TravelingDreamer
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Chapter 11: Preparing for the Unknown
🕑 Added 2024-05-01 19:02:28 +0000 UTCA quick call to the photography store revealed that they held a three-day workshop on film development and photo printing—both black-and-white and color. Excited, I signed up for the earliest available session and continued my preparations.
A quick online search yielded five pawnshops, two gaming stores, and a flea market. Over the next five days, I made it my mission to visit every single one, starting with a pawnshop that finally lived up to the image I had in my head.
It was small, dimly lit, and cluttered. The air carried a musty blend of dust, aged leather, a trace of mildew, and something less tangible—the scent of time itself. Yes, time had a smell, it smelled old. Narrow aisles wound between shelves packed with an unrelated collection of things—from battered attaches to old amplifiers, from small appliances like blenders and food processors to scuffed musical instruments that had seen better days.
Behind the counter, an older man with a thick white beard smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hello, treasure seeker. Are you here for something special?”
“Gold jewelry.”
He nodded, ducked behind the counter, and reappeared with a tray full of small pieces —earrings, pendants, and, oddly enough, dozens of wedding rings. The sight of all those rings gave me pause. Each one probably had a story, but now they lay there, offered for cash.
"I’ll take the lot," I said, waving at the tray. The shopkeeper’s bushy eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting between amusement and suspicion.
“That’s a lot of rings,” he said, eyeing me.
“I melt them down,” I lied. He didn’t push it.
As I scooped the rings into a bag, one caught my eye—a simple gold band, slightly dented, with tiny engraved initials: M+K, 1987. A pang of sadness washed over me, and before I realized it, my fingers had found my own wedding ring, turning it absently. Noticing the motion, I stopped.
Minutes later, I left with a bag of mismatched gold—earrings, pendants, and an unreasonable number of wedding rings. And this was just the first stop. The next few days were going to be interesting.
The next stop on my list was the gaming store, packed with glass display cases showcasing characters in all shapes and sizes. Some were instantly recognizable—Star Wars, Pixar—but most were a mystery.
A young red-haired guy with glasses sat behind the counter reading a comic book.
“Excuse me,” I said to catch his attention. “Do you have copper coins in stock?”
His eyes lit up with interest. “Why do you need copper coins?” he asked, excited.
I smiled, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. “It’s a present for a kid that collects coins.”
His shoulders slumped, and his smile vanished. What the hell? Why would a kid’s present disappoint him?
He showed me a pouch with copper coins. Judging by its look, I suspected it was the same kind of pouch the Traveler wrote about. I bought the entire stock in the store and did the same in the other gaming store. There, at least the salesperson didn’t ask questions and didn’t get disappointed.
My next stop was the flea market, an all-out assault on my senses and worldview. Shops and stalls overflowed with things I couldn’t imagine anyone buying—or why anyone would bother selling. Old, battered furniture sat in disarray—chairs missing seats or legs, torn mattresses, and wardrobes with half their shelves gone.
A taxidermied squirrel in a top hat stood next to a pile of porcelain dolls. A VHS copy of Titanic sat on top of a stack of ‘90s sitcom box sets, and beside it, a bowl of marbles reflected the light like tiny Christmas lights. And then there were the used shoes—row after row of them, laces knotted together in pairs. I did a double-take. Yes, someone was selling used shoes.
Who buys used shoes?
But there were also many more interesting items. There were stalls with glassware and metalware, some used and some new. The glassware included beautiful pieces that must have come from heirlooms—the craftsmanship was exquisite. Others were selling cutlery sets, and I found a stand offering brand-new linens from the factory in a huge mixed pile. The seller explained they were new but lacked packaging, so they ended up at the flea market.
Stalls overflowed with used and new toys, figurines, second-hand books, vinyl records, and everything in between. Food stalls filled the market, most selling beer and German sausages, filling the air with delicious smells. The various stores blasted loud music, each trying to outdo the other. It was chaotic, loud, and overwhelming, yet somehow charming.
By the end of my shopping spree, my haul included cookware, lots of glassware, linens and blankets, carpets, toys, baskets and chests, giant rolls of cloth, figurines, and a myriad of other items I could buy for cheap and sell where they didn’t have those things.
Each purchase lifted me a little. At first, it wasn’t quite excitement—more like surfacing from a deep well of gloom. I still grieved and missed Sophie like crazy, but getting ready for my journey pushed back the clouds of pain, letting hope in like sun rays. Maybe it didn’t shine directly on me, but at least its warmth reached me. I was doing it. Actually doing it. And that gave me hope, something to latch onto, and a sense of pride in myself.
When I returned to the hotel and checked my Storage after all the shopping, it was a chaotic mess. Looking inside was a strange experience—I didn’t move my head, but my vision shifted, like staring past everything to a distant horizon with an unfocused gaze. I saw the entire space as a general mass, the individual items blurring together. It wasn’t sight with my physical eyes but my mental eyes.
Despite the disorientation, I knew exactly what was inside and where each item was. The duality of seeing and knowing was unsettling at first, but gradually, I adjusted. It wasn’t natural, but it was manageable. The outside world vanished while I looked into my Storage. I could focus on one or the other—never both.
The space was a massive 8x8x8 meter cube, with everything piled at the bottom. I figured things would stack up as I added more. The whole setup clashed with my Earthly sensibilities—the messy piles felt off, and the high ceiling seemed unnatural. The ability description mentioned nothing about reshaping the space, but I tried it anyway.
I tried willing it to change shape—nothing. So I reached out with my mind, tracing the edges of the space until I fully grasped it as a space or object. Then I “pulled” one end while “pressing” on the top. The shift happened entirely through mental intent, not physical force. Slowly, the space stretched and lengthened as its height shrank. It took an incredible amount of concentration. My mental faculties trembled from the strain, and my head pounded, but I didn’t give up until I had a long hall with a 2.5-3 meter high ceiling.
Much better and worth the headache
I went to Ikea to buy some cheap shelving units. When I entered the store, there were so many families and couples that it was hard to navigate, and harder to deal with the noise. I found the shelves in the storage area, all flat-packed and ready to assemble. I also found a barrel—the idea of a barrel full of coins was too cool to pass up. The barrel was massive and sturdy, held together by metal bands, and had a cool rustic vibe that I thought would fit perfectly in a fantasy world.
I organized all my purchases on the shelves, placing the jewelry in a nice pirate chest I found at the flea market. The barrel, nearly overflowing, was perfect for storing the copper coins. Some unexpected finds made it into the collection, like a manual coffee grinder and an old-school ice cream churn, things that wouldn't have even crossed my mind.
The first day of the workshop arrived, and I went to attend. As soon as I walked into the store, the smell of photographic chemicals hit me. I saw a few shelves with vintage cameras and couldn’t help but admire them. A blond clerk with big blue eyes said something in German.
“I don’t speak German,” I said. “I’m here for the workshop.”
She waved me toward the back, where the workshop was being held. I joined a small group gathered around a long table covered with equipment whose purpose I couldn’t guess.
Ansel, a stocky man in his sixties—maybe pushing seventy—with a neatly trimmed gray beard, led the workshop. Despite his age, he radiated energy, his passion for photography evident in every gesture. Before even touching on film development, he launched into an enthusiastic discussion about the art, his thick German accent making some words tricky to follow, but the topic was captivating enough that it hardly mattered.
"Ah, ja, now ve talk about somesing fundamental—ze Law of Thirds," he said. "Never place ze subject in ze middle, nein! Too boring. Imagine a grid—dree parts vertically und horizontally. Your subject should fall along zese lines or intersections. See?" He gestured. "If ze horizon is at ze top dird, it creates balance und draws ze eye to ze most important part."
He explained how composition shaped the photo, including the Golden Ratio, Leading Lines, and other techniques to guide the eye.
"Each type of shot," he said, "tells a different story, ja? You must choose vhat fits ze mood und ze message you vant to convey."
Next, he gave us a general explanation of film development, emphasizing the importance of patience and precision. The theory was fascinating, and then we moved on to the practical stage. He showed us how to load film into the camera in total darkness—it’s much harder than it sounds! At first, I couldn’t do it, but Ansel was patient and guided me until I got it right.
In another section of the space stood a table with a plate of fruits and some pitchers and vases on it. Around the table were some other items.
He gestured toward it. "Zis table—ja, you see? You vill photograph zis exactly as I haf explained. Follow ze rules, ja? Precision is everything!"
When I finished the roll, my red light started blinking. I turned my back to the group and checked it.
You have learned the Skill [Photography]
For a moment, a pang of sadness hit me. If I had discovered this art form earlier, I could have taken so many pictures of Sophie. Her laughter, the way the sun caught her hair, how she looked at me—I could have saved all of it, kept it with me. Now, all I had were memories slipping through my fingers. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes to stop the rears, and returned my attention to the class.
Next, he took us to the darkroom to develop our images. The process was nerve-wracking but fascinating—watching the images appear on the negatives was its own kind of magic.
We moved on to printing, where Ansel explained how the enlarger projected the image onto photographic paper. He had us experiment with exposure times, contrast, and techniques like dodging and burning to add depth. My first prints were rough, but I got the hang of it with practice—and even enjoyed it.
Color film was trickier, requiring precise temperature control, but the results were worth it. By day three, I wasn’t a pro but no longer intimidated. We tested different papers and toning techniques, and Ansel pushed us to think beyond just capturing images—using photography to tell stories.
By the end of the workshop, I felt like I’d learned a lot about the technical side of photography and developed a deeper appreciation for the art form. And the best part?
You have learned the Skill [Develop Negative]
You have learned the Skill [Print Photograph]
After the workshop, I went on a bit of a shopping spree, clearing out their entire stock—chemicals, photography paper, film, and everything needed for wet printing. The staff tried to talk me out of it, warning me about expiration dates, but I wasn’t worried. My Storage would keep everything fresh for years. Hanna (according to her name tag), a young woman with a pixie cut, looked especially concerned, her brows knitting as she rang up the total. Beside her, an older man with a ponytail and glasses watched but didn’t comment.
“Are you sure you need all this? These chemicals won’t last forever,” she said.
I just smiled. “I’m sure.”
She didn’t look convinced but didn’t push it.
I also searched for more cameras like mine, which turned out to be more challenging than expected. Most vintage cameras I found could work without a battery but had the option for one, which I wasn’t too sure about. My phone had died in the first Gate, and I didn’t want the cameras to fail, too. But I found five that worked. The cameras were beautiful, each one with its quirks and features. I hit up other photography stores and bought all their chemicals, paper, and film, plus another three sets of equipment. At one store, I even found a portable darkroom tent—a compact, lightweight setup perfect for developing photos outside.
The tent got me thinking about camping gear. Practicalities had to be considered—where would I sleep? How would I cook? What kind of clothes would I need? Thinking through these details made my future journey feel more solid, more real.
The first outdoor store I visited was an adventurer’s dream—a massive warehouse packed with gear. They had tents in all sizes for any weather, with or without canopies. I bought several—a small, lightweight tent for quick setup, a larger one for extended stays, and a massive glamping tent. At first, I wasn’t sure about that one. Why would I need this monstrosity? But then I told myself, You have the space and money. Live a little. The thought was almost foreign. For so long, I’d been drowning in pain, from Sophie’s illness to her death. The idea of living again felt inconceivable. Still, I made myself do it. I had to.
I picked up fire starter kits with flint and steel, waterproof matches, and a compact, folding stove that used coals. Next up were hammocks and mattresses. I found a double-sized hammock made of durable, weather-resistant fabric and a self-inflating mattress that promised a good night’s sleep even on rocky ground. Lightweight pots, pans, and various utensils entered my Storage. The store also had all kinds of gadgets for showering in the wild. Folding chairs and tables were another great find, making it easy to set up a comfortable campsite. Buying all those everyday necessities kept me grounded and pulled me back whenever my thoughts started drifting to places I didn’t want to go
Backpacks were a must. I found a rugged leather one with an Indiana Jones vibe—something that wouldn’t look out of place in a fantasy world or on Earth. I bought five, figuring I’d still want to carry a backpack even with my Storage. Every adventurer needed one, and it would look less suspicious.
I also checked out touring bikes, picked a model, and bought five with plenty of spare parts to keep them in good shape. The bikes were sleek and sturdy, built for long-distance travel over rough terrain. I picked up spare tires, chains, and a comprehensive toolkit to make sure I could keep them running smoothly on the road.
The seller insisted I needed a bike trailer to carry all the gear. At first, I dismissed it—Storage made it unnecessary. After some thought, I did buy one. Sometimes, a secluded spot to store things wouldn’t be an option, and a trailer might solve that problem.
The store carried a wide variety of clothing—shoes, hats, vests, jackets, socks, and more. I picked up a few pairs of durable hiking boots, some moisture-wicking shirts and pants, a weather-resistant coat, and a wide-brimmed hat for sun protection. I also stocked up on warm socks and thermal underwear for colder climates.
After the insurance cleared, I had over $350K in my account. Knowing I wasn’t coming back, I went all out and bought multiples of almost everything. My account balance took a hit, and my Storage was almost full.
I need more Storage space and more ability points.
Two days before my flight home, I checked the other Gate to see where it led. I drove there and stopped at three more pawn shops and a gaming store on the way. The pawn shops yielded more jewelry, and the gaming store more copper coins. Almost all the pawn shops had musical instruments, so I bought a guitar—or three—and extra strings, just in case. The guitars were a mix of styles: two different classical acoustic guitars and a steel-string acoustic. I noticed skills for playing instruments—again, I needed more ability points.
For a brief moment, the thought of actually learning to play the guitar crossed my mind instead of just buying the skill. But then I remembered the frustrating piano lessons a foster parent once forced on me. That was enough to shut the idea down.
When I got to the Gate, I checked the destination:
Travelers Gate #468217258
Destination: Shimoor
Status: Integrated
Mana level: 17
Threat level: Very low.
That was unexpected. I’d assumed it would lead somewhere else, but even the Gate number was consecutive. Raising the binoculars, I scanned the area—no houses, no smoke, no signs of people. Just mountains, dense trees, and a river snaking through the valley below. I paced the mountaintop, searching for a way down. The slope wasn’t a sheer drop, but it was steep, littered with jagged boulders and loose rock. Climbing gear might be necessary, just in case, though my plan was still to cross over near Frankfurt. Or maybe one of the other Gates I planned to visit for leveling would also lead to Shimoor.
A few test shots with the camera confirmed it worked, and I hoped the pictures would come out. Satisfied, I drove to the rental agency, returned the car, and headed to the airport. It was time to go home and handle my affairs.
