats, did you? And Betty safe with her Nan?" She hid a smile behind her hand.

"Yes, yes," said Fred testily. "The "child" is safe with her grandmother."

"Good, good," said Rosie, her smile broadening. "Can't have little girls wandering about the countryside at night." Fred snorted. "Can I get you something to drink with your meal?"

"What are we drinking?" said Fred to Joan. She lifted her mug apologetically.

"Water," she said.

"No!" said Fred, aghast. He smacked his hand on the table. "Beer!" Joan made a face. "Wine? Ale? Chocolate milkshake? Tea?" he looked at her hopefully.

"I'm really fine with my water," she said.

"Beer for me, please," he said to Rosie. "Beer for me and one fresh, sparkling cup of rainwater for my lady friend here. Out of your best water barrel!"

"Coming right up," said Rosie, with a wink. She sashayed into the kitchen.

Fred grinned at Joan, then leaned forward and sniffed his stew. It smelt warm and spicy. He was feeling pretty good, he realised as he started to eat. Witches and weird goblin children aside, things weren't so bad. He liked Joan. A lot. And now that he had sort of figured out how things worked, now he knew he was in a place with tea, and beer, and good food – well things were looking up.

Over on a raised platform at one end of the room, two elderly bards had struck up a tune, plucking on lutes with more enthusiasm than skill. It was merry enough and Fred wondered if Joan liked to dance. He decided probably not. Trees were not known for their dancing skills after all. Glancing at her sideways, he suspected there was more than a bit of the pirate left in her, buried under that deep, practical calm.

"So how do you think we should go about this party business, hey?" he said, raising his voice so Joan could hear him over the music.

"Well ideally," said Joan, "we would get a wide variety of players. Melee, ranged, tank etc. Different disciplines et cetera."

"Makes sense," said Fred, slurping his stew with great enjoyment. "So how do we go about that?"

"I'm not sure," said Joan, looking uncertain. "I mean it's so different from last time. Last time I was stacked in the stats department. People were fighting over themselves to be in my party. I have a horrible feeling this time I will have to be less fussy."

"Like me," said Fred, a cold lump forming in his belly.

"You don't want to start a party with just anyone. You have to be strategic. And there is personality to consider. I mean if you have the leisure."

"How do you mean?"

"Well for instance," Joan put down her spoon and surveyed the room in front of her. She pointed at the bards on the platform who were wearing ear to ear grins and bopping to their own rather tuneless set. They waved at her enthusiastically. "They look like a lot of fun," she said. "But I'm not sure how serious they would be about gathering XP."

"Maybe it's their night off," said Fred. They both watched the musicians. One of the bards was hopping across the stage on one leg doing what Fred vaguely assumed was a Slash from Guns and Roses impression. It looked very out of place performed by an elderly gent in flapping robes surrounded by the trappings of a medieval tavern, but he seemed to be having a good time. He reminded Fred of his great-uncle Henry who had been a good egg.

Joan moved her spoon across the tavern towards a group of metal clad adventurers huddled over a table with a map placed in the middle. The group was examining it intently, and conversing in urgent, low mutters. They were all heavily armed, one of them carrying a broadsword, another a bow and one a wizard's staff.

"Now they look like they mean business," said Joan. "But they are not interested, I already asked."

"Pfff," said Fred. He waved to Rosie and gestured that he would like a refill. "Their loss." His gaze roamed across the room and settled on a young man seated in the corner nursing a cup. He was dressed in a plain brown tunic and had a great shock of sandy blond hair. The young man was watching the musicians with evidence of great enjoyment. His mouth was open a little and he seemed to be panting. "What about him?" asked Fred. "Looks alright, doesn't seem to be overpowered, doesn't have a party."

"No," said Joan, "I spoke to him already. He was a dog in his last life." Fred spat out a bit of beer.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I was a tree," she said. "You can choose, you know, what you want to go back as. And being a pet in a nice home, with people to love and look after you, that's a nice life. I considered it myself."

"So what's wrong with him?" said Fred. "I mean, I assume he was a good boy or he wouldn't be here. Seems pleasant enough?"

"No," hissed Joan, as the dog-man looked over at them and smiled a friendly, lopsided smile. He started scratching vigorously behind his ear with one hand and his eyes glazed over. "Do you really want to be on a team with someone who used to be a golden retriever? All they are good for is carrying your luggage and licking your face."

Fred's face turned speculative.

"No," said Joan firmly. "No, no, no."

"What about them," Fred pointed to two women sat in a corner.

"No. I spoke to them, they said they want to open a cheese shop and stay in the game as long as possible. I need people with drive."

"If all you want to do is to get to the end," said Fred, "by hook or by crook, with the best players you can find, why, why in the name of all that is holy did you pick me? I died young, I wouldn't call myself driven – at least not in the game, not yet. I'm just bumbling around trying to find tea. Why are you still hanging around? Or can you just not find anyone better?"

Joan tilted her head, her eyes flickered from head to toe and then back again. Her eyes warmed and there was no artifice in her expression.

"I thought you were cute," she said. "Do you have any idea how long it is since I've had sex? With a human?" Fred blushed, and his innards went a little squishy. Then his ears caught up.

"With a wha–"

Joan stretched, and all sorts of interesting things happened. Fred didn't know where to look. His ears were in danger of melting off. Joan's eyes softened.

"I'll never look at seeds the same way again," she said, musingly, "or bees."

"I mean I've been going through a dry spell myself," Fred coughed, thinking guiltily about his bathtub. But then he had never had much time for a social life. The life of a danseur was very demanding. "But bees?"

"My point is," said Joan, "that you don't want to just hook up with the first lost souls that cross your path. It pays off to be circumspect. Unless they happen to be hot, and very nice."

"Thank you," said Fred, haughtily, trying to get the thought of bees out of his mind but Joan was holding his hand and it was very distracting. "I'll have you know I'm not just a piece of meat."

"Sorry," said Joan, snatching her hand back. "I know I have a lot of bark on me still. I've forgotten how to talk to people.

Because the narrator really can't write romantic stuff, it's probably better for all of us if I don't try. But let's just say Fred and Joan had a good snog, got more intimately acquainted, and the next morning Fred woke up, once again sans trousers in a snug little bedroom under the eaves.

But somewhere in the night, they did have a discussion which is relevant, and not too scandalous. And it went something like this:

"The other reason I want you around–" said Joan.

"Aha," said Fred, stretching like a cat in the warmth of their bed.

"–from a practical point of view, I mean, is I happened to notice your bonus." The conversation devolved briefly as Fred mused out loud on the nature of his bonus and what Joan could possibly do with it.

"Oh, you mean the one in my stats," he said at last. He pulled up the blue flickering screen.

[Bonus: Condensed Milk]

"I haven't really had time to think about it," he confessed.

Joan sat.

"You don't know what it does?"

"No! But why are you so excited about it?"

Joan lay back down, and folded her arms under her head, staring up at the dark ceiling.

"Most players don't have them," she said. "It's quite unusual. I know the dungeon can be sympathetic if people die young, and it's not their fault. It's my theory that it's her way of evening the odds."

"Did you have one last time?" Joan shook her head. "And now?"

She hesitated a moment then nodded and pulled up her stats screen. Fred examined it curiously.

Joan of Snark Level 1

Class: Druid ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

XP: 14

HP: 24 [1 pair Old Shoes + 1 Mildly Scandalous Knickers + 1 Sensible Bra] x8

Bonus: x8 HP

+1 Firemaking

+1 Cooking

+1 Herbalism

Quests: 2

Quest 1: Be Reincarnated

Quest 2: The Quest for Baggage.

"Wow," said Fred. "x8 HP... that's... that's awesome. So whatever you have, multiplied by eight? You should be wearing the bucket, and I should just push you along in front of me." He thought of something. "Those rats must have been intense."

"They were," said Joan. "Big. Large teeth. Intense. And yes, it's a nice bonus. But the thing with bonuses is, they can evolve, you can get new ones as you level up. So cuteness and jokes aside, I think you are a valuable player to have around."

"Pleased to hear it," said Fred, laying back down and closing his eyes. "I have never felt more romanced in my life." He blew her a kiss.

"Come on," said Joan, poking him with a finger.

"What?" said Fred. "I already did." He squinted at her suspiciously. The curve of her smiling face was only just visible in the gentle light of the moon that filtered through the small window in the thatch. She was holding out a cup. "What?" he repeated.

"Here," she said, plopping the cup in front of him. "Fill it with condensed milk. I can't think what else it could be, and I won't be able to sleep until we find out."

Fred eyed the small clay vessel with suspicion. He sat up with a groan.

"This is ridiculous," he said, "I mean it's not like I can just point my finger," he pointed his finger, "and yell Condensed Milk–" The cup glittered briefly. It filled with a heavy, buttery liquid. Joan leaned in and 'ooohed' appreciatively.

Fred picked up the cup and sniffed, then stuck his little finger into the cup, drew it out and licked it. "Huh," he said. "Would you look at that?"

"That's interesting," said Joan, with a giggle.

"Yes, very useful," said Fred, darkly. "It couldn't be something useful like "Demonic Hoard Come Forth" or "Spectral Bear Guardian" or...or "Tea". How would I use this in a fight? Offer people cups of condensed milk and wait for them to develop diabetes?"

"We'll think of something."

"We could open a rival tea shop," muttered Fred, lying back down and pulling Joan into the circle of his arms. Her hair smelt like fresh leaves and sunshine. "With the emphasis on...um what do you make with condensed milk? Tiramisu?"

"How am I supposed to know that?"

They fell asleep.