The Management strongly recommends you read A Tough Guide To Fantasy Land, by Diana Wynne Jones, upon whose wonderful work this fanfic is based.

Adventures in Fantasyland

Presented by The Management

- Calanteli, LuckyShadows & Llandaryn -

o - o ^ o - o

1. The Trouble with Tourists

Rolling onto her back, she sighed with delight. Dropping her dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice onto the blanket, she raised her arms above her head and stretched like a cat. She let the soft sounds of the park waft over her like a gentle caress: children squealing delighted, dogs barking and a couple whispering close-by. Smiling, she immersed herself in the moment. Exams were over, the sun was shining and she had two weeks until she started her summer job. In short, life was perfect.

The perfectness of the moment, however, was suddenly overshadowed by…well, a shadow. She grimaced and slowly opened her eyes to confront whoever was blocking the source of her precious vitamin D. Sunlight was a rare commodity in England and had to be snatched during rare intervals when the obnoxious British weather was not interfering. What she saw made her blink. Twice. Standing over her was what could only be described as…a gnome. Though of course gnomes did not exist so it was either a very small man or a young boy. In any case, he was dressed in wizard's robes and carried an armful of faux-parchments bearing gothic lettering.

"Fantasy tours?" he squeaked hopefully, thrusting one such parchment under her nose.

"Umm…what?"

"Fantasy Tours!" he piped excitedly, flourishing the flyer like a magic wand. "Fully certified sight-seeing adventure excursions complete with quests, adventure and maybe even romance! In addition you will also discover your true destiny and save the world from…"

"…the shadowy grasp of the Dark Lord, yes, I know," she finished in a bored voice. She had ploughed through her fair share of fantasy novels in boarding school. But after reading the same plot line over and over again with the same clichéd characters, she had long ago moved on to more salient novels.

"Oh my, you seem more prepared than most! Most heroes don't realise that the Dark Lord is the chief antagonist until about half-way through their second tour!"

She let that one pass. "What is this thing anyway?" she asked, grabbing the offending flyer that was still being brandished in her face and glancing at it dubiously. "Some sort of new ride at the theme park?"

"Oh, well, yes, there is riding involved, though sometimes you will be forced to walk or maybe even sail! Other times you will even travel by teleportation or maybe even on a magic carpet, depending on which tour you choose."

"I see…" The gnome-wizard person had either blatantly misunderstood or he was one of those overenthusiastic promoters who had managed to brainwash himself with his own marketing.

"So shall I sign you up? We have a tour leaving now! The Starting Point is just around the corner." he chirped, quill and parchment at the ready.

"Umm, I don't know… I mean… I'm sure some people would find it fun, but…"

"Oh, it's lots of fun!"

"…but I'm not sure it's for me." She was not even sure why this guy was trying to sell this…this 'tour' to her. She knew she looked young for her age, but surely she could not be mistaken for a ten-year old! "Plus I'm supposed to meet my friends and…" Did his lips just quiver? And was that a tear rolling down his cheek? Oh my god, is he trying to emotionally blackmail me? Was this seriously how low the industry was willing to stoop to meet sales quotas?

"You get a complimentary mug and a certificate for completing tour…" the little man added whimsically.

"Okay fine!" she snapped a bit more harshly than necessary. She had an hour to waste until she was supposed to meet everyone anyway, and she had finished her book, so this was as good way to spend the time as any. At least so she thought… This better not end up being one of those things where they made you pay extortionate fees and then left you bored out of your mind.

The wizard's eyes brightened instantly. He squealed with delight and clapped his hands excitedly. "I knew you would come! Better hurry, you need to get your outfit and supplies, oh and sign the contract of course!" he blabbered as he began tugging at the leg of her jeans. She gathered up her blanket and book and stuffing them in her bag, followed the annoying man. She definitely had a word or two to say about him to the management.

o ~ o ^ o ~ o

She was literally dragged inside by Gumble, the gnome (for he had proclaimed that he was indeed a gnome and had been forced to take this job after he accidentally blew up half of his gnomish town back in Fantasyland for the fifth time and needed the money in order to pay off the damages and costs of repair the Gnomish Council had dumped on his head). She was not sure she believed him. After all, there was no such thing as 'Fantasyland' - it existed only in authors' imaginations and so the only conclusion left to draw was that this tour promoter was slightly eccentric, with an overactive imagination.

Looking around, she found that she had been manhandled into one of those quintessentially English shops for which the best adjective was 'dingy'. It was also highly lacking in taste. The floorboards were uneven, the ceiling sloped at an angle and the only sources of light was coming from several huge, dripping candles that looked like they had been stolen off of the set of Van Helsing. Well, at least they were trying to create a scenic atmosphere with what small budget they had. She wondered where the ride, or tour, or whatever this was, was located. Maybe you had to walk through a magic wardrobe to get to it, she thought dryly.

"I've got another one!" hollered Gumble, racing up to a sales counter that was being manned by a decidedly ugly receptionist who looked even more decidedly bored out of her mind. At least, she guessed that it was a she…it was hard to tell with the long, greasy green hair and the protruding incisors. Though if the hideous amounts of make-up were anything to go by, then the gender of…the thing was female. At any rate, it was definitely not human. Apparently the management had decreed that all employees must dress up as some sort of fantasy creature and had gone to great lengths to achieve a convincing effect. For some reason, instead of a more appealing elf or plain human, they had chosen to make the receptionist a half-troll or half-orc…she could not decide which it was supposed to be.

The receptionist in question, Maarg (for that was scrawled on the nametag) ignored the gnome as he scuffled around behind her and zoomed out the door a second later with a precarious load of parchment. She concentrated instead on pouring hot wax on the bottom of a piece of faux-parchment. Pressing an elaborately engraved seal onto it, she spat at a slightly confused-looking customer, "Wait for it to dry. Next!"

Realising that she was the next in line, she stepped up to the counter. Maarg looked her up and down with a sceptical expression. Inspecting her nails, she reached under the counter and dumped a staggeringly huge pile of yet more parchment on the greasy wood. "Fill out this paperwork." She then pulled out a bright radioactive green colour polish and muttered something about 'characters lately' before shouting "Next!"

She gaped at the mound. What on earth was this? It couldn't possibly be… yes, it was The Contract. That was clearly etched in blood-red lettering, or at least as clearly as gothic typeface written with an unsteady quill and splattered with ink blobs could be etched. Pulling it towards her, she opened it to the first page.

Dear prospective tourist!

The Management is proud to welcome you on your upcoming tour to Fantasyland! Be assured that we have done our best to make the trip as smooth and seamless as possible, but due to the slightly volatile nature of your destination (whichever you will pick [See pages 3 to 5 on 'Tour Choices']), we must inform you that certain unarranged occurrences may occur, and for these we take no liability [See pages 6 to 173 on 'Limitations and Liability'].

Once you have read through and signed this Contract, you will be asked by the receptionist to fill out The Obligatory Questionnaire, following which you will be assigned your clothing and a bag of gold. After this, the tour will begin. (Please note that the following symptoms may manifest for a short time upon arrival to Fantasyland: slight nausea, headache, disorientation, loss of memory, confusion, bruising, urge to vomit, dryness of throat, and dust inhalation. The Management takes no liability for any of these symptoms.)

We thank you for your interest in Fantasy Tours, and hope you will enjoy your trip!

Compliments,

The Management

She stared at the rest of The Contract sourly. There was no way she could be expected to spend the rest of her life reading this ridiculous document. So, doing what any 21st century consumer would do, she flipped to the last page and signed her name and the date.

As soon as she had done so, the tome was snatched from under her nose by a set of radioactive green nails… actually 'claws' was the more appropriate word. Maarg lobbed the stack easily over her shoulder and it landed with much sliding and fluttering somewhere behind her.

"The Obligatory Questionnaire," the receptionist announced, without much preamble, grabbing a quill that looked like it had seen better days. "Name."

"Arianna Hudson."

"Name on Tour."

"Erm… Can't it be the…"

"No, absolutely not. Use that grey matter of yours and come up with a name by which you will be known on the Tour. And do try to make it interesting. Most people who come in here have no imagination."

She thought for a bit, and then said, "Ari." Short, simple, easy to remember. And definitely better than 'Arianna'. What had possessed her parents to shackle her with such a prissy name, she had no clue. Plus she was not going to come up with some random fantasyesque name just for one hour.

Maarg looked at her and blinked her overdone eyes. "'Ari.' Are you serious? What kind of a name is that for a tour?"

"Hey, that's my name. Can we get this over with?" The customer service in this place was atrocious! She was seriously annoyed with herself for agreeing to this whole…sham, and for that Gumble guy for dragging her into it. She was sure there was some law somewhere stating that coercive commercial practices were against the law. In any case, she was definitely going to fill out a Complaints Form, provided that they even had one in this place…

Maarg shrugged nonchalantly and turned back to the questionnaire. "Race."

You had to be joking… "Human, obviously."

"Age."

"Twenty."

"Class."

"What?"

"Class… Profession… You have a choice of: 'Mercenary', 'Rogue, 'Witch', 'Wizard', 'Warrior', 'Ranger', 'Virgin', or 'Long-Lost Heir'."

"Erm… Ranger, I guess…"

"Level."

"Beginner?" She had tried her hand at archery a few years back at the Medieval Fair in Canterbury, but that was about it. Plus, it was not likely that she was actually going to be expected to kill anything on this ridiculous tour.

"Tour Choice."

"What are the choices?"

"Default, Celtic, Historic or Modern."

"Default, I guess…"

"Sign." She was about to say Sagittarius when she realised that Maarg had thrust the parchment onto the counter and was waiting for her to sign her name. She did so and the receptionist took out the steaming vat of red wax and poured a liberal dose at the bottom. Whacking the seal into it, she said, "Wardrobe is thataway," jerking her thumb in the direction of a badly lit and hazardous looking corridor.

Ari walked towards it hesitantly. Reaching a crudely made sign with sparkly blue lettering declaring 'Roabe Warde', she pushed open the door and stepped inside. She was greeted by a tiny green creature with huge lavender eyes. It blinked at her excitedly.

"Um, what are you supposed to be?" Ari asked. She wondered briefly whether the creature was some sort of CGI illusion, for surely no human could be that small!

"I'm an elf, of course!" it replied with a slight Irish accent.

"You look more like a leprechaun. But without the orange hair. And aren't elves meant to be the fairest of all beings? The 'Elder' race?"

The creature glared at Ari like it was about to kill her.

"I am not a leprechaun! I'm an original elf! Straight from ye olde Celtic and Norse tales. But thanks t' that horrid Tolkien, an' his grand, noble, arrogant elves, who everyone seems to love an' know about, no one cares about my type anymore!" A small tear slid down its cheek. "And so I am now forced to earn a living working here… Forced out of business by a Brit! But enough about that. Welcome to the Roabe Warde!" She spread her tiny arms in what was apparently a majestic way to reveal rows and rows of costume racks.

"You mean wardrobe…"

"Like I said, the Roabe Warde. So," the elf/leprechaun-in-denial said, sizing her up. "A little pixie tells me that yer t' be a ranger. Hmm." She skipped towards a rack and pulled out two sets of clothes, narrowly managing to avoid tipping the whole thing over and burying herself under all the fabric. She held up the choices for inspection. One was a horrible bright pink creation that looked suspiciously a lot like one of those neon-coloured jogging suits worn by Hollywood babes, while the other was a plain brown and green ensemble.

"Would ye like the damsel-in-distress set?" the elf asked hopefully, hefting the pink monstrosity and giving her an encouraging grin. Ari resisted the urge to throw up. "Or the plainboringonet hatfiftyotherpe oplehave?"

"The plain one. Please."

The elf sighed and handed the clothes over. "This costume has been sitting here fer three years now. I'm tempted t' take it home meself." She stroked it lovingly before putting it back on the rack.

"Now for the shoes…" The elf rubbed her chin while intently examining Ari's worn Converse. Then her eyes lit up and she snapped her fingers. "I know!" The next second she was gone, zipping among the shelves and racks. A heartbeat later, she was back with a tatty box. "These will be perfect for you!" she purred, holding out a pair of… canary-yellow '70s platform boots?

"Erm… I really don't think that's my style. Plus I'm not even sure I could walk in those…"

The elf looked dejected and Ari wondered whether she would burst into tears again. But in the next instant her smile was back and she had disappeared among the racks again to return with a pair lace-up, thigh-high, faded crimson-coloured boots. Ari looked at them dubiously. But they were a far cry better than the previous choice, so she took them.

"Go on! Try them on!" twittered the elf, literally bouncing on the spot with excitement.

"Is there a changing room somewhere…?"

"A what?"

"Never mind…" Glancing around, Ari spotted a dim corner partially obscured by a mound of clothing and moved towards it. She changed with some difficult. The hose was a bit too tight for her taste and even after lacing up the mud-coloured shirt, a good portion of her cleavage was still exposed. Sighing, she quickly donned the muted-green jerkin and threw the forest-green cloak over her shoulders. Clinching on the belt with a rusty buckle, she spent the next ten minutes lacing up the obnoxious boots. Once done, she turned around, and found that the elf had wheeled out a floor-length mirror. Taking in her reflection, she was pleased to realise that she looked half-decent.

"Beautiful!" cried the elf, clapping her small hands together. Her eyes were once again rimmed with tears. Recovering quickly, however, she picked up a small bag and shoved it at Ari. "This is your starting pack. In it ye have a small pouch of gold and yer Tour Book, containing all ye ever need t' know 'bout Fantasyland. Once ye arrive, ye can purchase all yer supplies."

"That's fine, I don't think I'll be wanting any souvenirs," mumbled Ari as she was dragged by the wrist to a… no… A wardrobe? Seriously? C.S Lewis must be turning in his grave right about now…

"Oh, and before I forget, ye need t' leave all yer non-Tour stuff here. That includes tela-phoneys, mobile phoneys, wristwatches, pocket-watches, music players, comp-youters, money, make-up, dogs, cats…"

"Okay, I get the point," Ari bit out irately, unfastening her watch and shoving it into her backpack. "You better not lose that!"

"Happy touring!" waved the elf, shutting the wardrobe door and leaving Ari in completely darkness. She could hear the eccentric creature shuffling about, but before she could contemplate what on earth she could be doing, the ground literally dropped out from under her feet and she was falling…falling…falling… In a strange parallel to Alice tumbling down the rabbit-hole. Will the clichés never end? she thought just before she hit the ground with a painful thud and breathed in a mouthful of dust. She became aware that she ached all over, her head was spinning and she fought the urge to throw-up with mixed success.

Her last deliberation before passing out was that she was definitely going to sue the Management once she got out of this mess...

o - o ^ o - o

Slowly, the world phased into view, accompanied by a sort of rocking motion. The darkness began to fade, light began to penetrate vision, and the nausea began to pass. When it did, and when he was sure he wasn't in danger of collapsing again into a gelatinous heap, Daniel Carver pushed himself to his feet. He blinked several times, wondering why his vision was blurry. Then he remembered. He took his glasses out of his pocket, cleaned them with the bottom of his shirt (the front of which said "AC 0", and the back of which said "My THAC0 is 1") and placed them squarely on his nose. The world around him sprang to life, crystal clear and rather... dusty. The town, a hundred yards down what could barely be called a road, had an Old Western look about it. The biggest building, an inn or a tavern, barely avoided being a saloon, and here and there a stray cactus was poking its prickled head as if trying to succinctly grab attention. A large sign was sunk into the ground on a wooden post; he squinted at it, read the single word, and pondered what it might mean. 'HERE', it said. Perhaps it was a shortened name... like Hereford (which he had once heard an American pronounce as 'here ford' - explaining to the chap that it was actually said 'herrafurd, if you were from somewhere north of Hereford, or 'herafud' if you were from somewhere south of Hereford, had taken quite some time).

His attention was quickly drawn away from the town. Fifty paces away from the large sign, just far enough outside the town to obviously not be a part of it, were four long tables, behind each of which sat a suited, bespectacled man. Ah, thought Daniel. The Management. Nobody really knew who The Management were. Most people knew them as ubiquitous, neutral entities (or perhaps simply a ubiquitous, neutral entity that could split itself into many forms) who made The Rules and set various parameters on the various tours. And the tours were varied, and quite many. Only last year, Aunt Bertha had given Daniel a Call of Duty Tour as a birthday gift. He'd had to explain, quite slowly so as not to confuse her, that just because he was a teenage male (he refused to think of himself as a 'boy') did not mean he was interested in guns, the army, or shooting people. He had no desire to give orders, take orders, dismantle bombs, jump from jeeps, escape from submarines, storm castles, rescue prisoners of war, or shoot down enemy airplanes. But his mother had made him do the bloody Tour anyway, just to please Aunt Bertha. The sole saving grace was that Aunt Bertha was a little behind in the times. She'd bought him the Call of Duty 2 Tour, which involved running around with heavy guns shooting Nazis. This was inherently preferable to one of the newer Call of Duty Tours, which he had heard on good authority contained a lot of running with heavy guns shooting zombie terrorists in sixty degree heat and with equipment that failed when periodically exposed to extremes of temperatures, sand, or zombie terrorists. He'd told Aunt Bertha, quite firmly, that he wasn't interested in anything like that. He liked reading Lord of the Rings. He liked playing Diablo and Baldur's Gate. He liked sitting at a table with a group of his nerdy friends rolling dice for hours on end for some purpose other than gambling (which Aunt Bertha was quite fond of). Had he known that this year she would buy him the Fantasy Tour, he wouldn't have mentioned anything. Or maybe he would have told her that he liked Barbie dolls. Surely the Barbie Tour - every twelve year old girl's dream, every sane parent's worst nightmare - was safer than the Fantasy Tour.

A piece of paper was stuck to each table with cellotape, and each one flapped gently in the barely-existent breeze, as if inviting him to read them. And so he did. 'Booke Youre Firste Toure Here' said the sign on the first table, the one with the longest queue in front of it. The people standing in this queue were like him. Teenagers, mostly, still wearing their regular clothes, looking around with gaping, slack-jawed expressions. Beside table number two, however, which bore a sign reading 'Renewe Youre Toure Subscription Here', the crowd was a little different. The people in that queue were dressed in a variety of clothes, from colourful silks to leather jerkins, from Very Little to full plate armour. These people looked weary; their faces were lined with worry-creases, their clothes often mud-stained. This queue was smaller, around half the size of the first. And then there was the third table, bearing a sign that said 'Register Fore Youre Final Toure Here'. This queue had only three people in it. Three people who were practically slumped where they stood, their clothes and armour covered not only in mud but in a rainbow of blood of all different shades of dryness. The fourth table was stranger still. 'Now Hireing Extras and Random Encounters' said the sign, and in front of the table were three elves, a pair of goblins, what looked suspiciously like a mind-flayer, a small group of gargoyles and a unicorn.

There was a pop by his feet, and slowly, Daniel looked down. Right beside his shoe was a small cactus. Three pink flowers adorned its central green stem, and when it... saw?... him looking, it waved one of its arms at him. It was all he could do to not jump back and yell in fright.

"You! Stop right there!" said a man who appeared to have come out of thin air. From his pocket, the man took a small long object which looked rather like a Wii controller. "Put your arms in the air." Daniel immediately threw his arms up, his hands wide open to show he held no weapon. "Not you," said the man, lowering the controller and aiming at the cactus. He pulled the trigger, and the cactus let out a scream as it was enveloped by a mysterious purple light. Then it was gone, leaving not even a hole in the ground where it had been.

"What... er... was that?" asked Daniel, slowly lowering his arm.

"That was a runaway cactus," the man replied. "We've got a leak from the Western Tour. Damned things are popping up all over the place. Have you seen any more cacti around here?"

"Oh, no. Sorry," he said, trying not to let his eyes slide to the stray cacti within the town. The man sighed, holstered his weapon-cum-game-controller, and turned to look at the desks. The men behind them paid him no attention, and he seemed to ignore them too, studying the people in the queues instead. "What did you... um... do to the cactus?"

"I just sent it back to the Western Tour. I doubt it will be foolish enough to try running away again," said the man with a satisfied nod.

"Are you one of The Management?"

"I'm afraid that's classified information."

"Really?"

"No, not really. But I just finished a shift over on the Spy Tour, and that sort of thing sticks with you. Well," he looked around, apparently satisfied no more cacti were lurking near. "You have yourself a good Tour." Then he disappeared right into thin air. With nothing better to do, Daniel joined the queue at the first table. It was one of those nervous, doctors surgery queues, the sort where you knew the person next to you was suffering from something, but you didn't want to ask in case it sparked a long and arduous conversation about illnesses. And just as he had no desire to speak to sick people, he likewise had no desire to speak to the obviously crazy folks who were here by their own choice. Some of them were even bouncing in anticipation, for gods sake! Didn't they know how dangerous Tours could be? He almost died on the Call of Duty Tour last year!

Slowly, the queue began to move forward, and he was struck by something odd. Though the sun was high overhead, and heat-waves were rising from the hard baked ground, he didn't feel hot at all. In fact, the temperature was a pleasant eighteen degrees, just as it had been in Marlborough before he'd left. Back home, local councils were on the verge of implementing a hose-pipe ban.

He must have queued for almost an hour, and when he finally reached the front of the queue, he was greeted by a bald, suit-wearing man, who said "Welcome to Fantasyland, please complete Form HU-U-B, ensuring you have signed and dated the back of the Form at Section 1C. Failure to do so will invalidate your Form and prevent your progression onto the Tour." Then a piece of paper was pushed across the desk at him. He bent down to read the first question.

'Name?' Well, that was easy enough. He picked up the pen, which had probably been pinched from a bank because it was set in a black stand, and the end of it was fastened to the desk by a long silver chain, and wrote 'Daniel Carver'. Then he moved on to the next question. 'Fantasyland Name?'

"It's how you want to be known in Fantasyland," the man said patiently before Daniel could even open his mouth to ask. Obviously, it was a common question.

"Are you one of The Management?" he asked.

"That depends. Do you have a complaint?"

"Would it make a difference?"

"If you don't have a complaint, then yes, I'm one of The Management. If you do have a complaint, then I'm simply a Tour Operator subcontracted by The Management to ensure all of your Tour needs are fulfilled, and would ask that all complaints are submitted in writing to The Management."

"Have you ever done the Fantasy Tour yourself?" he asked, hoping to glean some valuable tips from the man.

"Good heavens, no. I'm an administrator. My job is to inflict as much fun on other people as humanly possible whilst avoiding having any myself."

"And you like doing this?"

"Just fill in the Form, kid, it's a long queue."

He turned his attention back to the form, and realised he hadn't moved past Fantasyland Name? yet, so he wrote 'Daniel The Strange'. He would probably never be Daniel The Bold or Daniel The Wise, and definitely never Daniel The Rich, but Strange was something he could do, so he satisfied himself with that and looked at the next question. Race? Resisting the near-overwhelming urge to write 'No thanks, I have asthma', he instead wrote 'Human'. It was, after all, what he had most experience being, unless you ascribed to his mother's theory that he was a sunlight-hating hermit monster who lived in a squalor of empty beer cans, unclean underwear, decomposing pizza boxes and old computer parts. Personally, he didn't.

Age? He decided on the truth, and scribbled '18'. It was a good age. Old enough to drink and vote, yet young enough to still begin an apprenticeship if he chose. Nobody expected things of an eighteen year old person, other than drinking, gaming and listening to heavy metal. He was dreading the end of his teens, when he would have to deal with Responsibility, and probably even find one of those dreaded Jobs.

Class? said the next question, and he didn't think 'absolutely none whatsoever' would suffice as an answer. But this time he needn't have worried; creative thinking was not required. The form was printed with various check-boxes, with words like Caravan Guard, Bandit, Wizard, Witch, Female Mercenary, Virgin, and Long Lost Heir beside them. Quickly, he ticked the Wizard box. He had absolutely no desire to own a sword, wield a sword, use a sword, or die by the sword. Wizards, at least in the fantasy campaigns he played with his friends, were relatively safe from swords, by virtue of having their own group of warriors between them and the enemy swords.

Level? the next question asked, and again it had check-boxes, with words like Novice, Apprentice, Adept, Master and Grandmaster beside them. He ticked the Novice box, because if somebody in Fantasyland thought him an Adept and expected him to use real magic, he was screwed. Nobody wanted Novices to perform magic, or do much of anything except mope around and get under the feet, which his mother had assured him many times, he was already a Grandmaster at doing. Unfortunately, there seemed no option to be a Grandmaster of Novice, so he'd have to settle with being a plain old Novice.

Now he was at the end of the form, which he signed and dated before handing back to the administrator. The man didn't even look at it.

"Welcome to Fantasyland, Daniel The Strange. Your journey begins Here. Here is your starting gold," a leather pouch was dropped onto the table, and it jingled musically, "and your wizard robes." A pile of purple material with silver stars on it followed, and a pair of leather boots landed upon them. "Please hand over your mobile phone, wrist watch, other valuables or modern technology, and then take your robes and change in the booth." The man waved his hand behind him, and for the first time Daniel noticed a small rectangular structure about the same size as a porta-toilet that one might find at Glastonbury, and he was sure it hadn't been there a moment ago.

"How did you know what I was going to be without even looking at my form?" he asked as his mind tried to catch up to his mouth.

"I knew what you would be from the moment you arrived."

"Then why did you make me fill out the form?"

"So that you couldn't complain you'd had no choice about it. Your mobile phone, wrist watch, and any other valuables or modern technology, please," said the man, patiently holding out his hand.

"Why do you need my things?" he asked as he removed his digital watch and fished around in his pocket for the brick-like Nokia.

"Because the denizens of Fantasyland have never seen anything like this before. Terrible Things could happen if modern technology enters Fantasyland... if it even works at all. Do you have a gun on you?"

"Of course I don't have a gun on me! Why would I carry a gun?"

"Some people do," the man shrugged.

"But what do I do if I need to tell the time within Fantasyland?"

"You may use one of the traditional methods; Sundials are popular these days, as are Egg Timers. Then of course there's the Position Of The Sun In The Sky method, or you could always consult a Magic User or Priest. Priests are especially big on doing rituals at the right times. Now, please proceed to the booth and put on your new robes. Your items will be returned to you upon completion of your Tour. Once properly dressed, you will proceed to the nearby town and purchase your weapon, travelling supplies, horse, and choose a caravan to be assigned to."

"Wait a moment, if you're supplying me with my robe, why can't you give me a weapon and supplies too?"

"We believe that the experience of haggling and bartering for goods builds character and gives a new Tourist the experience they will require later in their tour," said the administrator, and Daniel was left with the strong impression that the man was either an automaton, or a soulless minion of orthodoxy. Possibly both. "One last thing. Here is your Tour book; in it you will find facts and information vital to your Tour in Fantasyland." A small book was deposited onto the pile of robes; the words, in elegant gold hand-script, on its scarlet-red cover said 'A Tough Guide To Fantasyland, by Diana Wynne Jones (Level 10 Bard, Level 8 Sage, Level 3 Female Mercenary)'. Below the title and author name, in small black typeface, was an addendum. 'Heavily Edited By The Management For Your Benefit.'

"Right. Well, thank you," he said, grabbing his new clothes, book and gold and making his way towards the booth. The door opened at his approach and he stepped inside fearing he'd have to dress with his elbows by his side, but instead what he found was a room with almost palatial proportions. There was a long wooden bench on which he could sit and a locker for him to store his old clothes. The room was otherwise quite bare, with no windows and no visible source of lighting.

He stripped down to his underwear then spent half an hour trying to wrestle the robes over his head. They were huge, voluminous things with wide sleeves and a high collar, and had been lined with a layer of purple material to prevent them become translucent if they became wet. How on Earth did women manage to wear dresses like this? No wonder they always got ready in groups of three or more, if it took that many people to get one individual into their clothes.

By the time he'd managed to get the robes over his head, a full-length mirror had obligingly appeared along one wall. He examined his own reflection, and wasn't all that impressed with what he saw. He'd always been skinny, but now, even his skinny body was lost amongst the star-spangled robe, so that he didn't so much look like a wizard novice as he did a disembodied head floating above a purple and silver tent. To his even greater dismay, he found a wide-brimmed, pointed purple hat on the floor by his feet. It must have fallen out of his robes whilst he was wrestling with them. He put it on his head, then looked again at the mirror. Now the disembodied head was wearing a purple traffic cone. It wasn't an attractive look, even for him.

He turned at last to the shoes waiting patiently on the bench. Leather they might be, but they had a pointed toe that curled slightly upwards, and were about three sizes too long for his feet. He was, he suspected, going to spend most of his 'adventure' walking around as if he was constipated. Suddenly, that Call of Duty Tour was looking quite attractive.