Nealan Forrester was born to poor human parents. For generations, his mother’s family had been lumberjacks in a village on the outskirts of the Righteous Monarchy of Herod, the smallest kingdom on the northern continent, a country of little importance that hides its insignificance behind grand titles and elaborate ceremony. Graciously regarded by neighbours as a chicken with dyed feathers trying to pass itself off as a peacock.

His grandparents and two uncles had died suddenly in a bandit raid before his birth, leaving the family business to the remaining daughter and her husband, an apprentice to the family.

Nealan was a quiet boy. Living on the outskirts of the nearby forest, he spent much of his childhood learning herblore and survival skills from his father, and how to cook meals and mend clothes from his mother. For fun, he snuck out to the forest and climbed trees, or playing with sticks, pretending to be a hero. He never got along with the children his age, preferring to listen to the wisdom of his elders and stories of adventure and tragedy.

Dreams of becoming an Adventurer were doomed to never be anything else. His family were little better than paupers. They earned enough to barter for food and linen, but the equipment and training that separated an Adventurer from a sellsword with delusions of grandeur required hard coin, and a lot of it. What little his parents had was kept aside for emergencies, or perhaps as a dowry - should Nealan ever marry.

Nevertheless, Nealan grew up hale and hearty. By the time he was 14 he was assisting his father in felling trees. Stronger than most in the village, he helped out here and there carrying heavy loads for the locals. He had almost given up on ever leaving when a small horde of monsters whipped into a frenzy by survivors of the previous bandit group attacked the town.

Unused to dealing with anything but lone, cowardly beasts, Nealan wasn’t of much use against their numbers or their savagery, sustaining injury after injury, but never backing down. Only emboldened, a strange excitement boiling under his skin.

But alas, he was one man, with no weapons, no armour, and no skill or experience. Adrenaline fuelled brute strength would only carry him so far, and by the time a dozen monstrous beasts lay broken at his feet, his strength was failing him fast, and the blood loss was catching up to him.

Staggering forward to fight another beast, a horn sounded, loud and close. Scouts from a passing Mercenary band called The Bronze Loranics noticed the attack before it began, and convinced their comrades to intervene.

They weren’t in time to save the whole village, many homes lay collapsed, 2 dozen lay dead, ripped apart and gnawed on. But their intervention saved Nealan’s life. After dealing with the attack, and taking payment from the survivors, the Mercenaries prepared to leave. Nealan begged their captain to allow him to join the band. Weakened and bloodied though he was, the captain accepted. Not because his performance in the attack was impressive - indeed, nobody from the village or the mercenaries saw him fight. Neither was it because of the strength of this teen’s resolve, as bravado is cheap, and resolve without foundation is worth even less.

He accepted this apprentice lumberjack simply because he needed to replace some of the troops lost in the incident, and wasn’t particularly fussy about who took the place of the deceased.

For the next 3 years, the young lumberjack turned hired thug scrounged every last coin he could, and trained with what shoddy weapons the band had available. By no means a prodigy, and lacking a skilled mentor, Nealan came to rely on his innate strength and willpower to solve problems, instead of technique.

Now, he has returned home, not hardened, but more confident; To visit his ageing parents one more time before he takes his hard-earned coin to finally pursue his old dream.

This is the story I hammered out with one of Mr Tildon’s assistants, the man himself is busy with other testers fresh out of paperwork hell. At the very least it’s the broad strokes of Nealan’s-my life. If I’m going to do this, then I have to stop thinking like Cyril Lancaster is a different person from Nealan.

“Last chance to change your mind about any of the details, sir,” the pale, overworked assistant, Derek, informs me, tapping his stylus on his desk.

“Unless you have any suggestions, I’m happy with what I’ve laid out, as it stands,” I respond, a little expectant. I doubt that Mr Tildon would let any perceived attempt at metagaming past him, but I’m not convinced his assistants share that same dedication, even if they’ve been here as long as he has; Which be all accounts does not seem to be the case, unless Derek started working for him in the cradle.

Derek changes his grip on his stylus and taps it to his cheek, thoughtful. So far he’s been pretty helpful in clearing up the details concerning the world, but this is the first time I’ve asked him for advice on the character himself.

“A couple o’ things spring to mind,” he eventually says, with an accent I’m having trouble placing, “First of all, You didn’t say too much about what Nealan actually looks like. What is clear is that he doesn’t look like you - at least not exactly like you just from the way you describe his physique. No offence, but you’re pretty thin to be lifting sacks of grain without a barrow and ripping the jaws from mutant wolves with your bare hands.”

Feeling vaguely insulted, I grudgingly concede he has a point. Whenever I talked about Nealan’s body it was only to mention that he was stronger than average. Which as far as original characters go, is right up there with ‘teleports behind yuo’. It’s pretty lazy, but Nealan is a simple character, meant to grow past that background.

There’s also the meeting with the Avatar team after dinner, so having a clearer idea of what Nealan looks like is only a good thing. I think for a minute, sucking on a bottle of energy drink that came with my lunch, then take a deep breath.

“Alright. How’s this:

Nealan is a large man by the standards of most. Not so much in height but in build. It couldn’t be said that he returned home rippling with muscle, but shoulders had broadened, and there is something more defined about how he holds himself - a sense of dignity in his grey eyes that wasn’t there before, though weak.

His messy black hair had been cut shorter than before, but by someone who has no mirror or assistance. He is dressed in a dirty, undyed linen tunic with rusty chainmail that barely fits his frame, chafing with every motion, solidly made if old and worn-out leather boots and simple trousers tied off with a length of rope. At his hip, tied to a second belt, made of poor quality leather, is a scabbard for a large, well-maintained knife. The chainmail was in such bad condition that the Loranics' quartermaster let Nealan keep it as a favour, but the rest is his own. He also has a cloth sack - cut from an old bag of grain - in which he keeps his other belongings. Firemaking supplies, a day’s rations, a spare shirt, some dried herbs and a small waterskin.”

While I speak, Derek transcribes it onto a mounted tablet that serves as his computer. When we’re both finished he picks up the tablet from its pedestal and reads through what he’s written, muttering under his breath, “Sounds good. Any scars, tattoos or the like? How handsome would you say he is?”

“A number of scars on his arms and legs from the monster attack. None since then thanks to the healers in The Bronze Loranics. They offered to clear up the scar tissue, but he refused. They’re an important part of him now, and he also thinks they make him look rugged. No tattoos or jewellery,” The last question gives me pause for a moment, wondering if I should indulge my vanity, before deciding it doesn’t fit the parameters I’ve already set up, “He’s fairly ok looking, if you’re into battle-scarred teens. Most won’t give him a second glance, but he’ll stick around in their memory a little longer than others. He’s also missing a small piece from the top of his left ear.”

Might as well own what I did to that poor bastard, Andy.

Derek adds the new details, “Much better. Facial hair?”

“None. He wants a beard as proof of his maturity, but taking care of his regular hair has taught him that he’d probably stab himself in the throat if he tried to trim it on his own. He never trusted another merc enough to let them have a blade that close to his neck either.”

Derek nods, “I think that should about cover it for his appearance and demeanour. The other thing I wanted to bring up, now that you’ve essentially completed the character design, was what Traits or Skills he might have acquired. The game’s AI curator will choose or create some based on the information you have given me. By default, this means you get your racial traits and 2 or 3 character traits. I can’t tell you exactly what you’re going to get, but I can guess you’ll be able to start with an apprentice level understanding of herblore, for example.”

He puts the tablet back in its place and drops the stylus into a coffee mug, “Which brings me to the next point, and the reason you’ve signed so many waivers and agreements. In order to accurately portray your character within these parameters, the system will step in to reconcile the differences, to a point. The knowledge and skills you gain should only last as long as you remain in the game, but that was only with short-term testing. For a long-term experience, there’s a good chance some of the changes will stick. You could wake up in a week’s time and suddenly be an expert botanist. So, just remember that when you suddenly know the names of plants you don’t recognise - the system is compensating.”

I shrug, having already accepted the risks involved this morning.

“Seems like a net gain to me. Not going to back out at this point,” I say, perhaps a bit too casually. My nonchalance causes Derek to grimace a little.

“Well, it’s your life,” He sighs, resigned, “That’s basically everything. I’ll send this to Matthew. He’ll check for any problems and submit it to the AI curator for implementation.”

“Fantastic,” I grin, then stand up from my chair and offer Derek a handshake. He nervously accepts, “Thanks for the help, man. I’m looking forward to seeing what shenanigans I get into as Nealan.”

“So am I,” He smiles, letting go, “Someone from security will take you back to your room. You need clearance to use the elevators.”

Because the universe is cruel, I’m greeted by the woman who searched my luggage last night in the corridor outside the Lore team’s office. Despite the late shift she’d been working, she looks spry and alert. Seeing me approach, she folds her arms and smirks, “Heyyy, Mr Spiderman. Last to arrive, first to finish, huh?”

My fists clench involuntarily at the ribbing; I smile wide, swallowing my desire to punch her smug face because I strongly suspect that if I did I’d be eating floor, and I don’t want to ruin my chance to play the game by starting a fight with the staff, “My name is Cyril, not 'Mr Spiderman', and I just want to go back to my room for dinner. So if you'd be so kind as to take me back, I'd appreciate it.”

If my strained voice and stiff posture bother her, she does an admirable job of ignoring it.

“Alright. Friday’s pizza night, y’know? What’s your favourite?” She asks, walking away.

I calm down and play along, “Seafood. I grew up on the coast so we always got the good fish, and I hate how greasy pepperoni makes it.”

“I hear that. I like meat pizzas well enough but some places just use the oiliest sausage they can find. Makes me gag. I just go for the veggie stuffed crust.”

“Eugh. Processed cheese makes me gag,” I retort.

We stop in front of the elevator while she fiddles with her ID, “It’s so bad, and I get that, but I just can’t help myself. It’s like my stomach sees all the roast tomato and spinach and just cries out for garbage to balance it out.”

The elevator doors on the right open, and one of the other testers, escorted by a different member of security, walk out. We exchange nods and move quickly inside before the doors shut. She swipes her card and sets the elevator moving back above ground to the second floor, when it occurs to me that I never bothered to ask her name.

“What’s your name anyway?”

“Jillian McDonnell,” she says, giving me a half-assed salute, “Senior Security Officer.”

“McDonnell? You related to Alexis McDonnell?” I ask, surprised.

“Yup. She’s my cute little sister,” Jillian is all sisterly pride, “You’ve met her then?”

“After a fashion. She was sitting at my table for breakfast and was just behind me in the paperwork. Neither of us are very talkative though, so that’s as far as I can say that I ‘know’ her,” I explain, grunting as the elevator lurches to a stop.

“Yeah, that sounds like Lexy. She’s very shy, but an absolute wizard with a knife,” Jillian snorts.

“Is all your family in security?” I retort, stepping out the lift.

“Nah, she’s a tv chef. If she weren’t so vain she’d eat herself into a coma. Never seen anyone move a knife as well as her though. The boss likes her show, so she got an invite. The fact that she’s my sister just made her background easier to vouch for.”

We arrive at my room, “Actually...if you end up meeting her in the game, could you look out for her for me? You seem like an alright guy. I mean your impulse control is awful, but weirdly honest. I dunno,” she bites her lip.

“No promises. There’s supposed to be virtually no way to tell an NPC and a player apart if the hype is to be believed. We aren’t really allowed to break character either, so I may never know I’ve met another player until I leave the simulation.”

Jillian sighs, throwing her hands up, “Well, shit. I had to try. Between you and me, this whole thing has me uncomfortable. I don’t know what it’s going to do to Lexy, and it’s killing me that I can’t go with her. I mean, I asked, but they can’t replace me on short notice. Best I can do is protect her real body while she’s under.”

Her concern is a little touching, honestly, but the contrast with the relationships I have - or rather, don’t have - in my own life sours my mood further, “Can’t say I sympathise, since I’m going through with it myself. I don’t have any family left close enough to share your trepidation either. This past day just went to show how stagnant my life had gotten.”

She looks at me with eyes full of pity, but decides to respect me by keeping silent, exercising a capacity for tact I was almost certain she lacked. I guess there are lines she isn’t willing to cross.

“I guess this’ll be the last time I see you for a while. Nice meeting you. Ya tactless bitch,” I smirk.

She blinks several times in surprise, then grins wide, “Don’t make me tase you, you cocky bastard.”