As a child, your father would often invite you to the D&D games he used to GM. Sitting around a table with five drunken, rowdy, beardy nerds as they drank and fucked their way through one of your father's campaigns had been one of the highlights of your childhood, and had taught your young mind a whole new dictionary of colourful language and much about female anatomy.
One thing you remember, your dad always had a fondness for taverns. At the closing of each night's adventuring, he would usually endeavor to get the party back to a tavern, and start the group there the next week. That would be the logical place to start looking for him.
You forge towards the largest building from which golden light, heat, and revelry flows, your tall, strong body ploughing through the waist-deep snow with ease. The smell hits you as you step over the threshold - woodsmoke from the roaring log fire, roast pig, dried herbs that haang in massive bunches from the rafters, and first and foremost the sweat of two dozen carousing vikings, who are singing, fighting, and drinking with great frenzy.
Your dad could be any one of them. Since simulations were being started and shut down all the time, the system automatically placed your mother and father's minds in new bodies completely at random whenever they were transferred to a new simulation. He could be any one of the vikings. He could be the scar-faced barkeep watching the rowdy warriors with a wary eye, or the flat-faced tavern wench hurrying too and fro with jugs of ale, having her large, flabby bottom pinched by drunken men. Many of the vikings have collared slaves at their sides, human and animal, huddled up small on the benches, refilling their master's cups, any of which could be him. He could be the flame-haired viking girl dancing on the tabletop, or even the scrawny dog slumbering before the fire.
As you step further inside, your tall, muscle-bound form draws the room's attention. The singing peters out. Many of the vikings halt with horns of ale halfway to their dripping lips, staring at your bronzed body in disbelief. There is no denying the aura of power you emanate - standing before them is either a King or a God. Some begin to pray or clutch at religious trinkets plundered from abbeys.
Clearing your throat awkwardly, you say, "Uhm, hi. Yeah, is there a Mister Kensington here? I'm looking for a Mr Kensington."
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