His mother had taken him camping once and having to pack down the thick fabric into a shape to fit the leather straps around it reminded him of the pain of having to take down the tent and put up their sleeping bags. She had laughed afterwards and said: "We'll see if we can forget how annoying that was and come again sometime."
They never did.

It was a struggle to figure out how to attach the bedroll to the backpack he hadn't realized he had been using as a pillow. Before he did so, he took a look at the contents, hoping to find some more information, but he only found some salted meat and bread wrapped tightly in waxed cloth, and something which seemed like a medicine kit with bandages and an ointment of some kind which stunk when he opened the cork to smell it.

It felt so strange to just be able to move; to exert himself even a little bit without feeling his body giving up on him again. Still, he could feel the weight of the backpack as he slung it over his shoulders.

He frowned down at his hand, noticing the signet ring he was wearing as he stretched out his arms in front of him. The pull on his shoulders felt too real. A chill came over him as he once again surveyed the cave: The blue-green sea, the sun shining from the opening in the ceiling on his face. He could feel the breeze.

"My Lord? Are you in there? Your mother is worried sick." The voice echoed through the shallow cave as a man squeezed through a narrow passage he hadn't noticed across a small stream which he had been considering how to cross.

The man was in his late forties, early fifties, perhaps. His hair was greying, although it blended nicely with the red which remained. His neatly trimmed beard highlighted a somewhat gaunt face, but his green eyes were bright, albeit serious.

Simon frowned, his hand fiddled with the strap of the backpack, the leather softened by years of use.

"Oh?" He replied, neutral enough and somewhat haughty. It seemed, at least, not unexpected as the man raised an eyebrow back at him.

"Is that all, My Lord? She has been tearing her hair out thinking you must have walked off some cliff."

It felt almost like acting, expect there was no lines to remember. He just had to sound somewhat like Cecil de Louvaine, the younger noble son. Despite not remembering much about the character himself, he figured he could at least pull this off.

Honestly, he was rather relieved he wouldn't have to find the way back to wherever he was supposed to be himself.

"Well, I am sure you can assure her I am safe and sound now, no?"

"I will presume this means you will accompany me back to her Ladyship's presence then." The man replied, his face unmoved from the sardonic expression he'd worn before.

Simon smiled, glad to have successfully played his part during this interaction. It was almost freeing, this play-acting. The worst that would happen would be someone would think Cecil a little odd, and if this was who he thought it was, he did not think he would mind a little eccentricity.

This was surely Anson de Carvaele, a minor lord in service to the Torreal House. He had been one of Simon's favorite characters, and had a much larger part in the novel than the Torreal House itself. He had a long history with the Queen before she had ascended to royalty, having been a footman at the palace before he accomplished a title during her father's wars.

The interface box he had seen before popped up, less intrusively this time. 'YOU HAVE UNLOCKED ANSON de CARVAELE's CHARACTER RECORD' it read, with a small icon showing his face above it.

It stayed in the corner of his vision for only a moment before disappearing.

"Certainly." He replied easily, with a wave of his hand. "Lead the way."

He was sure he could hear Anson's grumbling despite the man's considerable distance as they traced the steps back to Torreal House.