The Road of Hero's Transition (S:ARG - The Wandering Swordsman)

[Shon Harris]

The Pilgrim lowered his head and felt his legs tense. Though his height likely fluctuated little, he was ready to dodge. When it became clear the half-ling had merely climbed the dark one's shoulder for vantage of the smoke, the concern melted away. He continued forward until the spear-man allowed his weapon to lower ever so slightly. No issued threats or warnings of proximity, just a movement. A man of peace, he inferred, yet not a pacifist. Respectable.

"What brings you from the tundras adjoining the great Northern desert to the steppes, stranger?" the spear-man asked as the Pilgrim paused, two arm's length from the blade's tip.

His mind jumped to the satchel though his eyes did not betray him. These were but other pedestrians on a long, winding road. Though he preferred to avoid deceit, too many felt the sway of greed. Weak spirits would not deprive him this success. Sifu worked hard and deserved better than the failure of a pupil due to a loose tongue. The Pilgrim furrowed his brow. He felt his left hand again fingering the beads of his mala. In the quiet of his mind there was a question: does he know? From the look of his robes the man was well traveled. There was a chance it'd been long enough that word simply never made it this far south. Besides, despite the lack of heavy interaction between their regions, the cultures always empathized with one another on some level. This man deserved word involving his homeland. If the Pilgrim could not be transparent about his journey, he could at least offer something.

Bowing his head in respect, the Pilgrim responded in a calm, tranquil voiced, "Neighbor of the North, I too am taking this road in search of satisfaction. You see my satchel, indeed it is not much, but for a pilgrim it is enough. I am treated only to what the world may offer, your people might share that proverb. If I may, you look as if you've been far from your homeland a while. You may remember the mountain tribes south of your people, overlooking the tundra and desert alike. We dedicate our lives to seeking balance there. We are peaceful, but capable."

The Pilgrim pursed his lips a bit. His voice had twisted the word, distorting it. Too close to pride, and for violence no less. Looking to the smoke, he issued his warning, "At the foot of the mountains there was smoke. A war-band, imperials forging north. My people deflected them in hopes of protecting our land. And yours. This was a few nights ago. The threat remains."

Heart lightened, the Pilgrim's attention refocused onto the smoke. The expression on his face mirrored the questions shooting through his mind. He wondered if he was the only one feeling obligated to investigate. If the others here might join him. Normally fear did not hinder him, but something about that fog was oddly unsettling. Would fear stop him from offering aid?

"How can we stand idle as flames blaze on there? Fellow travelers, would you set aside our mysteries to offer a hand by my side?" the pilgrim asked in a voice that surprised him. He flashed an anxious smile, humbled by his memory of his master's confidence.

[Nemaisare]

“Thankee, sir.”

Tired as he was, the continued help the man offered him suited Isha well. His pride berated him for being stuck in this mess to begin with, but it did not say he must refuse the offer. Indeed, he was far too aware of his circumstances for that. Refuse and he might well insult the man who’d helped him. Not to mention lose a chance at an easy transport. Notably absent then, was his disgruntled mien and preference for idle insults. He could be polite when he wished to be, and this one had certainly earned his respect, even if Isha couldn’t help thinking he still looked a little like a beetle, but perhaps that was a good thing. So long as he didn’t turn into the aggressive sort.

The miskin had never been so near to a human before, certainly, not in contact with one. It was generally frowned upon, save in dire situations, to ask for or offer aid to a human if they could see you. For the safety of all the little races, though he did have kin who lived in their houses, and he’d spent some time in a barn. Cohabitation, however, was usually made easier when one did not know the other existed. Still, he had to admit that he had been in dire straits, and while this one was amazed, the others seemed less so, or more interested in other aspects of their surroundings. He could live with that, if the alternative was not living at all.

Once on his feet, and he couldn’t help noticing how the hand held out to him would have fit his whole length neatly laying down, he made his own way to the harder mud of the road. Its surface already drained of most of the dangerous wet. He was a little unsteady getting over a few stones, and narrowly avoided tripping on an arched blade of grass, but it did not take him long at all to gain the relatively flat surface he’d been heading towards. There had not been much in his path besides the mud, and he’d gone around that. By which time his arm had gone from sleeping to tingling as though he’d nicked it on a thistle. It felt raw and his fingers thick; they didn’t want to bend when he asked them to. But they did, he was watching to make sure. And soon enough the tingling got worse, itchy and swollen and uncomfortable.

Isha shook it out, thinking perhaps to climb the cloak, but his plans were interrupted by a large piece of white flaring into his vision. He’d been staring too intently at his hand… Unused to company, most especially company that didn’t fit into his immediate view, as he was. He frowned at the thing being offered, and then realised that he was hardly a welcome rider, being covered in mud as he was. And this cloth was a worn bit of linen, like he’d seen women use to clean their children’s faces. It might have covered him handily if he slit a hole through the middle and pulled it on over his head, but as it was not being discarded, merely handed to him, he refrained from any such act. Although, as he accepted it and rubbed the slime from his face and out of his hair, he couldn’t help feeling rather mournful about dirtying the simple whiteness. Well, he supposed, at least it didn’t seem to be completely new, just clean. And soon enough, he’d fix that too.

After a quick blotting of hair, face, hands and feet, he also wiped at his clothes, a simple vest and trousers, as best he could and then handed it back and was happily settled on a shoulder. “Give me your blindside, beetle, I would be useful, at the least.”He’d noticed the pale eye while they were staring at each other, it had been hard to miss, and once his new friend complied, he clung on to one of the charms hanging from the man’s turban and gave the surrounding area a good sightseeing. It felt like he was sitting on the branch of some breathing tree, he was so high up and steady. Continuing to listen to the conversation with only half an ear, he paid more attention to the other sounds around them, sniffing the air too, and squinting to see as far as he could ahead. The smoke was drifting in, he could catch a small bit in each breath now that he was higher. But it was the silence that surprised him. He’d not even noticed it before, too focused on winning free of his entrapment.

“Here now, beetle, catch yon north man ‘fore he does a foolish thing.” Rushing towards fire should always be considered foolish, even if one did so with the intention of offering aid. Isha spoke low and for Arlyne’s ears alone, preferring not to strain his throat too much. “Smoke’s too black t’just be wood burnin’. And the world’s gone quiet. S’a bad fire as manages that. Won’t do t’be rushing in nowhere. But I say we look closer. En’t no fog should be standin’ up to this sun.”

[Closetmonster]

As the small man finished his clean-up, Arly found himself faced with the legistics of lifting a living, breathing man no more than the height of his own hand onto his body. He'd assumed at first that the small rider would find his own way up, but with the tatters and folds, to do so would take some practice and they had neither time, nor the relationship to warrant something so personal as a clambering up his body. The pair finalized the deal with a somewhat hazardous, to Arly's mind, trip via hand, while the small man clutched the cuff of his fingerless glove. The little man seemed no worse for wear, already demanding placement based on what he thought to be best for them both.

It had been many years since the explosion which had taken his eyesight from him, but Arlyne had adapted rather well at seeing only from one eye. Then again, he had a guard of a sort for that, and when his blades were drawn, he might as well have had two good eyes instead of one. Still, to have someone take charge of such a thing, seeing for him, was a novelty he thought he could afford. No doubt Marie's ghost would continue in her guard, but perhaps, with the inclusion of such a fascinating creature, his attention would make up for her divided one. Even as the man settled, she had curled, small and dainty herself, against the ruff of fox fur at Arlyne's shoulders, and Arlyne could hear her cooing in misty delight.

As they stood, Arlyne turned to look out at the smoke the others had been discussing. The mist, perhaps the lingering effects of the Northerner's passing adversary, coalesced further from them into a dank, brownish pall. Now that Arly knew what it was he looked at, he could see it plainly.

“War bands are something of a trial to face,” he said slowly, paused beside the other two men, who also looked out toward it. “Perhaps we ought to approach it by circular means. If any knows the lands, he might direct us. I'd be wary of approaching so quickly along the road.”

The small man on his shoulder no doubt can be seen quite plainly up against all of the black, even though he is secure enough with the folds all about to hold onto as well as the thick padding on Arlyne's shoulders and cloak caught at his throat. Still, Arlyne, with some hesitation decided that if he were to be a larger mouth for such a smaller one, he had best begin sooner rather than later.

A frown dipped over his eyes and he winced. “Our companion believes that it would do us well to look closer as well. Though he advises caution.” He glanced at the newcomer, taking time to finally meet eyes and then, offered a hand. “Arlyne Brennan. I travel from the east, but am at your service if you wish it on this venture.” He worried little about his own path, for the Other would not attack so readily when he was in the company of seasoned fighters as no doubt these men were.

“What if,” he considered the terrain before them, “We two take the north side of the road and you both take the south. We can meet at the far side of the fires and make our decisions as to what must be done then?” Seasoned fighters or no, they were still three and some change, against whatever unknown force had set fire to the world ahead.

[Terminal]

"While the sight of burnt and ruin homesteads is indeed tragic, I will remind you, Arlyne, that there are other equally if not moreso important matters to attend to." He Who Lies spoke, gesturing to the receding storm in the distance with his spear. "It is only right that we at least investigate, but whatever our decision, we must not tarry in these lands for any longer than is necessary." From what very little he knew of his erstwhile companion's brother, it did not seem unlikely to him that perhaps a burning village was the work of his foul sorcery. If it were a deliberate machination for the purpose of slowing their pursuit, there was no sense in allowing it to succeed.

He wasn't sure how he felt about the notion of splitting up - tactically sound, as if there was a war band or raiding party up ahead it would make the three (and some change) of them harder to detect, and also split up the enemy forces if both parties were spotted. Tactically unsound, in that Arlyne had apparently decided that they should both pair up with complete strangers - and while the dark-clothed man may have been willing to trust the two, He Who Lies was not. Their partners would not know the capabilities of the other, would not know their motivations or concerns, or what to expect in terms of fair treatment. No, it was far too much of a messy arrangement. And, of course, while distant the horror was still relatively nearby as well. If they were betrayed by these two, and if they were then set upon by soldiers, it may have been just enough to divert the beast's attention back upon them, rather than Arlyne's brother. And unlike him, the creature would not hesitate to attack all of them at once - most likely, when they were already half-dead or worse from fighting and running from Imperial steel.

Not to say that was the most likely of outcomes. Any number of terrible things could occur, and while they may have not been so terrible in and of themselves, it would still end in the same thing: They became distracted, the Other and the Horror escaped. And He Who Lies knew this would be far from the only sign of smoke in the sky they would see on their journey. If they stopped for this one, they would then have to stop for the next, and the one after that...

But the Pilgrim's words touched him as well. That the Empire was pushing North had never been something people had expected. There was nothing up there save for snow, cold, and ancient barrows from the previous age. Nothing but death, unless you had lived there your whole life and happened to be used to it. The Empire never went anywhere that held no interest to it, so what exactly did it see in the Great Northern Desert? Such a campaign, even for its mighty armies, would be a difficult and long one. Perhaps, given that his own homeland was endangered, and he would certainly have rushed to its aid if given the chance, they should lend aid where needed elsewhere? What did it say of their character otherwise?

...Except that he had left such concerns behind the very day he had earned his name. His penance would have him be unfettered in nature, and so he was. He would worry about his Homeland later, if ever - if the Empire wanted to entrench themselves in a senseless, uphill battle, let them. He was not going to walk uphill to senselessly battle the troubles and woes of others while the Horror still walked the lands.

"And while I am not against the notion of splitting up, you and I should take the North Road while these two take the South. Not to offend, but we have only just met them, and I have been fooled by those I have trusted before." He also saw little point in working too closely with people who they would inevitably be parting ways with soon. He doubted the Miskin's little oath would last beyond the week, and the Pilgrim would likely be heading elsewhere in due course.

[Shon Harris]

"So be it," the Pilgrim conceded, eying the small one. Naive, he preferred to accompany the Northerner. He knew nothing of the man, but even vaguely similar backgrounds meant a bit of home. So be it, he repeated to himself.

Splitting up was the thought of a tactician. A thing to suggest when one lived as predator rather than prey. And so he noted, the Pilgrim, paying a nod to the man while approaching and offering his arm to the one upon his shoulder. They did not seem longtime companions. The little still shook on his heels, balancing on the sway of his 'giant' vehicle. Were such traveling mates so common? A Northerner, a little one, and the walking reaper of mens' souls? He questioned the safety in this group. Despite these thoughts, his offered shoulder remained out and flattened to make due for a road. Would this man he welcomed atop his shoulder reveal a tiny, poison tongued blade from their coat, a peculiar assassin laying sorrow upon any who would pass by, maybe for money, possibly to instil an intimidation upon others he was denied so long? Such a strange thought. The Pilgrim cleaned his mind with little footsteps making their way from his elbow toward his lowered head. Man Pass. A bridge from one realm to the next -- in how many ways? Too intricate a thought for a task so simple. His lips tightened as he straightened his back.

Beginning toward the smoke in a distance, he turned the little one and said, "Feel free to use my lapel. I do hope your eyes are sharp."

The Pilgrim began toward south border of the burning village. He glanced to the image refining before him and his new companion. Though the obscurity waned and the buildings came into view, a sense of discomfort remained upon the Pilgrim. He could see hazy figures crowded amongst each other, the largest fire seemed to be from the north side of the village. Fires released a sporadic bursts of smoke as if to further diminish his view. He hunched low amidst a fat tree some distance from the village. Allowing himself to phase into this habitat, the Pilgrim looked to the others to the north. He awaited some signal of their next move. Something to order, ask, or simply play off of.

[Nemaisare]

It was a poor miskin who suffered from fear of heights. When you were hardly taller than the average tree root, there was very little to be done that did not require some climbing. True, tunnels offered far less problems to the vertically challenged when it came to climbing and running about, but they also offered a far more limited means of living; in both options related to locomotion and food. Far be it for Isha to deny that he liked a good, secure little crack in a stone wall to keep him protected from such things as floods, predators and bad weather. And he’d used tunnels more than once in his few travels to get along faster. But he had no qualms with reaching heights as high as his arms could carry him. Light as he was, his only usual worries in the upper boughs of a tree were wind and awkward footing. He’d found means of circumventing both, in his time. Although squirrels and curious birds had caused trouble, once or twice. So it wasn’t so much the height that bothered him when he stepped into the stranger’s hand and was lifted up a fair ways as it was the very simple fact that he had no control over the ascent.

Needless to say, he clung with extra care to the fabric he could reach, smooth though it was. And worried not at all that he left a tracery of fine red veins from his bad hand on the cuff of that glove when he hopped from hand to shoulder. He didn’t even notice, the arm still tingled too distractingly for him to pay attention to such things as damaged nerve endings. And besides, he had a conversation to take part in. Opinions to offer and the like. So, he transferred his grip to a bit of fur that warmed rapidly with his touch and settled into a cross-legged position so that he might lean back against a wrinkle in the cloth and rest his bad hand in his lap. He could still see the world around them well enough, but his recent ordeals had tired him out, as the man he now rode had noticed. It was an inescapable twist of fate then, that the dilemma they now faced would present a solution to him he did not wish to contemplate.

Isha did not, however, wish to leave this fire behind without discovering its source. Nor would he advocate simply walking by, for the very same fear of what had caused it. Also, to learn if it had an anchor, or if a spark might endanger their own route, wherever it might be that they were headed. And as he considered these things, it occurred to him that this may not be the most dangerous thing his new companions would face today. Not if this talk of warbands and threats and more important matters was anything to go off of. He was grateful this Arlyne fellow he was sitting on had passed along his notions, but wasn’t certain he agreed with his assessment of their next best move. Splitting up was a good idea. It meant more ground could be covered and more facts discovered. And he quite liked the idea of being able to stay right where he was sat, just now.

Unfortunately, it also meant they had twice the chance of being found out, or of losing someone to the smoke, or fog or whatever it was causing the two. Isha was not unaware of magical presences in the world. Unnatural fog did not immediately mean danger, but it did mean something was about. And when it was combined with smoke, he figured it was best they use every method of caution at their disposal to avoid trouble. The hefty Northerner’s alternative to splitting up was to split up the other way. And that meant Isha would have to move. He scowled at the dirty fog in the distance, wondering if it had come any closer as they spoke, and thinking that fate was conspiring against him in this one. He was going to have to move anyway if he offered up his own suggestion and they took to it. He also did not like being told he was not trusted.

Oh, he could understand it, but it still stung his pride, and he bit his tongue to keep from starting an argument then and there. Words were worthless if you wasted them on unimportant matters. Telling someone who had already said they did not mean to offend that you were offended was pointless. And what he was about to propose, in lieu of splitting into parties of two, would be taken far better if he didn’t raise any issues of trust over the matter of, well, trusting people. Fate again… She could be a bother, she could. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke up. Again leaving it up to his transport to share his words. While it was not a great deal of effort to raise it and still be clear, it did strain his throat, and he was tired. He also wished to diplomatically avoid addressing the man who did not trust him.

“Sound thoughts, Arlyne, though I’d argue them had we th’time. But...” And here was the part he did not like. His reasoning, he felt, was sound enough to win any argument they might make. Well, most arguments… A hand held out to him and the determination of three big men was, perhaps, one of those that would not be swayed. He sighed and let it rest, for the moment. He was reluctant to leave the shoulder he’d already settled on, but as he had that choice or speak up and delay further, he felt he owed it to the people whose travels he’d interrupted to delay no more than was necessary. He hauled himself up again, with some labour, and began the short trek. “Keep well, beetle.”

The short trip across the bridge of a man’s arm was both the strangest, and among the easiest he had ever made. Despite his fatigue, Isha was beginning to feel better and eagerly supposed that as soon as his arm stopped tingling he’d feel much better. The arm moved not at all beneath him save for the faintest of tremors, it was as sturdy as any low tree limb he'd ever walked, and he was soon settled atop a different shoulder. He hoped they would not make a habit of this, for now, however, he preferred not having to keep up with them from the ground. With a mind for caution, he tucked himself beneath the man’s coat collar. “Thankee, sir. I am called Isha, and I hope they serve us as well as need be.”

He waited out the ride until they made the tree, his attention divided as much between the approaching buildings as with their new travelling companions. He was not so much worried they would give them up as the other Northerner had claimed, as that they would give themselves away. But no trouble came, even as the fog thinned a little and he could make out stilted log houses. Strangely, the village or town they came across seemed rather unperturbed by the fires. Either they were too far still to hear any shouting or they weren’t as bad as they looked. But a fire could only go on so long, as this one was still big enough… Had they just realised it was hopeless? Isha winced at the thought, dearly hoping it wasn’t. Any loss of a home from fire was a horrible thing. But he still felt a distant foreboding that something – not just the fires – was very wrong.

“Seems not a one knows the land round’bout, but I say truth when I tell ye I know th’land best.” His small features twisted with amusement for a moment, despite the circumstances. He was, after all, the closest to the land among the four of them. He’d have the advantage in already being hard to see. The smoke could affect him less so long as he kept out of any closed in spaces – given its tendency to rise, he could often walk tall beneath its influence. So he spoke up now as his transport hesitated, fully aware that this was both a good and horrible idea.

“Stand well clear and keep patient, aye, and I’ll find you.” He knew there were problems with what he proposed. But he believed that if he went scouting alone, he would be able to find out the same as they could together, with far less risk. Just so long as he was found by no enterprising cat. It only remained to be seen if he’d caught his second wind. He thought he might see if there was any extra trouble beyond those flames, and if it needed doing something about, then he would lead the three big folks in to do the doing once they’d met up on the other side. But best they minimise the risk before they knew it was needed. “Take me time, aye, but I’ll be by fore th’sun tires a lookin’t’ye that angle.” If it can even see ye ‘neath th’fog.

So saying, he flexed the fingers of his bad hand and then began a fast, but relatively controlled descent. First to the satchel and thence down the edge of the robe-ish thing the fellow wore. Isha dropped the last foot to land with a rolling grunt and set off with hardly a pause. That hadn’t gone as poorly as he’d expected, but his hand had started to hurt halfway down. He grimaced and shook his head, tucking the injured fingers up beneath an armpit as he ran. He was hoping to make it out of sight before the man decided to call him back. If he did. Then he might not need to pause to argue advantage over disadvantage.

[Closetmonster]

The Northerner had a great deal of mistrust of the world, Arlyne had discovered over their short acquaintance. Had Arlyne not been in a position of needing such great aid, he had little doubt that the Northerner would have had little cause for traveling together. That first night, it was highly probable that the man had done little sleeping, even as Arlyne's exhaustion had forced him to rid himself completely of all natural uncertainties. He had, he was ashamed to think on it, slept like a babe in the presence of a complete stranger.

Being with someone so recalcitrant and thick skinned, as well as battled hardened and wary, had freed something in Arlyne for the time being. In habit, not a talkative man, nor one who was apt to take to anyone, without a task, he'd found himself instantly taken up with a miniature man and another deadly looking north man. However, just as quickly, he'd found that the party had split and each portion of the party was moving forward towards the difficulty.

The north road was little more than a wagon track, but the two men traversed it in silence. All about, hung a thickened pall of what might have been smoke if only it had smelled of pine or hearth. Instead, it scented sickly and off, as if it were burning down what should not be burned. There was something disingenuous about the whole affair, as if the smoke were contrived for the curious. The fact alone incited Arlyne to remain hunched over, his twin blades in their respective scabbards, but at the ready for he'd reached down before they parted company and had thumbed the leather straps hooked sidelong against the handles. The action was less to keep the long, curving blades in their sheaths and more to ensure they could not be drawn without forethought. Lack of intentionality had been the very cause for Arlyne's journey beginning. He had no desire to exacerbate the troubles already found in his life.

Thoughts of his past were unproductive, however, and he narrowed his eyes as he began to not look so much at the village, leaving that for the Northerner to do, but kept a close eye on the thick stand of trees just north of the village. The forest had crawled down between two large tracts of farmland and the misted smoke had curled cat-content at the edge of the forest lands. There, it swirled thick and pale, hiding anything which might choose to use the forest to hide in.

As they came to a small hedge, he turned his head from the forest and cased the village along with his companion. Across the way, he could see as the caftaned north man hunched down and was in conversation with the small creature. The village sat froglike and had places aplenty that they could climb under and get closer to the figures which were ghostly in the strangely curling smokes. With a slight frown, he held back from crawling under the nearest building to get nearer. At his side, the ghost under his ear began to hiss in worry.

Without a word, he drew a small sigil in the earth at his feet, the ground misted and wet. It was merely a Questioning, brought on by the sense of unease in his gut. The question being so broad, he wasn't sure he'd even get back any information beyond a 'Yes, there is mist there and smoke and people, strange huh?' Not seeing any great weapons being thrown about nor people screaming and running about, he wasn't altogether sure what it was happening before them. Even a little Questioning could perhaps have some purpose.

[Terminal]

The Northerner had a great deal of mistrust of the world - it came with the territory, in a manner of speaking. The large Northern man still clearly remembered the night he had found Arlyne, struggling to free himself from a pit of heavy snow. The horror had been very close, then - very close. But it had clashed with the Northerner before, and put off hunting him like a man might savor a glass of fine wine. The cold gears of the spearman's mind had churned quickly then, devising a plan to guide, trap and ultimately slay the beast with the assistance of both Arlyne and his murderous brother. He remembered having sat in a lean-to of petrified wood, the dark-garbed stranger sleeping deeply as the storm raged outside. He remembered having chiseled a small wooden effigy of his newfound apparent partner, which remained still in the pack he carried for later use.

The plan, naturally, had gone awry almost immediately. Forced to travel as he was, He Who Lies had to admit that Arlyne's silence was refreshing. It made things less complicated. The two strangers, the pilgrim and the miskin, had spoken more to them in the past few moments than he and Arlyne had uttered in days. And in that short space of time, they had complicated their situation greatly. Annoyances. He would have to pray that they got lost in the mist and were never seen again. And of the mist, the Northerner was much concerned - exemplifying the great danger of insufficient communication, he had expected Arlyne to survey the village, and so he in turn kept his eyes turned to the fog and the forest. There, was familiar ground - he was used to forested terrain where one could not see a foot in front of themselves, a situation he often found himself in back in the Great Northern Desert where the snow fell so fiercely it may as well have been that the heavens collapsed. But, as comforting as the familiar scene was, it also reminded him that his foray beyond the cold wastes of the North had rusted his guard. In a blizzard, you either paid close attention to the slightest of changes or you died. Out here in warmer, open lands where his view was unobstructed for miles, where he could see from one horizon to the other...His guard had not been as firm as it should have.

Arlyne muttered something from besides him, and He Who Lies glanced down - the dark man had drawn the outline of a shape on the ground. Sorcery of some form...? He glanced up at the village across from their modest cover. Ghostly figures dwelt within the fog that engulfed the low and graceful wooden buildings. The mist itself was curled, and unnatural - and now that he was paying attention, the same seemed to be true of the fog that whorled about in the forest behind them. The thought he had prior, seeing it as obvious, leapt to mind - and the Northerner was forced to voice the query aloud.

"This whole affair seems rather ominous. Might it be possible that your brother bewitched this place and the people therein, that it might slow us in our pursuit?" Regardless of Arlyne's answer, He Who Lies immediately began to think of a good reason as to why they might leave the place well enough alone. He would be damned if he had to set foot in the place when so much was at stake ahead of them, and he didn't want to reveal his hand by making use of his talismans to force Arlyne's compliance so early. That would come later.

[Shon Harris]

"Isha," the Pilgrim whispered to himself. By the now the little man was running what must seem to him a forest. An ill forest, he realized, observing fresh grass slump, yellow, and whither nearer to the village. He sensed an energy further up the road, nothing like what he saw though. The energy felt alive. Whatever lingered in the fog was something else -- something dark.

A shadow dashed through the field between him and the village. It cut a path where he presumed Isha might be. His eyes caught up to the thing, but as he took in the dark figure its edges blurred and it burst. Like dust blown into fog. Fear caught his breath and held it low in his chest. Not the sort of fear which stayed men's feet when one larger boasted threats, but the sort that flared up when men saw another in danger. The Pilgrim felt this building as he imagined Isha snatched up by the clouded figure. Though he only just met the fellow, could he let one who so trustingly offer their name be taken? If he did the weight of regret would attach to his spirit. Sifu would sense it as well. He would not disappoint them.

Hand rested upon the hilt of his sheathed blade, the Pilgrim dashed into the misty fog. Silhouettes and distant voices carrying on the wind quickly surrounded him. Despite his focus on the fire in the village something about the voices jogged memories. They felt familiar. The fog lit up a bright red. He saw women carrying children through the haze with larger figures behind them. His eyes betrayed his goal, moving from his destination to the women. Things started to grow from each of the larger figures' sides. Arms, he realized, both kinds. Suddenly the spears, swords, and bows they produced unleashed their havoc. The Pilgrim gripped the handle of his sword as if to unsheathe it in defense, but it stuck. He tried again to no avail. Helplessly, he watched as the larger figures, horsemen, cut down the women and children. Spears stuck through them, swords dashed off limbs, and arrows ran through chests as their last breaths spent on cries for help. And there he stood, the Pilgrim. Helpless.

The red fog withdrew. It left that colourless haze, still sinister, in its place as if to offer something to which he was more accustomed. He found himself standing before the village. Charred pine, he thought, and with that his objective was again visible. For a second the Pilgrim looked about for remnants of the red fog. Something about the eerie haze had took him back to the imperialist war-bands pushing north. Memories he'd fought hard to engage and find peace with. But this was not his goal, the Pilgrim chastised, the village.

His hands withdrew into his caftan. Thus far anticipation moved him too far, foolishly, and left him chasing nightmares. He was now walking through the village. Single and two-story buildings surrounded him, some charred by extinguished fires. Strangely, the wood looked as if it'd been consumed to satisfaction of the flame. Like people did not try to fight for their shelter. He continued on toward the center of the village where men and women stood around an engulfed home. The Pilgrim ran toward the fire, hands emerging from his robes ready to scoop and throw dirt. When he neared a watching man turned and caught him in mid stride.

"Stop." the gaunt man said in a low, disinterested tone. Without explanation the man turned back to watch the fire, his eyes dazed with wide pupils.

Taking a breath, the Pilgrim looked to the other villagers, likewise mesmerized, and tapped the man from before upon the shoulder with a word, "None of you seem concerned. I saw smoke from afar thinking you may be in aid. I must be mistaken. It is clear now the fire is your intention."

The watcher's eyes twitched and his shoulder dipped low. His movements disturbed the Pilgrim in their mechanical, grotesque contortions. "Our intention," the man sung in a strained gasp, as if the air struggled to leave his lungs, "Not our intention. Not our choice. The curse. The curse on our village, what razed the city, the curse from the Mountains."

As fate would have it the fog and smoke had cleared for a moment as the strange man pointed onward. Maybe a forth of a day's walk away lie two mountains amidst a darkness that defied day's light. Sinister, like the fog, the Pilgrim noted. Suddenly as the fog spread, it then returned, and the mountains as well as the path fell to obscurity in the haze. Nevertheless, he remembered the path. He could draw it.

"What laid this foul air upon your lands?" the Pilgrim inquired as he leaned down low and drew a rough map in the blackened earth.

The man's neck twisted, though the Pilgrim's eyes were set below, and the villager's jaw fell open. His head twitched, once, twice, and finally a cracking, pitched word escaped.

"Demons."

[Nemaisare]

Grass rustled on either side of him, sometimes it grew close enough that he needed both hands to brush it aside, and sometimes it was so sparse that he could slip between the blades without brushing either. The latter was far rarer, usually, but the closer he went to the village, and he was forced to pause a time or two to orient himself, the more the grass seemed withered. It didn’t grow as well, or was dry enough that what might once have been a narrow fit was larger now. Brown and dry, and after that flood they’d just had… Not right…

Isha paused once or twice in his dash for those houses in the distance to run a small hand over these desiccated stalks. They didn’t belong in this place. Not when he’d just been running through fresh grass, and had left green stalks behind him hardly 100 paces back. It was the same soil beneath his toes, maybe even wetter. For the fog collected in little beads on the leafy plants and dripped slowly down. The fresh water was tempting. And he brushed some off for himself, to scrub at his face as he slowed his headlong flight into a trot he could sustain much longer. But even as he clapped his hands together, the miskin cursed and shook his fingers rapidly dry, swearing as though his pants had caught fire.

“Blisterin’ mole farts!” He hissed and tried licking the stinging water off his cuts, though it tasted just like most water ought to, that’s been settled with ash and mixed with smoke. He scowled at the wound and then at a water droplet nearby as it splashed onto the ground beside him. “Well, I’ll be a fat owl’s pellet if that don’t bode ill.”

Thinking on it some more, however, would have to wait. A shadow passed over him, and with a good instinct for survival, he didn’t pause to see what it was but threw himself forward into a roll and came up clutching a dried stalk and huddled in the lee of a thicker cluster of grass than usual. His heart was racing as he glanced about wildly, checking ground and sky and every place between for any sign of what had caused that shadow, whether it was friend or foe or hungry beast. But there was nothing there.

That didn’t reassure him.

Still, when several breaths left him no worse for wear, he set off again. A little more cautious, though he’d never known a hawk to hunt in fog, an owl might do well, and it might be other things. A cat escaping the fires in its village. A fox that hadn’t yet caught his scent. Or something worse. Something a little mud and quick movement wouldn’t escape. Nothing came of his worries thankfully, though he saw movement again out of the corner of his eye, and once another shadow fell across him. This time though, he found the source without difficulty. The second northman…

“Hoy! Toldja to bide quiet-like! M’girl listens better’n you! Hey!”

He shouted after him, but though he took a few paces with a quickened stride, Isha didn’t chase the man too wholeheartedly. He wasn’t up to the race, and didn’t doubt those long legs would carry the man past long before he could catch him. He dropped his dried grass stem after that though, replacing it with a shorter, but tougher, twig when he found one. It was a sturdy stick to carry him over cracks and holes in the ground and to fend off any curious beasts with teeth too sharp for his peace of mind. And when he caught up with that fool of a big person, he’d give him a good whack too. Preferably about the ear, but he supposed, despite his teeth gritted irritation, that he might have to make do with an ankle. You didn’t waste a scout by barrelling off ahead of them, even if it was completely by accident. And Isha didn’t doubt that he’d probably been hard to spot, crouching as he was beneath the broad leaves of a dandelion. It was just about the only plant stubborn enough to still be clinging to some semblance of life. He’d taken the opportunity to tear off a bit of stem and leaf to snack on as he continued.

So, armed with a stick, a dragging leaf and a sticky bit of dandelion milk he marched on. Since he’d expected neither to taste overly pleasant, the bitter herb wasn’t half as bad as the water he’d tried. It was an acquired taste that he mostly put up with rather than enjoyed. And if there was something bad in the water from the fires, the weed would have thinned that out through the roots. He hoped…

But he was also hungry, and a little soot wouldn’t kill him. Besides, if he wanted to be of any use to any three of these men, one of which may well have been rushing towards danger at an alarming rate, then he couldn’t stop for a relaxing picnic on the lawn, weeded and withered though this particular meadow was. So he continued to hurry, eating along the way, and he was almost there when a most bizarre phenomenon occurred.

Blinking, Isha found his attention drawn away from the houses and off to the side. Now, to him, there wasn’t much to see, but he’d felt a sort of drawing in the earth, and there were curls in the fog where he was looking. Something was moving within it? He dropped his lunch and tilted his stick against the nearest tall bit of grass to scurry up it, resting at the apex and only just catching sight of the strangely clear path before the grass gave out. He landed as gracefully as one might expect of a man forgetting his supports weren’t sturdy and fresh and rolled off his stomach with a grunt of disgust at the toppled stem. He tried again with a different piece of grass, with the same results, but by that time, the path was gone. All but its vague direction had escaped him, that, and the shadows in the distance.

He narrowed his eyes in thought whilst he collected up his leaf and abandoned the rest of the milky stem for the dirt that had grown attached to it. He rolled the leaf up for eating once he caught up to the taller folk and stuck his stick through it to keep it that way, then he darted off. His energy had been renewed. Not by the brief stint of lying about from his tumbles, but from a greater sense of the danger they’d just walked into. And he couldn’t see the other two from where he was. He’d have to get up higher than the grass near the village allowed. And that meant climbing a house, or a person. Just so long as he could find the right one. He figured it might be safer finding the northman than perching on any porch or roof, given the seeming tendency of these houses to catch fire. But he’d likely have to manage one anyway if he was to spot the fellow.

Well, at least his arm was awake again, and his fingers worked fine, even if they still stung. He crept closer, and was peering around a corner strut to be sure his approach hadn’t been witnessed in preparation of clambering up onto a floor beam when one of those shadows that had bothered him earlier slipped around the strut beside him. It flowed steadily, like a blackened breath of air, and had no definite shape, only the vaguest suggestion of some rat that might one day turn into a bird. For it was thin and long limbed and even as he watched, horrified, it stretched out a neck with a head that sharpened and a mouth that opened wide. There were claws too, though whether it was all his imagination or not he couldn’t have said, for even as he gave a shout and swung his stick, with its little bundle of leaf at the tip, through the shadows, they lost all definition, and he was enveloped in a waft of ashy dust.

As anyone ill-prepared for such a shock would, he doubled over in a coughing fit that last a good few seconds. And then he very quickly straightened up, still coughing, to stare around him while backing out from beneath the building. He might have been dreaming with his eyes wide open, but he wasn’t much willing to take that chance. He kept his stick up. It hadn’t done anything that he could see, for all the… thing had vanished when he’d swung at it, but it did make him feel better.

He kept backing up until a lucky glance over his shoulder showed him the man he wanted, and then, without much regard for the usual duck and weave his people employed to keep from being seen (to be fair, he was standing on a street that didn’t have much cover), Isha hurried up to the north man as fast as his legs would take him. And then, for lack of any better way to get his attention, somewhat surreptitiously, he took the stick and thrust it right where he figured was just below the ankle bone. Most sensitive spot he could reach. “Lend us a shoulder, northman. They’ve wraithrats ‘ere.”

If he could, he’d tuck himself up by his neck again and keep a watchful eye. Being up high wouldn’t keep him safe, but it would at least give him a better chance of spotting them before they saw him. The beasties were bad for a long life, but easy enough to send off if you knew what you were looking for. Isha’d dealt with them before. Best way he knew was to put out the fire they were slinking out of, but no one seemed eager to bother with that. Second best was to leave whip-quick. But he and his weren’t likely to do that less they’d no other choice. And by then, it was usually too late. Still, soon as you saw something of their full shape, even if you couldn’t say what they looked like or were, they’d vanish like that one had. Whether it was an actual sort of death or just a temporary thing, he didn’t know, but it did mean a watchful eye could keep you safe. They didn’t cause much mischief once folk knew they were about. But their shadows weren’t the usual flat sort that couldn’t harm a fly, and they liked causing trouble. For a miskin, getting caught by one could be fatal. He’d rather avoid that route, if he could. So he kept looking about while he waited to be noticed. Hoping he’d be the less exciting thing to gawk at beside the fire so it’d only be the north man paying him any mind. “Why i’n’t they settin’ out yon fire? Plenty folk gathered ‘round ‘bout fer the chore.”

He decided he’d not complain about the man taking it into his head to come into the village by himself, saving up even his thought that it might have saved him a bit of walking had they come together then, in favour of keeping the man whose feet he was standing right next to agreeable to his presence.