---

At last, this battle is all over! Ilyana grins, bending down to retrieve her cutlass among the bone dust on the floor.

Pain unexpectedly ripped through her left side, making her gasp. There was a bleeding gash on her hip, just below her jerkin, deeper than the other nicks and cuts she'd gotten in battle, like the trickle of blood she could feel from the shallow cut on her cheek. Untying the bandana around her neck, she folds it into a pad and with her left hand, she presses the make-shift bandage on the wound, gritting her teeth as the salt from her sweat made it sting, then knelt down to grab her cutlass. She tried for a moment to slide her sword back into her sheath, but it was too difficult with her other hand trying to keep her from bleeding out.

"Typical," she mutters, resting the tip on the floor and using that to help her upright.

Glancing at the others, Ilyana scowls, the pain making her voice harsh. "Well, what are we standing around here, for? Choirs singing your praises? A medal? Some bit of parchment saying you're heroes?"

She turns, limping slightly towards the ramp she could see through her green eye leading up to the next level, each step sending a fresh wave of pain. "It doesn't help, believe me. Everyone forgets."

"I'm going back to my cart."

---

Lead by the smoke, Granny scowls as she finally caught sight of weird metal tower lying on its side and fox-like Fumiko with an embarrassment of tails, then the seldom-seen Athulwin, for once out of his wagon.

"Well now," she mutters under her breath as she works her way closer, "Iffen 'is lordship sees 'is shadow, does that mean six more weeks of gruel?"

"Well, who's 'urt?" Siri demands loudly as she steps forward. "If an old woman likes meself 'as ta come all this way, I'll be sure someone's 'urting before I goes back!"

The fox-girl looked pale, a little wild in the eyes. And tall, she wasn't used to having to look up. Granny used her cane to point at the metal tower. "You were in that? Miracle you weren't killed. Or did that fall on you?"

Hanging her cane in the crook of her elbow, Granny reachs into her basket and pulls out one of her cookies, then offers it to Fumiko. "You're in shock, dear. Best have a nibble and a sit down."

@Overlord Thraka



Vorex looked back up from the ground at Mergoux. It kept asking questions but at the very least help was promised. It gave a smile thinking about the books it could start to write. But then Vorex started thinking, who destroyed the library? Who trapped him, he didn’t know. He started panicking a little bit.

“Vorex not know who destroyed library. Vorex trapped accident. Freed by new river destroying block. Vorex happy free. Vorex gets you help?” It looked at Mergoux with its massive beady eye. It was clearly hoping it would receive help from this individual. It once again started pacing around a bit, clearly anxious for the person to answer positively.

Mergoux chewed her lip for a good while, listening to it's answer. Vorex, some manner of librarian from gods knew how long ago... He was a strange one, but from everything she could tell, right down to her gut, he wasn't anything to worry over. Another strange character to join the caravan, that was all too clear.

Her eyes scanned him over once more from underneath her helmet before she nodded once to herself, coming to her decision. "Alright," she said, "I'll help you, as best I can." She half turned and motioned for it to follow, all while the voice in her helmet chortled quietly into her ear. "There's a caravan nearby, come with me and maybe we can find someone who might know a thing or two more about your library, and who destroyed it."

That was her concern now, keeping an eye out for whatever might have destroyed Vorex's library. A thousand years meant nothing to some threats, and they needed to be careful if there was even the slightest chance it was still in the area.

Mergoux lead Vorex through the woods for a mile or so before coming back to the caravan, now towards the back half of it. "Here," she said, nodding to the wide variance of species that ambled ever onward. "I wager there will be someone in here who might know something."

@Twannyman

Oh, by Frowen, there are two of them. Athulwin can't keep the grimace from his face when a second fox-human eases his way out into the open. They come from a fallen star, Athulwin's internal monologue thinks in a tone of awe. How many others fell with them? He manages to keep the word 'invasion' out of his mind, but only just. They look too shaken for that. She- the woman- looks too upset.

This is... what, a horrible accident? Athulwin does not know what sort of obscene travel there must be between the stars for such a thing to happen. The universe feels seems suddenly larger than before, at that thought, and Athulwin feels strangely smaller.

The other fox-human has less tails, down to the thankfully normal number of just one. He's a he. He's, to Athulwin's eyes, attractive. Athulwin finds that irrationally annoying. He won't let his thoughts become so muddled now.

The woman looks back at the other fox, too, who is standing behind her now, and something silent seems to pass between them. Encouragement? They truly are worried. "Fu-mi-ko," she speaks, motioning at herself.

Athulwin gets it. He returns in kind. "Ath-ul-win." His hand to his chest. Almost by instinct he wants to introduce himself as 'Navigator,' that title that's morphed into part of his name through the years, but he knows that would be quite silly.

The fox, Fumiko, signs frustration at the fallen star. Her hands thrown up into the air, just like a pilgrim whose caravan has a broken wagon wheel trying to let everyone else know that he's as upset about the hold-up as they are. He guesses it to have the same meaning. They're stuck.

Athulwin sighs. He took an oath. He won't allow himself to defy it even for whatever insane, unknowable circumstances brought these two creatures to his doorstep. If they are drifters, if they need help and have no other place...

He tells Malleck and the others, in the common tongue, to let the strangers come along with them. He signs to 'Fumiko' and the other to follow him. The not-Beyonders will be brought back to the Caravan.

The land out here is peculiar and sunbaked, and that is about all that can be said from it. The sand seethes, claws and scratches at the soil and grass that juts up in uneven patches across the parched scrubland. The road beneath the caravan though is strong and well-trodden, hewn with stone and made straight and even across the landscape, belting across to the horizon, where the caravan’s next destination sits.

There’s little else to obscure it after all, with the crowded foliage and verdant greens of the Emerald Forest left so far behind. Instead, there are the mountains that mark out the centre of Clan Busaq’s power. Vast, imposing things that form part of a scattered chain that stretch deep into the desert, all the way to the sacred Jabal Ilah and beyond. As the caravan has pressed closer though, the staggering scale of the hold has become clearer and clearer.

A colossal ochre stone wall bars easy entrance to the hold itself, but even where wall ends and mountain begins, the defences continue. Cut into the rock itself are structures and fortifications – guard posts, murder holes and even springalds, all manned by tiny figures only distinguishable from the mountains themselves thanks to the glints of light from their broad shields and scaled armour.

But this is only the beginning of it. Just outside of the walls, stretched out in the no-mans land between farming estates and the city itself is a sea of tents, wagons, temporary structures and perhaps most astounding of all are the rolling towers and citadels, and the humongous beasts that have been hitched near them.

They stand nearly ten men tall to their shoulders alone, with tremendously long noses that curl and twist like vast snakes. Massive tusks jut from either side of these trunks, banded with steel and affixed with vicious looking blades or vast metal rams at their ends. Mûmakils – Oliphaunts. Their lesser brethren, the elephants, live in Alwyne’s warmer climes, but these are alike them in shape alone: these creatures are the largest warbeasts seen on this continent – indeed, perhaps anywhere on Alwyne.

The caravan is stopped just outside the army encampment and directed to park themselves in a wide-open space, a few other, smaller caravans already circled. With the return of the army, the city is filled to capacity, but travellers are free to come and go as they always have… So long as they follow the Clan’s laws.

--- ~--( )--~ ---

Athulwin believes that deserts are the most naturally spiritual kind of environment. As the Caravan meandered over the smooth road that led them to this great city of a hold, during those bright noontides when old Athulwin would sit in his Caravan watching the world outside from a safely darker place, he kept thinking thoughts about the universe. The wide open-ness of the landscape pulled such thoughts out of him, willingly or otherwise. The vastness of these dry lands makes you think of your place in it all, as the harsh, the unrelenting sunlight seems to preach sermons.

It's no wonder they're fanatics here, Athulwin thinks. He doesn't use the term lightly. Many have called him such, to his face or behind his back. But sometimes a label fits. Athulwin has met only a few followers of the Light-and-Flame, but he's read some of their texts. They are filled with the same breed of fire he sometimes caught in the eyes of the most intense monks back home. A passion to burn the world.

Athulwin is resting now, trying to think philosophically no more for the day. It's only mid-morning; the sun is still rising. He knows it will not have finished its climb towards noon before he has to work again. Sometimes he hates his life. "A mother's work is never done," a silly old saying goes. Athulwin must be a mother, then. The Caravan can never go more than a few breaths without direction from its Navigator.

Athulwin has spent the day, such as there's been of it so far, listening to the Wind. That's another reason to try not to be philosphical. It's the wrong mindset for hearing from Wind. The Stars are philosophical. Even Fire, in a savage way, carries a philosophy of strength. But the Wind is a gossiper, not a thinker. It does things and it talks. Here's the gossip it has brought him today:

There's slaves here, in the Hold of Clan Baraq. Many of them. Not even far from the Caravan- this desert land practices slavery, and does it openly, not as an ashamed secret. The slaves are kept in pens, within the city walls and under supervision of the army. Athulwin has heard that this Clan Basaq the Caravan is visiting has recently won a small war. From the sounds that the Wind carries him, its becoming more and more uncomfortably obvious that the reason there's so many slaves in this city is because many of them are those that the Baraq clan has just conquered. They were defeated in war, taken captive, and now they're learning what it is to be slaves for the first time. Some of them weep.

The Wind says, also, that they're being auctioned off. Stands have been set up for the army to sell excess slaves out to the populace. These people are being treated as wares for the marketplace.

Athulwin already fears certain names in the Caravan- Mergoux, for sure, and possibly Ilyana as well- are going to take issue with that. They know what chains feel like. Will they be able to keep to themselves about it? Athulwin doubts.

But there's also much merchandise of the more normal kind here. The Wind carries the voices of so many merchants to him. Most people here are human, a few dwarves, a few dog-like Ainok like Malleck and more. The city is a hub of trade for all kinds, and it will welcome the travellers from the Caravan in. At last, something for Gru to do beside whine about a lack of milk. You can buy plenty here.

There's also some traders of another race. Not even far from the Caravan has now parked itself, there's a traveling assortment of Baraka. The snake-people. What a diverse land this desert is. The snakes, he senses, have something dangerous to sell, something very valuable, but even the Wind cannot tell him what it is. Perhaps some of the more enterprise-minded of the Caravan will reach out to these fellow travellers and find out what it is.

Regardless.

Athulwin toys with the idea of sending wind-borne messages out to his fellow Caravaneers to try to push them in the right direction, as he did when they first entered the Emerald Forest. To tell Mergoux and Ilyana, "No, leave the slavers alone." Or to tell the others that this is there chance to restock on needful things before the Caravan goes journeying again. But ultimately, Athulwin realizes, these stand-outs in the Caravan are adults, whether they always act like it or not, and they should be able to take care of themselves without the advice from their proverbial mother...

And, with that thought, the aging monk finds himself falling into a nap.

Malleck hadn't felt more at home for a very, very long time. The shifting of sand beneath his pawpads, the sight and warmth of the desert sun, the sound of the wind rolling over dunes and across the open terrain... Waves of nostalgia rolled over him, and if he closed his eyes he could almost hear the sounds of his pack - the yips of pups as they learnt that the sand was cooler than the roads that the clans laid out, the clicks and clacks of stargazer fetishes as they travelled, the quiet yips of hunters debating what prey to take.

Then he opened his eyes and looked out at the Mûmakils, the sea of tents and the impossible to miss walls, and he remembered that he was in the clanlands, not the rolling savannahs of his home. Ah well. Close enough. He trotted past the wagons and caravans being pulled up to the directed plot, heading towards the city walls and the guards standing on watch just outside it. As he approached, one turned to face him, the scowl across the guard's face becoming warmer as she took in who, exactly, she was talking to."

"Salamu alaykum! You've come a way from your hunting grounds, haven't you cousin?" They were dressed like most citizen soldiers: snake-like scales of burnished metal hung over her body underneath which sat he typical garb for anyone looking to stay cool in the desert - loose and flowing robes, to let sweat evaporate and be carried away... Although with all the metal being worn, sweat still beads across the woman's forehead.

"Wa salaam, Further than you might think!" Malleck was speaking Emeg̃ir now - the ancient tongue the Dinnin had adopted from those who had come before them, then slowly built atop. He turned to look at the Pilgrim's Caravan, then back to the gates. "So, cousin... I have to admit that it's been a long time since I visited a clanhold. Anything I should know?"

The guard copied his look, her gauntleted fingers tightening a little around the haft of her pike. "Tell those you walk with to mind themselves here. A fresh crop of captives makes everyone cautious for a while - never know when the kaffin might try something when this many of them are together. The army's got no patience for troublemakers - easy for someone to end up on the wrong side of an auction."

Malleck bit his lip a little and nodded slowly. "I'll let the group know. May the stars light your path, cousin."

"And may the flame light yours." With Malleck on the retreat, the guard turned back to their duties, the Ainok scampering off to try and find Athulwin... And maybe some of those he'd heard the most offended by the ideas of slaves. Things were done differently here - hopefully they'd understand.

---

Gadri took a deep breath as their forge rolled to a halt, then slowly began gathering up the bags they'd packed for just this occasion. They had reached a clanhold. This was their land - their people... And their religion now held sway. The sun told them they had arrived a little before midday - sweltering hot, yes, but more importantly, a time for prayer and reflection. They didn't know when they'd get a chance to pray in a Masjid again, and even if they did this alone, they couldn't pass up the chance. Unfortunately, the only other Dinnin that they knew of within the caravan was Malleck, and the Ainok had their own peculiar ways of going about things... Which just left anyone interested in a cultural experience, they supposed.

"Heading into the city," they rumbled out. "Anyone feels like seeing what a clanhold is really like... Be happy to show you."

Terilu feels a rush during flight. Not at first; only after he's been up in the air, letting his wings strain against the world trying to pull him back down, panting to keep himself cool up over the earth, for some time. The rush is almost identical to the way a long-distance sprinter feels halfway through their run. It's that rewarding high of intense exertion. And the 'high' is very literal, when you're soaring over rooftops.

Terilu is in flight over the parked Caravan now, feeling like a circling vulture, and he wants to never come down. His body is straight like an arrow and the shadow cast by his wingspan consumes caravans; his fellow pilgrims are ants at this height. He feels like he could step on them. But the poor thing about running or about flying is that, when the rush hits you, you're immediately on a timer. At that point you'll never really want to stop, but you only have so long before the buzz fades away and your exhaustion catches up with you far quicker than you could soar away from it. Terilu doesn't wish to burn up before he even enters the clanhold proper. Besides, he hears something down below that interests him: "Heading into the city," says the voice of Gadri, which- like many low, dwarven kinds of voices- seems to carry well even when all they're doing is mumbling. "Anyone feels like seeing what a clanhold is really like... Be happy to show you."

Yes, Terilu feels like seeing it. With some regret at losing flight time, he rocks his body back, lets his feet swing down into a standing-like position, and feels himself slowing and floating downwards.

He's still panting like a dog as his feet hit the sand, right beside Gadri, as if they'd been walking together the whole time. Terilu's aim is always good. A little sandstorm is kicked up by his arrival, spreading golden dust into the air; and that's something you could never get tired of. He takes an almost childlike pleasure in watching the sand twirl. If it wasn't for the heat, and the long days, and the Dinnin themselves, Terilu could get used to this world. The air is so pure. And his fur, plus his usual robe-like attire, is weirdly fit for keeping the worst of the sun off his back. He's not as natural here as he is back home, but from the sad look of all the Pilgrims now sweating in the sunlight, Terilu think he can handle desert better than the skinned races.

Minus, he supposes, the ones who have lived in these kinds of places all their lives. "So," says Terilu to Gadri. "Your home was something like this? It's... impressive. Most places I've seen since I left my home nest are so backwards, like barbarians. I think you Dinnin might be smarter."

Gadri raised an arm as the sand swirled around them, a small glower rising to their face before being quickly crushed back down. Just a kid, they reminded themselves, turning to face the young'un in question as they started talking. "Terilu, wasn't it?" They were used to the canine Ainok - no Dinnin wasn't, but the batfolk - Eratie, they believed they were called, were a new one to them.

"More mountains. The range gets vaster the deeper in you go. Abzan's an old clan." They paused for a second, adjusting the strap on their bag. "Was a dwarfhold, originally. Long, long time ago. Humans brought the faith with them, and it's grown from there. Its heart has always been in the mountains." If one was paying attention, they might notice that Gadri was dressed differently from how they usually attired themselves. It wasn't just the lack of their smith's apron and toolbelt (although their hammer sat where it always did,) no, Gadri had seemingly donned an entirely fresh set of clothes for this occasion. A loose fitted undershirt was almost entirely hidden by a light green kaftan and similarly coloured sash, accompanied by a beautifully decorated turban. Their shoes too were a far cry from the usual heavy boots - now they wore a set of lightweight leather shoes, unsuited for anything but perhaps a casual stroll.

It was easy to pass through the gates. Gadri offered a quick "As-salamu alaykum." and a bow of their head to the guards, who returned the greetings, one making a gesture with a splayed palm to accompany it. Then it was through and into the city itself... And what a city it was.

Almost all of the buildings were made from adobe, sunbaked for so long that it was easy to imagine that they had forgotten the rain itself. Smoke leaked from chimneys across the city, rising into the air where it swept past towering minarets, domed roofs, and, right at the heart of the city itself, visible even from the gates was a guilded ziggurat, what could only be a palace placed atop its peak. Even now, at the height of the day and with many businesses shut while the sun was at its peak people bustled through the streets - some poorly dressed, some clad in silks, and others still in steel. The air was filled with a dozen different scents all clashing against one another - spices, coalsmoke and sweat all swirling together, and they joined with the sounds of business and pleasure alike.

Gadri took a moment in the middle of it all to breathe in deeply, closing their eyes as a small smile swept across their face.

Reflecting back on the events of the final day in the Emerald Forest, it really did strike Gru as quite funny. There he’d been, taking stock of his cheese stores after his dealings with the woodsmen and Granny Siri as he tried to lay plans, when the word finally came that the crisis was over. While never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Gru had been more than a little curious. Could all of the misfortune and pestilence that had plagued the Pilgrim’s Caravan from the moment they set foot in that green hell really be swept away, just like that? He’d been so far removed from the front lines of the conflict that it actually took a fair bit of asking around just to figure out what happened. Of course, when he happened upon the jovial giant Galaxor, he’d been only too happy to regale the cheesemaker with an exuberant -and perhaps embellished- account of his adventure. As it turned out, that small band of warrior-types he’d briefly seen gathering for an expedition had not only survived their excursion out into the hateful woods, but also discovered an ancient barrow home to all manner of undead abominations. Yet those brave souls managed to hack and slash their way through the shambling wights to find and finally depose their skeletal overlord, the source of the malign influence, from atop his accursed throne.

All while Gru had been counting cheeses and petting rats. Remarkable as that story was, though, that wasn’t all that transpired while the merchant languished in the stalled caravan, awaiting some form of salvation. People joined and left the Caravan all the time, albeit typically in less dire circumstances, but the new face that tagged along with Althuwin and Malleck turned out to be quite the anomaly. Pepper’s scouting party did return to him in quite the tizzy, charged with inexplicable excitement, but the cheesemaker probably wouldn’t have believed them even if they could tell them what they saw. A beastwoman, emerging from within a meteorite that had fallen from the stars? It beggared belief. Nevertheless, Gru thanked his lucky stars that was all that happened. Although he scarcely dared to imagine, he figured that much worse could descend from beyond the sky than an angry woman with bestial ears and tails.

Between heroism and mystery, magic and mayhem, so much had happened just out of sight. Some might regret missing out on all the action, but not Gruyere Emmentaler Caerphilly Yarg. He was, after all, a simple salesman. What business did a mere merchant have with investigating the supernatural, or quelling evil? That stuff he happily left to the mystics and mercenaries. A quiet, entrepreneurial life was all Gru wanted, and with the problem solved, the cheesemonger could finally get on with it.

Would that he could say that the Caravan moved on to greener pastures, but nothing was greener than the Emerald Forest. Instead the legendary wagon train, with its navigator Althuwin at the forefront, made its way through arid badlands to the tractless expanse of a sun-scorched desert. For once Gru didn’t complain, as much as he would have preferred pastoral grasslands and peaceable cottages. Anything was better than the Emerald Forest, and the land of the Dinnin was far from an untamed wilderness. Rising above stone and sand were absurdly colossal structures that stood tall and proud beneath the blazing sun as magnificent testaments to the clans’ indomitability. This powerful cabal of dwarves and beastmen was no mere collection of zealots; they were master architects, master producers, master traders, and master warriors. Gru did not dislike the Dinnin, necessarily, but when dealing with them one needed to be both careful and thoughtful. The awe-inspiring heights to which their civilization had risen went hand in hand with the knowledge of what they did to their enemies, and not just in self-defense.

With this knowledge in mind, he rode along with the Caravan toward the majestic hold of Clan Buraq, growing ever closer to the citadel that blotted out the sun and painted the desert with its shadow. Given the heat, he’d stocked up on plenty of water for his rats, and ensured that they’d work shorter shifts in the Chuck Wagon’s wheels. No matter how huge his horde might be, even a single casualty due to harsh conditions was unacceptable. Thanks to the road, though, the going wasn’t too tough, and Gru was in relatively high spirits today. Lesser desert civilizations might have nothing but a few camels, whose milk stubbornly resisted all attempts to be converted into cheese, but the Dinnin had tamed this land. Beyond the city walls lay sprawling farms with all manner of livestock, including plenty of sturdy cattle with huge upturned horns, their splotchy hides painted like the pelts of the Ainok. Gru might be most interested in those, but he couldn’t help but be awed by other local creatures, and none were more awesome than the Mûmakils. One look at those titanic beasts was all anyone needed to realize just how formidable the Dinnin war machine was.

Once the Caravan came to a stop, Gru stepped out into the dry heat, clad in a much lighter, looser version of his usual attire. He sized up the area where the convoy had come to rest. Business would be best inside the Hold itself, but such prime real estate was the territory of the entrenched merchant caste, and not available to outsiders. Still, he knew he could make a killing even out here, whether selling to other travelers who couldn’t penetrate the Hold, or to the soldiers of the military encampment nearby. An army marched on his stomach, after all. Before he could rake it in, however, Gru needed a surplus. He’d purchased what milk he could from small farms on the way over, diverting from and then catching up to the Caravan, but now he could really get down to business. It was time to stock up and make some magic happen–metaphorically, of course.

After setting up and locking down, Gru and his rats got moving. For now, tourism could wait. Carried on a chair by his rats like an emperor on his palanquin, the cheesemonger sped between the outlying farms with his wide-brimmed hat doffed and his purse strings loose. It took money to make money, and though Gru was averse to debt, he was willing to spend his bottom dollar if he felt sure about an investment. When it came to establishing friendly relations, this was one businessman who could go all-out, and nothing spoke louder than cash. Plus, riding around with all his rats made for quite the strong first impression. He worked to secure deal after deal, shaking hands and signing agreements, and once the first canisters started rolling in, Gru sequestered himself in the Chuck Wagon to begin making cheese.

---

"Wait!" Nemeia said, fresh concern echoing in her voice. She had fought battles before. Wounds were nothing new. She had seen injuries turn suddenly fatal. She could recognize the signs. Pain was written across the other woman's face. Her movements were slow and labored. There was no time to wait. And no purpose in delaying.

"You are wounded, let me help," shed added gently, her hands held open as she drew closer to Ilyana.

Ilyana frowns, turning towards Nemeia, "Oh, you're a chirurgeon? Got a needle on you to stitch me up? I better ask you your rates first, I'm not carrying much with me."

"I hope you don't mind if we do this outside and in the light?"

"Priestess," Nemeia said with a soft smile, "And I've no need or desire for payment, I simply wish to help."

She held out a hand, "Outside would be nice, I would welcome the sunshine, provided your wound does not worsen before then."

No desire for payment, Ilyana winces, as she walks. Those are usually the most expensive. Not that I have much choice, at the moment.

"I'll walk out of here," she replies. "I've been in Sick Bay too many times among the dead and dying, I welcome open air. But if I fall, see if you can get one of the others to help me out."

Ilyana sighs, side-glancing at Nemeia's curves. Prison and ship food must have stunted her growth, Ilyana had no hips or chest to speak of, it's no wonder everyone thought she was a boy. Men's glances just slid past her to someone else like Nemeia. And no amount of magic was going to fix that.

"I'm sure Galaxor can manage," Nemeia offered, attempting her best to lighten the mood.

"To the surface, friends, we should see to the wounded of our present company and far better away from here," she added to the others, moving to keep pace with Ilyana.

Ilyana was starting to feel light-headed by the time they reached the surface.

"So, how do we do this?" she asks. Was she going to have to accept Nemeia's god to be healed?

Stepping out of the tomb, Nemeia felt a new warmth from the sunlight. The air was clean, purified of whatever evil had afflicted the forest.

She gestured towards a solid slab of carved stone that lay in the nearby grass, "With your permission, I will lay my hands on you. Over the wound. I do not need to touch your skin...but it would help. If you can, it would be most helpful if you tried to relax. A racing mind and lurching heart present their own problems."

"Please, sit or lie down, whichever you prefer," she added, gently guiding Ilyana towards the stone.

Ilyana gingerly sat down, then sighs, pulling out her knife. "I'll have to patch it anyway, but there's no point on this blade. The officers were worried the crew would rip the sails."

Or them, Ilyana shrugged. Hard to be loyal to guys who paid to have her picked up outside of the prison, then when the war was over to maroon her without warning on a deserted island.

"Just... make a... v-notch at the end," she said faintly, lying down, then blacked out. The blood-soaked bandana slipped out of her hand. Almost unnoticed, there was a faint purple line matching the sword-cut.

Nemeia gasped as Ilyana faded. She had suspected they did not have much time, but she hadn't expected her condition to be so delicate.
Wasting no time, Nemeia did as she was bade, and cut Ilyana's clothing with the blunt tipped knife so that she could see the deep gash that had been cut into her hip.

Reciting a familiar prayer, Nemeia gently placed her hands over the wound, and closed her eyes. Warmth rose from deep within in her, not the overbearing light of the sun, but the soothing radiance of the moon. A great circle of silver appeared around Nemeia as she wove her magic, small rays traveling across her person and over her hands.

Ilyana would feel a gentle warmth enveloping her as flesh and muscle mended together. Nemeia's prayer echoed quietly, a faint whisper on her lips as she exhaled deeply, beseeching Valdarun for her aid.

She did not speak of Ilyana's heroism. Her willingness to help her fellow pilgrims and the afflicted denizens of the forest. Valdarun did not care for such things, she loved all the children that danced under the moonlight.

Opening her eyes, Nemeia took clear water from her waterskin and carefully dabbed Ilyana's brow as she examined the wound. It had been a hasty operation, but it appeared successful. Given her sudden decline, Nemeia knew there had been no other choice.

"Awaken, friend, your would is healed, I have done what I could for your pain, but given the haste demanded, some might yet linger."

"Ah?" Ilyana said, her eyes fluttering as they pivoted towards Nemeia. She could feel her cheeks beginning to burn as the memories came back.

"AH!" she cried, pushing herself sitting upright on the stone. "Ah, I mean, thank you, you were very kind to do that. My clothes are ripped, i need to change....."

The half-human turned and got her feet on the ground, then pushed herself upright. "Ah, I'll need you to sign the book, later?" Ilyana said cryptically, then bolted back towards the caravan.

---

Her/Not her was adrift in inky blackness, listening to the stars singing. Like the sea, there was currents here, flowing towards and outwards from a sun. She/Not her was speeding away from the singing star towards a blue and green sphere over which two smaller silvery spheres spun around. Dimly, She realized she was staring at Luna and the Hunter, but he was not chasing her, they were dancing...?

She/Not Her reached out a hand, and she gasped, for it wasn't her hand, it was a purple translucent flipper...!

---

Ilyana jerked awake, panting as her heart raced in her chest. She was lying under the tarp on her cart, hearing the sounds of people around her, doing normal people things. Squeezing her eyes shut, she lifted her right hand - and looked.

It was her hand. A little rough, but undeniably hers.

She let it collapse onto her chest, her breath quick but she took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. Eventually her breathing became a little more even as she tried to decide if she more relieved her hand as it always was - or disappointed that it was?

"Why am I getting these weird dreams...?" she mutters. The ones around her were used to strange outbursts from her in the middle of the night, but this was daylight still.

Lifting up an edge of the tarp, Ilyana could see the light, all so brilliant over a sea of tents and strangers as the sun radiated all this dry heat down on this strange city in the middle of a desert.

Her donkey was lying partially under the cart, no doubt trying to escape the heat, she could hear it panting, the bucket next to her still had an inch of water in it.

"We need more water," Ilyana sighs, crawling out from under the canvas so as to not disturb the beast.

Thozna had never mentioned Clan Buraq directly, but she had spoken of places similar to it. Huge cities carved out of rock or simply burrowed into the mountains themselves, spires built by slave labor or close to it for priests and kings with too much money and not enough love for their people. The major metropolises of Alwyne all blended together for her into one grim soup, places of inequity and sadness.

It was natural for her to think like that, the boy supposed, because to her tell it, the cities she had grown up around had been breeding grounds for cruelty. The Ashvenkal did not encourage people to play nice with outsiders. While the free-roaming Gnoll packs and smaller fiefdoms at least engendered loyalty to one's kin, there was no such expectation under the rule of the Dragon-Sultans.

His mother's casual treatment of evil always needled him, which was why he was so disappointed by what he had been told of the Dinnin. Thozna was many things, but a liar was not one of them, so when she mentioned that the Sun-Stricken (as she called them) were slavers who liked to kidnap those outside of their religion, it was a statement based in truth. This begged the question, why was the Caravan visiting them? Surely other routes could be taken that wouldn't force them to patronize slavers and fanatics?

Thozna, seeing the quiet confusion on his face as they went about morning chores, answered unbidden.

"Because profit comes before morals, assuming the Caravan could have morals ascribed to it. It's a big group of people from all over, Rrakti,you can't assume all of them care one way or the other about such things."

Rrakti roughly translated to 'Little Man' in the common tongue, and it was both a pet name and a pointed reminder that by her standards, Ryt was an adult, and adults didn't have the time to bother themselves feeling bad about the injustices of the world. They looked out only for themselves and their loved ones; all others weren't a concern until they gave reason to be.

If that was what being a man entailed Ryt would never be ready for it. He frowned, stubby tusks peeking out from his lower lip as he fed a spoonful of stew to Buford.

"Maybe I'll buy a slave." the orcling said, half-mumbling the words. "Then since they're mine I can set them free."

"You'd better start saving up then." Thozna snorted, making that classic hyena cackle. "You come offering your pocket change and they're liable to add you to their stock just for wasting their time."

"I meant in the future."

Thozna grunted, going back to stitching her blanket. The conversation was now tabled, and Ryt was left to think.
------------------------------------------



After making sure their animals had enough water, Thozna gathered her things for the day, tucking her coins into a pouch and putting on her armor with the ever-present reliquary chained to it. She didn't expect to indulge in violence(even an old war beast like her would balk at turning a trip to the market into a bloodbath), but it was better to be safe than sorry. Most of her interactions with the Sun-Stricken were through the Ainok, and if the rest of the brethren were like those slippery runts then it was best to be ready for trickery.

Don't let yourself be surrounded, don't eat or drink anything offered to you without your asking, keep your eye on anyone you don't know, and always assume that someone was looking to kick your legs out from under you, those were the rules Thozna lived by, and if any particularly entrepreneurial Dinny wanted to try and slap slave chains on her she'd see it coming a mile away. Ryt was not yet experienced enough to understand her paranoia, and all she could do was hope that this wasn't the trip where he learned. He was still so unsure of himself but growing into rebelliousness, rebelliousness that expressed itself as a need for separation. Thozna watched as her son left to explore independently, willing to trust him to keep himself safe.

Meanwhile, she wanted to get her bearings. Ostensibly, her attention was on the herds of massive elephants as she sidled her way toward the gates, but her predator's senses were always quick to pick up sudden movements. Her ears twitched as she caught a glimpse of someone running back toward the Caravan. It was one of the dogs, and for a moment her hackles raised at the memories of cutting off scouts before they could warn their friends. But that had been a long time ago in a faraway region, the Norplain a distant concept swallowed up by the vast expanse of the Ashvenkal this deep into Dinnin territory. The Ainok wasn't an enemy, or even local to this particular hold. Instead it was one of her packmates, one she recognized by sight but not name.

Thozna's great size belied just how fast she was, the Gnoll putting herself on a path to intercept the Ainok and falling in line behind him.

"Pardon me, little hound." she said politely, matching his pace. "Would you let me follow your lead now? You have a better sense of what and what not to do than I."

Her common speech was strangely accented, combining the guttural growls and laughs of her native tongue and a thousand other accents she had picked up during her travels. The end result was something curiously out of place but filled with an innate menace, much like Thozna herself.
------------------------------------------



It took Ryt less time to prepare than his mother because he wasn't layering himself in hot metal and thick hide. Even if he had such gear and the will to wear it the sun would have made it impossible to do so. He wasn't unused to sweating, having grown up on the farm, but living in a desert was distinctly unpalatable. He made sure to fill a pair of waterskins to the brim, one for him and one for Buford trailing behind him.

He had no objective yet, no particular sight he wanted to see. This was entirely new ground for him, a foundling far removed from both his birthplace and where he had grown up, and he wanted to enjoy the experience. He wouldn't be able to do that knowing nothing about this place save for the presence of flesh markets, so when the rumbling voice of a stone-hewn invited those willing to accompany them Ryt took up the offer.

He wasn't the first to get there, his little legs unable to beat out the wings of a bat. Buford, the chipper idiot that he was, was only dissuaded from snuffling at Terilu's leathery wings by Ryt stuffing his hand in the dog's face, keeping it there as they all passed through the gates.

"Are all holds this big?"

Terilu

Terilu feels absurdly happy about being in a city again. It's the wrong kind of city, of course- it's not an Eratie one by any stretch of the imagination, with that sand-colored adobe and the hot air- but still it is undeniably, intrinsically, unmistakably a City. Capitalized. It smells like one. It feels like one in spirit. Terilu half-suspects he could navigate it alone, so familiar he is with the urban wilderness. But his problem is that he likes company too much; far too much, for a necromancer. He catches himself feeling nearly glad when the young half-orc (Terilu has never reasoned out what the other half must be) catches up to him and Gadri. Good. Another young person, another rare breed, has joined their little party.

Terilu wonders if, from the ancient dwarf Gadri's perspective, they're giving a tour to two children. Terilu is half-tempted to whine, "But when are we going to get something to eat?" like he used to whenever one of his fathers took him out of the nest. He doesn't, but he's tempted to. Really, Terilu is glad the orc-whatever-the-other-half-may-be is here. He has no clue what his name is, but he's seen him wandering around the camp, and Terilu always finds it a welcome sight to see someone nearly as small as himself. Then he doesn't feel so dwarfed (ha-ha!) by all the tall skinned races. He'd guess that the orc-boy is still stronger than him, and being weaker than a child is always embarrassing, but there's nothing to be done about it. Orcs are savages.

The savage child says, ""Are all holds this big?"

Terilu laughs at the question. "This isn't big," he says. "Close, but no. New Dawnlit, the capital of Tureiamú? Have you ever been there?" He looks the boy up and down. "No, no I don't think you have, but that's a big city. You learn to fly one day, and I'll give you the proper tour."

He doesn't mention that you can get around New Dawnlit pretty well by walking, so long as you stick to the streets and public areas. Older, bigger and sicker Eratie cannot be expected to fly- the Diviner himself, it's rumored, does not fly- and if foreigners like this one ever do come to Tureiamú, it's always to the gates of New Dawnlit that they come knocking. But the orc-boy doesn't need to know any of that. Terilu just likes reminding people that he can fly and they can't.

Destination: The Emerald Forest

Well, that had certainly been an adventure of sorts back in the forest. Galaxor had seemingly gotten his wish for some combat, though not all of them had gotten out unscathed, and many a spirit had been put to rest in turn. He almost wished he could talk more to the ghost of the dead paladin that had appeared, get some information and such down while he could, but the caravan itself had to move onto the next destination as well. In that vein, he'd been pressed on time to wind things down and grab what he could on the way out for study despite his desire to stick around and do some studying. Hmm. That and they needed to tend to the wounded.

After ensuring Terliu's raised dead were fully gone, and insisting on being the last to leave the barrow, Knossos had taken to trying to gather any potentially dangerous items that might need containment. In particular, he would take the sword of the released Wraith and several key 'interesting' chunks of the now-smashed throne as 'souveniers' for his cart. His body still felt sore enough from having been slammed against the wall by the final blast, somewhat, but it had felt worth the effort in order to ensure further passerby couldn't get involved in something dangerous. And on that matter-



Someone had to remove the barrow from any future equation. The spirits of the dead had been appeased, and fire was a manner of burial in many places, so with such in mind he'd gone about a controlled burn of sorts.

Flames had licked the insides of the barrow with wanton glee, sparks dancing as the flames had spread about any lingering bone or tissue he could apply it to. Oranges flittered about with reds and flames of black as the dance continued, the magical hellfire seeming to have a mind of its own almost as Knossos conjured and directed it. The occultist aimed at removing any traces of what had been. Bones. Marrow. Items. Burnable materials. Even if it left the history of the place an unknown to any others, the better to remove anything too dangerous and purge it. Even if that meant demonic fire had to be applied to the problem as a solution.

Once he was assured of the inside being cleared out, the occultist had quenched the flames at his command and collapsed the entrance of the barrow completely for good measure.

...Better some things were to be left forgotten to history, perhaps, once it had all been resolved and cleansed.

In that vein, the occultist would turn back toward the caravan, take one quiet look back, and then take his prizes as he began the march back to catch up with the others. Still, he had a bottle of wine to bring to a certain cheese-maker, and some new artifacts to study and place in containment. So it wasn't a loss overall, per say, but it was certainly something he hoped wouldn't repeat itself too often in the future either.

---

Destination: The Hold of Clan Buraq

Ah, sand. What could he say about it? It was hot, it was harsh, and indeed it got everywhere. A lot of people hated it for that reason, and yet those accustomed to such terrain certainly were more well-adjusted. It was in this vein that Knossos felt glad to be familiar with such terrain, even if it had meant conjuring himself some extra water to bring on the road. Albeit water he couldn't really 'share' with others, but which he could drink of for some particular reasons, but water to sustain himself all the same. All the same, the presence of the olden road underneath their feet and sparse vegetation of the dry scrubland and savannah they were in was definitely distinct from the likes of a full-on desert.

He could feel an insivisible chill run down his spine, however, at the mere thought of seeing 'those' rolling dunes and ruins and so forth again. A place he hoped they wouldn't route through if possible in the future, much less run into a bit.

Still, this sort of landscape was not alien to him either. Not after he'd been traveling with the caravan for some time by now. However, this particular location was at least new to him personally.

A colossal ochre stone wall bars easy entrance to the hold itself, but even where wall ends and mountain begins, the defences continue. Cut into the rock itself are structures and fortifications – guard posts, murder holes and even springalds, all manned by tiny figures only distinguishable from the mountains themselves thanks to the glints of light from their broad shields and scaled armour.

But this is only the beginning of it. Just outside of the walls, stretched out in the no-mans land between farming estates and the city itself is a sea of tents, wagons, temporary structures and perhaps most astounding of all are the rolling towers and citadels, and the humongous beasts that have been hitched near them.

They stand nearly ten men tall to their shoulders alone, with tremendously long noses that curl and twist like vast snakes. Massive tusks jut from either side of these trunks, banded with steel and affixed with vicious looking blades or vast metal rams at their ends. Mûmakils – Oliphaunts. Their lesser brethren, the elephants, live in Alwyne’s warmer climes, but these are alike them in shape alone: these creatures are the largest warbeasts seen on this continent – indeed, perhaps anywhere on Alwyne.

Constructions formed from rugged and weather-worn stone stood out before the eyes of the seasoned traveler, seeming to jut out of the side of the mountain like some part of a great, yawning maw of sorts. A well-made and perhaps centuries old structure built into the mountain? Perhaps. Yet the stone seemed hewn further than this, the mountain itself incorporated into the defenses of the place they were approaching, and well-fitted to the shorter stature of the denizens who manned them either more or much less visibly. A veritable fortress of an entrance indeed....and who knew how many times it had been tested over the years. How many times arrows and stones and the like had scratched away at it alongside the winds and grains of sand. What stories such things could tell, and yet sat as silent as the stone it was all composed of! Haha. Yet the approach wasn't all simply scrubland and the like either, thank goodness.

The view of passing estates along the road, covered in swaths of verdant farmland, was certainly a sight of its own as well. And yet he got the sneaking suspicion that not all in the fields were perhaps willing participants or too akin to the serfs of his old homeland. Or perhaps he was simply overthinking things based on what he was observing, what he saw, and what feeling he got from things as they simply passed by. But moving into the empty space between these and the oncoming walls, though, things seemed to more dramatically shift. Rolling towers and citadels, wrought from hardy materials, sat about like moveable fortifications that could be brought in and out of battle. These in turn were pulled by vast beasts of size and scale and scope. Greater than the height of many men these greats beasts of burden and war seemed to stand, with vast trunks that seemed to be bordered by titanic, curved, and metal-tipped tusks of grand and magnificent ivory that almost seemed to hold a light sheen under the unceasing light of the scorching sun. He'd seen smaller sorts than these out in other areas of Alwyne in years long gone, but these were certainly the largest subjects he'd seen in quite a long time! Not the largest beasts or such he'd ever seen in his life, admittedly, but nothing to scoff at either in this case.

Alongside all of this seemed to come the sea of tents, carts, and other beasts of burden that seemed to be scattered like grains of sand upon a sandy beach shore. Was all of this space dedicated to hold travelers and caravans and the like in this manner, or had it simply become such over the years without much prompting otherwise? It was curious, but still wasn't an uncommon sight for a larger city in his experience. Keeping potential groups and such outside, with people able to peddle wares and services outside as travelers and merchants wrought business inside and persons generally moved in and out of the main gate along with the flow of goods. It was familiar in a sense that was somewhat comforting to him, though some of the 'goods' were certainly something beyond his 'tastes' as it were.

"Please, be quiet, they'll hear..."

The voice of a mother hushing a crying child, all as they both walked in chains by them and headed down into the city proper.

"Get it again!"

The voice of a soldier ordering around a camp slave, one who had managed to stumble and spill a vessel of water in front of her master. Seemed to be far from 'new', if the marks on her back and clothing were of any indication, and her quiet nod and movement to go grab more water were simply confirmation of his suspicions on the matter.

He'd heard of such times in other places, seen them elsewhere as well, and for many such practices were very much normalized. Standard. Things they had done for so many generations it was alien to consider otherwise. In others, such as where he had come from, such a trade was seen as useless for the most part. A lack of need for such hard labor slaves where servants were simply fine, where serfs got protection and to keep enough to eat, and where merchants had been growing in number as many moved toward the bigger cities in his youth. His youth. It had been such a long time since then, really....enough to make the occultist wonder what if anything had changed over the decades back there just as much as it made some part of him desire to avoid the location altogether yet still.

The caravan is stopped just outside the army encampment and directed to park themselves in a wide-open space, a few other, smaller caravans already circled. With the return of the army, the city is filled to capacity, but travellers are free to come and go as they always have… So long as they follow the Clan’s laws.

Regardless of what was being done here or not, they were in the land of another place. Another people. Another culture. It benefitted the caravan to maintain neutrality and not earn the ire of the locals in places they went to, whether they liked it or not, and anyone who endangered that....well, made themselves a danger to the caravan. A grim truth of the world, but one that had to be abided by lest they earn themselves a fair bit of dangerous attention. Not that some places didn't hand that out in spades whether they tried to or not, but if they could avoid it then such would be good.

...So yes, he hoped he would not have to try to place a quick curse or two on certain members of the company to keep them from putting a target on everyone's backs. To that end he'd need to consult with Athulwin for further approval as a precaution.

"Victra valis..."

A quietly muttered spell would emerge from the occultist's lips, a small wisp of flickering black, red, and orange flame would emerge before his eyes. It seemed to stare back at him, looking like a tiny floating fireball, but it was as much a little messenger as Knossos could muster for the moment being without bringing in something too big. In that he'd worry if the locals would react more or less badly, but he was unaccustomed to Dinnin religion and its ways in the general sense. Better to be small and safer than sorry, he felt, even as he rolled his self-moving cart into its position in the parked caravan train, got out of the cooling shade of the inside of his covered cart, and lightly hopped off to stretch his legs finally.

"Bring a message from me to Athulwin, asking him if we should take any measures to handle 'potentially worrisome' members of our caravan at this particular location pre-emptively or otherwise. Also see if he has any other advice on the matter otherwise as well. I want to be informed as a precaution for the most part.

Also, please don't set anything on fire. Not unless its someone trying to make a campfire on the open ground along the way."

A small puff of smoke rose from the top of the fiery wisp. Almost like it was huffing in mild frustration at being lectured on not being able to set something on fire. Even so, it would flit away as it moved through the scorching air to find and deliver the message to Athulwin. No fire? Hmphf! Almost made the little thing want to return to the demonic plane it had been summoned from....though admittedly the driving heat and encironment in this part of the mortal plane was still pleasant enough to it otherwise.

In the meantime, the occultist would seek out Gadri and see if the smith knew if he could peddle his occult services here safely (or not) in this place. Or whatever the sort might be. Some further insight into the local area and practices would certainly be a welcome thing if nothing else.

“And there I was! Staring death itself in its small eyes and it was afraid! Then I JUMPED with a ROAR and single handedly destroyed the throne! HA! HA! HA!” shouted Galaxor between large gulps of dwarven ale as he regaled the story of how he defeated the necromancer. His words were mostly slurred and way too loud, as 6 other barrels laid empty next to him.

The crowd roared in laughter and amazement of the story that the resident giant regaled them and if they suspected or knew he embellished the story a bit, they didn't show it.

“O, o, o! I got one for you! Fresh! ” Galaxor shouted again over the crowd as he started singing:

“In the tomb of death,
I, Galaxor, stepped into impending doom.
Axe gripped tightly, heart pounding with cheer,
A necromancer's lair, where dread drew near.

With a roar like thunder, I charged without fear,
Slaying skeletrons, their demise drawing near.
Bones shattered beneath my relentless axe,
Leaving no trace of the undead in that desolate space.

The necromancer quivered, his dark powers fading,
My laughter echoed, victory's tune serenading.
So I raise my barrel high, a toast to triumph so grand only I could achieve it! ”

Ivraan stood besides Galaxor as he was singing, a new glorious battle scar on his shoulder where he was hit by the Wraith, his first of many he had hoped. He let Galaxor revel in his glory, fully aware of how he had embellished the story a bit. Ivraan too was drinking ale like water, but somehow wasn’t showing the signs Galaxor was. When the ballad was over Ivraan raised his mug in the air for a toast. ”Hear! Hear! For triumph!”

After a little, a curious dwarf would come up to Ivraan asking him if it was true what Galaxor told them. Ivraan gave a light chuckle; ”Well, yes indeed it is true what Galaxor said. You should have seen him, his massive figure and his axe battering down upon the throne. The cries of anguish by the necromancer who was unable to stop him. I mean that was due to me and a new guy Terilu who weakened him. But without Galaxor we would be majorly fucked.”

As the evening went later and later, and the morning sun came and the ale kept flowing and flowing some got more rowdy and rowdy until a dwarf challenged Ivraan or Galaxor to a fist fight stating that they had to prove their stories true with a fight. Because there was no way they could win against so many undead if they couldn’t even beat him. Ivraan suspected jealousy and chuckled. He looked over his shoulder and saw Galaxor still hammered and thus decided to step up. Whilst he himself wasn’t in the best of shapes he could if need be clean up the alcohol rather quickly. There was however no need, as the dwarfs stubby arms couldn’t even connect with Ivraan. He chuckled and said; ”Are you even trying to hit me. Man you are slow.” That infuriated the dwarf even more. Ivraan smiled, he had totally proven his point and thus now it was time to unleash havoc; ”BAAAR BRAAAWWWLLLL!” This basically unleashed a bevy of drunken dwarves like a dam had broken down and water gushed down the river.

After a few more barrels, Galaxor finally realised that Ivraan was fighting with someone, not that Galaxor could see what. Not only was he drunk, unusually so after only a few barrels, but the dwarf was just too small.

And then he heard the words ”BAAAR BRAAAWWWLLLL!” and Galaxor sprang into action. Stumbling once or twice, he was just about to squish someone when, maybe for the better, realised that it wasn’t his place to fight the pilgrims. It wasn’t as if they were a threat for him and he really couldn’t pull his punches.

Going right next to Ivraan, Galaxor sat down and said “Don’t wanna kill’em but I can knock’em back. ” before proving his words as he “gently” tapped an incoming fighter on the chest, throwing him back a few metres.

Ivraan just started belly laughing at Galaxor finger flicking away dwarves. Honestly, the drunken dwarves really couldn’t touch Ivraan, their swings were maybe the most telegraphed thing since well.. The telegraph. It didn’t help their case that their arms would barely reach him. Ivraan was casually drinking from his tankard and dodging trying to exhaust the dwarves. This seemed to work at the very least on some. Slowly but surely the dwarves would start sitting back down and started cheering instead of fighting themselves. Honestly the tavern wagon was chaos, tables had been run over, chairs had been flung and there was a few centimeters of beer on the floor. Nonetheless the atmosphere within was great, everyone was having a laugh.

At one point Ivraan stood up; ” Alright lads n lasses, that’s it for me I’m going back to my wagon and sleep. It was fun, let's do this again!” The other patrons who would continue raised their mugs, tankards, and barrels in a cheer as Ivraan left. He went back to his own wagon, chucked his clothes over a chair and ploffed onto his bed, and was gone.

Minutes passed as Galaxor, in a dazed, knocked down dwarf after dwarf as he laughed at the tiny creatures, ‘alas, Ivraan had to stop his fun. Groaning, Galaxor shouted, a very slurred

“Oh, shut it, younglin’!” before downing a whole barrel in one big gulp and then dropping on the ground, deep asleep. His snores waking up even the most drunk dwarves or pilgrims that somehow managed to avoid the chaos.

A few hours later, he’d find himself on the back of a wagon pulled by some very tired animals. A massive headache raging in, Galaxor jumped off the cart and realised that they were out of the forest already and somewhere else. Not exactly understanding where he was and with the headache doing his head in, he decided to fix the one issue he could. The hangover. ‘Thus, Galaxor made his way to the tavern wagon…only to see it closed for repairs.

With a roar of frustration, the angry giant started moving forwards with the caravan, trying to catch a glimpse of their next destination with great hopes of new exotic alcohol he could try.

The day after came, Ivraan woke up without a hangover. He had a massive secret, he never got one, ain’t that nice. As he peeked outside the window he saw that the Caravan had moved, the once vibrant forest had been replaced by an endless sea of sand.

The homeland of the Dinnin, master artificers, craftsmen, and well slavers. Ivraan had run into them during his travels with the Caravan and back home at the tavern his family-owned. He never had any problems with them and actually heard a great deal of stories from a regular back home. He was really enthusiastic when he realised they'd arrived there, his explorers’ spirit brimming with passion. Luckily the Caravan had a few resident standout Dinnin, one of whom was gathering folks to take with them into the clanhold. Ivraan luckily caught up with the group which now consisted of Terilu, Gadri, and Ryt. ” Mind if I tag along for the ride? Honestly, I’m really hyped to explore and what better way than with a guide right?”

When Galaxor finally saw the sea of sand, he was first confused, then the heat hit them and he was angry. For a Stone Giant living up on the mountains at freezing temperatures his whole life, the heat of the desert was just unbearable. If he could sweat, Galaxor would’ve definitely created small rivers behind wherever he walked.

“Stone King, grant me strength, WHAT IS THIS HEAT!?” he shouted out loud, making a few pilgrims, the ones more used to the desert, laugh at his clear discomfort.

Eventually, arriving at the Dinnin settlement, Galaxor saw Ivraan joining a group of pilgrims going into it. Embracing his mission, Galaxor ran towards them and without asking for permission to join them, asked out loud with a genuine and confused tone:

“Guys, got one for you. What’s this yellow snow that we keep stepping on? It’s HOT! ”

Malleck smelled the threat before he saw it. He knew that scent. He knew it well. He'd known it since he was a cub, and a brother had pressed him deep into the hollow of a boabab tree and then scampered up the branches to hide himself among its fruits, the pair praying that the sweet scent and the dust of the savannah would mask their own trail. It was almost a hyena, but beneath the stench that every predator had, there was something... Off. Almost rotten, an acrid taint that stung the edges of his nose and caused the fur around his collar to puff up instinctively.

Gulping softly to himself, turning around just in time for the gnoll to open her mouth and ask if she could accompany him. A nervous grin overtook him almost immediately, lips folding over his teeth to hide them from the threat in a display that any beastfolk would understand but few of the pink-skinned ones ever did.

"Aaheh... Sorry to dissapoint you there but I'm just headin' to see Athulwin. I'm sure there'll be other folks goin' to the city if you'd like to stick with them?" A quick cough and then he shied back a little, before muttering a very quiet _{"Please don't kill me"} under his breath.

---

Gadri had only really been half-sincere when they'd offered to show people around the hold. They weren't of Clan Buraq, in fact, they'd never even been to this particular hold before, but they had enough faith in their own skills and memories of growing up in one not too dissimilar to this that they were sure they'd be fine if one or two folks tagged along. What they hadn't expected was for not one, not two, but three children to suddenly start riding their coattails, and then, to top it all off, the lumbering oaf of a giant had decided to tag along as well.

Gadri liked to think of themselves as a relatively egalitarian person. They had grown up surrounded by any number of races, almost all of them far taller than the stout mountainfolk that they called kin, but this 'Galaxor' and his kin were the most ludicrously tall of any of the people they'd ever encoutered, and to be frank, it felt indulgent to the extreme. No intelligent race needed that much height, that loud a voice, or that boistrous a personality. Overcompensating, that's what it was. Pure overcompensation.

"The... Sand?" Gadri had to crane their head up to even attempt to make eye contact with Galaxor, before turning back to address Ivraan, and through the half-elf the rest of the children accompanying them. They shuffled to face away from as much of the crowd as possible, tugging at the collar of their kaftanin an attempt to avoid attracting the attention that Galaxor had managed to with his roaring declaration that he was unfamiliar with sand. "I must confess I didn't expect to gather such a large group around me when I said I'd be heading in to the city." They turned, covering their face with a hand to try to discern the time. "It's almost midday. Prayer time."

Terilu

Ha-ha! Here there's enough people for a party. Terilu loves crowds, he loves mingling and the noise and smell of many people. It's a thrill he knows he'll miss like a lost love if ever he reforms himself, irreversibly, into a lich. Terilu looks over at Gadri, about to smirk at his apparently very beloved guide- they must be beloved, to have gathered all these followers- and then stops still when he sees the expression on the old dwarf's face. He watches while Gadri just scowls up at the giant, shields their eyes, and mumbles something irrelevant about prayer-time... and suddenly the bat's heart flutters in a nameless emotion that's between sympathy and sudden revulsion. What, would the old man rather be taking a nap? Ugh. He thinks Gadri might be too dull to spend much time around, after all.

Terilu looks up at the giant himself and is struck with a much better idea. He lets his full wingspan stretch out, ten feet wide, gently pushing annoyed walkers-by away and momentarily covering the city street, until with a monumental batting of his wings he defies his own weight and floats off of the ground. True Eratie are never ashamed to take flight even if it's a strange sight to the skinned. He pumps himself and rises up high until he's at eye level with Galaxor.

Then he sits on Galaxor's shoulder.

With his small size compared to the mountainous stature of a Stoneclaw Giant, he fits more-or-less perfectly, like one fits in a chair. And it's convenient. Who wants to walk or fly when they can ride on the shoulders of giants? He's been getting exhausted by the overheated air in this country. "Come on, my gigantic friend," Terilu says to Galaxor, "let us go onward, somewhere! I'm sure we'll find something more interesting to do in this great city than follow this poor dwarf around. I've heard they have an arena here. Let's some of us go and bet on a fight or something!"

--- ~--( )--~ ---

Athulwin is dreaming. He knows this because, though he could never explain why to others, or ever to himself, he's often lucid in his dreams. Not always. Most of the time, his dreams are the same parade of blissful nonsense that almost every one else reports. But in some dreams, and in this dream especially, Athulwin finds himself strangely aware of his own sleeping state. He knows that he is in a world of his own imagination, the Song Beneath the Song, and he knows that he'll remember it perfectly when he wakes. He has had this dream many, many times.

He stands in the forest. Not a forest, the forest: the one where he used to meet Alder, the vampire who feigned so long at caring about Athulwin so that he could try to turn him once he'd achieved real power. The trees in this part of the wood are tall, thick and straight-backed. They looked like a giant's fingers to him as a child and like the bars of a cage to him as an adult. On cue, without fail, Alder steps out from their long shadows. It's twilight.

This time, Alder says, "Your eyes are starting to sink in, Athulwin."

This dream doesn't put on the same performance every night that it comes. It isn't static. It keeps track with the passing of the years. Each time Athulwin dreams it, Alder remarks on his age differently. It's harsher each turn.

"You look the same," replies Athulwin. That's one thing that never changes. Lucid or no, he always, always finds himself saying it. The dream Alder looks at him with something that must be a monster's closest mimicry of pity.

"You could've been like this, too," he says. "For what did you reject me? For an oath? Or out of foolishness? Tell me."

"I loved you," says Athulwin.

"That is no answer. If you had love for me, then why didn't you take my gift?"

The monk sighs. He's so tired. Even in his sleep he is tired. His breath turns visible in the thin air of win-

Athulwin stirs and wakes up in his fabric-heavy Caravan to the smell of fire. That scent wakes him out of the dream and burns the emotion of the whole thing out of his mind in an instant. He's halfway to standing up, aching old knees and all, before he realizes that his mobile home is not actually burning down. The curtains, pillows, blankets, sheets are not ablaze. But one thing is ablaze here and Athulwin knows exactly who it came from.

"Oh," he says to the small wisp of fire hovering in front of his open door. (He'd left it open while he snoozed, not wanting to awaken to a home that had become an oven.) "I see you, creature. Knossos has sent you. I suppose this is my return for sending out the Wind to talk to him. Speak quickly: what did he tell you to say?"

The fiery wisp relays it.

"Ah," says Athulwin. "Return to Knossos, daemon, for I too can speak fire, and tell him that he should whisper into the desert wind when he wishes to speak to his Navigator, instead of sending an unholy thing. And... yes, tell him that I said we should keep on eye, magical or mundane, on the more naïve of the Caravan. There are some who have good intentions but too much passion."

The wisp seems a little offended at this whole thing, Athulwin thinks, but off it burns into the air again, carrying the message back to the old occultist who sent it. Knossos is an interesting breed. Sometimes he's Athulwin's favorite pilgrim, for the knowledge and protective power he brings. Sometimes he's one of Athulwin's least favorites, for the smell of occultism never seems to fully be gone from him. So many times Athulwin has been so close to asking him for help with the Curse. But there is a thing deep inside the monk's soul that just won't let him turn to a veritable warlock for a cure, any more than he could accept Alder's gift of vampirism. He can't chase out darkness with darkness. Evil magic begets only evil things. Of that, more than anything else in the world, more than the sun rising tomorrow, Athulwin feels certain.

His window- a wooden flap in the wall, held open with string connected to the roof- is as open as the door was, and out of it he looks, debating inside himself if he should go about outside and act his role as the Navigator. But then he stops and stares at what he sees. There's a foolish savannah dog out there, that looks like it's about to be eaten by a hyena. This wouldn't be an issue, but the hyena is a gnoll, and the dog is Malleck.

Fine.

Athulwin tries to force himself into a standing position for the second time in not enough minutes, and when he has finally worked his slow way out of the Caravan and across the open space to where the Ainok and the gnoll are staring one another down, he can just hear poor Malleck whimpering. "_{Please don't kill me.}"

"She won't," says Athulwin, in a projecting voice. He'd seen Thorzna many times, with her two years in the Caravan. "Don't be afraid, Malleck. Miss Scrapblast is a fine Pilgrim."

---

"Water," Ilyana mutters, slipping the yoke with the two wooden buckets hanging from it on her shoulders. With a groan as she stands up, the cords just the right length for her to grasp the rope bails. She then turned and began trudging towards the nearest gate.

What was with this heat? And why was there no water out here among the other tents and wagons? Those huge things with the tusks must need a lot of water just to keep cool.

She hoped they weren't going to make her take off her cutlass or her knife once she reached the gate. Somehow she didn't think Athulwin would take it too kindly if she killed the guards.

The sailor paused as a floating head raced past her to catch up with the group in front and suddenly vanishes. She rubs her eyes for a moment, then when the mirage didn't reappear, Ilyana starts trudging again towards the city gate.

"Must be the heat."

---

Pilot the construct was busy putting out the tent and poles from the dromedary box underneath the wagon, while Siri supervised - or rather, she read from one of the many journals of previous Wanderer clerics while it worked.

"Pilot, listen to this one!" the retired apothecary cackled. "This one is from Faust while he was in that underground bazaar. He's got bars listed here!"

The scarecrow turned, its glowing red eyes blinking for a moment as it listened.

"'The Dead Necromancer's Tavern. This quiet tavern located just off Temple Street in Undertaker's Alley is notorious for the nightlife, people are dyin' to get in. 'Raise Your Spirits' nights on Celesdays offer half-off drinks for terminal illness sufferers.' He's got one star written here."

"'The Common Prayer. On the corner of Temple Street and Dawn Avenue, this humble tavern offers an assortment of gruel, pottage, sour rye bread, and the house ale. Every night is Sermon Night, where you get a lecture while you're eatin' following the cancelation of Exorcism Lundays due to licensin' issues?' They had icensin' issues for exorcisms? Well, this one has two stars! Guess it's a better atmosphere than the Necromancers?"

Pilot shrugs its shoulders.

"'The Vile Elixir Alehouse on Lighthouse Road opposite the Secret Asylum of Time and next door to the Cloister of Doom, favored by wizards, witches and warlocks. Closed Lundays. High marks for the Shepherd's Pie, pulled pork, and their Baked Apple, as well as a fine assortment of cheeses. Specialty drinks, although the Hangman's Doom should be avoided.' My, that sounds interestin'. Got four stars, guess he liked the place."

Siri paused, reading intently, then let out an explosive whoop.

"'The Immoral Demon Bar is a lively place on Phoenix Row where they say you can make a deal for just about anythin'. Notorious for their cursed magical weapons decor and their Dancing Hands review, a spectacular animated display of former customers hands who made the mistake of touching one of the weapons without permission. Remember, you can look,'" she chuckles, "'just don't touch.' Five stars. Must have really liked the hands dancin'!"

Siri glances up and the smile slips from her face. Someone had somehow pinned a small blade to Pilot's chest with a bit of parchment wrapped around the hilt while the scarecrow's eyes blinked rapidly.

"Who did that do you?" Siri demands, glancing around using the magic eyes all around the wagon and her hat band. A bunch including the giant and the bat-boy was heading towards the gates, and she could see that half-elf boy following after them with a pair of buckets on a yoke. Of the messenger, there was no sign.

Slipping warily down from the wagon seat, she crosses over to the scarecrow and pulls the thin throwing blade from its chest, an assassin's throwing blade to be sure, despite the lack of poison. Pity that, some of them gave the most wonderful tingles.

Untying the string, she uncurled the parchment and began reading.

"Greetin's and salutations, Mistress Siri," she scowls. "The Assassin's Guild is in urgent need of your assistance when you arrive in Midnight City. A Sobieck."

She studies the crest for a moment, the hilt of a blade sticking out of a bleeding human skull, then shakes her head.

"What, they couldn't just walk up and hand this to me? What's with all the cloak and dagger?" Siri asks, then winces. "Sorry about that."

Leaning forward, Siri muttering a mending spell as she ran her finger over the slit in Pilot's shirt, the fibers drawing together as if they'd never been cut. "Did you see where they went?"

The construct shook its head silently.

"And just how did they manage that trick?" she scowls, glancing around once more.

Galaxor genuinely looked confused at Gadri when he mentioned “sand”. It was a word that he never heard of. Hot like yellow snow, a bad taste like it and definitely yellow. All this pointed to Galaxor that this sand thing was in fact yellow snow, just a different variety of it.

“Sand. You call yellow snow, sand. Make sure you don’t eat it, it’s very dry! HA! HA! HA!” laughed Galaxor, trying to hide the fact that he did try to eat the sand to see how it tasted and he was very displeased with it.

Before anyone else could say anything, the small bat-creature from before started flying towards him and…sat down on his shoulder. Stopping abruptly, Galaxor turned his head and looked at it and for the first time noticed that Terilu was not a human with wings and weird hair, but a different race altogether. Not that it mattered, they were all Little Folk, as they were called by the Clans. It was just that some were more little than the others and more weirdly looking.

“"Come on, my gigantic friend," Terilu says to Galaxor, "let us go onward, somewhere! I'm sure we'll find something more interesting to do in this great city than follow this poor dwarf around. I've heard they have an arena here. Let's some of us go and bet on a fight or something!"

“Aye! Aye! Let’s go on then. Arenas are fun. Do you think I can join? Squashing dwarves is funny. HA! HA! ” said Galaxor before waving at the group and going in a different direction, looking around for the arena.

After a few steps, Galaxor looked behind and raised his voice a bit, so that the others in the group could hear him “Ivraan, you coming? Fun things happening in this direction. Maybe some booze, eh? ”

Turning towards Terilu, he asked in what he wanted to be a quiet voice.

“Apologies, little one, but I never caught your name and…what are you again? Not human or dwarf, I think. Unless you people do come in different varieties besides being small. ” asked Galaxor in his curious and extra loud voice before continuing to walk.

By the time Gru finished, the cheesemonger was quite out of breath. Even if his rats were the ones who hauled him around the Clanhold’s outlying farms, collectively doing all the physical labor, Gru had been working hard. He’d begun discussion after discussion at a disadvantage, trying to balance out negotiation and ingratiation as he strove to make the smartest use of his money. As much as his business needed milk, he could not afford to settle for poor-quality ingredients, nor ones on the precipice of expiration, nor ones that failed to meet his standards for hygiene. His morning had become a balancing act of elephantine (or given the circumstances, perhaps even mûmakil-ine) proportions, keeping track of names and locations, exact quantities, quality evaluations, probable shelf life, and of course, money. As always Gru was extremely exacting with his funds, deducting each expenditure from his overall total in his ledger with meticulous attention to detail. One miscalculation and he could unwittingly spend his bottom dollar–or worse, spend money he no longer had. Going into the red while betting on a future bonanza was a risky proposition at the best of times, but in the land of the Dinnin, debt could be worse than a death sentence.

After what felt like hours rushing back and forth through the miserable heat, Gru finally shut himself up in the Chuck Wagon to take a much-needed, well-deserved break. His rats accompanied him, either in the wagon’s rooms or their dedicated habitat in the ‘attic’, shielded from the desert’s scorching sun. Gru refilled his water bottle from a spigot on the same custom tank that his rats drank from, then took a deep sip, noting that his stores were getting a little low. While the Caravan did offer a communal water source, the cheesemonger much preferred to have his own private supply. On one hand, it was only fair. Between himself and his breathtaking abundance of rats, after all, the Chuck Wagon’s usage outstripped the vast majority of Pilgrims by a large margin. On the other hand, that meant that nobody else could threaten his supply, and in the case of an emergency, he would be self-sustaining. Of course, he expected that water would come at a premium in the desert, and while his careful calculations ensured that enough money remained for emergencies like a water shortage, he could no longer spend frivolously. Not until the cash started rolling in.

For anyone else in the business, that moment would have been a long way off. Cheese took a great deal of time, so much so that it could be weeks before even an inferior product could be considered finished. Gru, however, was no ordinary cheesemaker. While the others went off into the Clanhold for sightseeing and adventure, he planned to start work right away. By the time the others returned, there would be new cheeses waiting to tickle their taste buds. Not long after Gru caught his breath, he received his first knock on the door. The milk had begun to arrive. It was time to unseal the vats, lay out the cheesecloth, uncork the rennet, leaf through the recipes, and bring out the curd cutters. After so many damnable days spend idle, just twiddling his thumbs while his stocks slowly (or in certain cases, quickly) dwindled, Gru was more than ready to get busy.

As always, the first phase involved nothing but genuine cheesemaking skill, be it in processing the raw materials himself, or directing his crews of rats to maximize throughput. With several batches ongoing at any one time, this involved almost as much juggling as all the acquisition Gru went through earlier, but this time the cheesemonger was in his element. No bad attitudes, no strange customs, no wheeling and dealing, and no balancing the books; just practicing his craft alongside the critters he cherished most. Compared to dealing with people, this felt far simpler, almost relaxing even. Seeing his creatures go about their business brought him a remarkable amount of joy, as well. For the most part his rats did just as he told them, his orders relayed through his four most prized (and intelligent) pets, but sometimes his darlings displayed such a familiarity with their tasks that Gru could swear they were actually developing skills and honing their craft.

Once the creation process had finished, the rest was up to time as the cheeses either soaked in brine, or got transferred over to the Chuck Wagon’s dry room to age on its shelves. This was the point at which a normal cheesemonger would need to play the waiting game, and yet, Gru’s skill was such that he could age his products at speeds that beggared belief. Incredible? Certainly. Unnatural? Well, no need to sensationalize. It was only natural that those ignorant of natural science would look at its products and assume magic, and who knew anything about mycology? Who could say what was possible, or impossible? Only Gru.

---

The girls in their blue aprons and scarves were toiling with beating the rugs before they would be laid down for the brightly colored commissary tent. A fair-haired orc girl, pausing to wipe her brow, caught sight of Ilyana heading towards the gates.

“It’s the sailor!” she blurted, nodding towards the half-human. The others pause, marveling at the scars they could see.
“Where do you think he’s been?”
“Where is he going with that?” the red-headed centaur asks, pointing at the buckets.
“He doesn’t know where the water wagon is!” the orc girl squeals, covering her mouth with her hands.
“Oh, I’ll go tell him,” the centaur smirks, darting towards Ilyana while the other serving girls began complaining.

“Hey! Hey, elf!”
Ilyana stops, glancing around wildly until she caught sight of the centaur.
“Uh, me?” she asks, confused.
“Yeah, you!” the centaur laughs. “I’m Hyrilea, what’s your name?”
“Ilyana.”
“Ilyana, that’s a nice name.”
“Is it?” the half-human blinks, confused. “Uh, thanks?”
“You’re welcome! Are you looking for the water wagons?”
“Uh, have they been filled?”
“Oh, yes,” the centaur sighs. “Athulwin had it done, first thing. He doesn’t want any hold-ups should we have to leave suddenly. They’re behind the commissary tent. C’mon, I’ll show you!”

Hyrilea wheels around to face towards the tent, while at the same time giving the other girls a big thumbs up and watching them react.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Ilyana answers, confused, turning to follow the girl. “So uh, did they had to leave suddenly before?”
“So I’ve heard. One of the cooks said that a Dinnin and his two guards started making a fuss when they found that the Wanderer priest was holding services on a Starday. But before it went too far, the cook said the three of them suddenly turned into frogs.”
“Frogs...?”
“Very ugly frogs, he said.”
“Ah, so...?”
“And so they packed up and left before anyone figured out what happened.”
“....Right. Uh, are you sure the cook wasn’t making it up?”

“Make it up?” Hyrilea drawls, flicking her tail suggestively as they walked around the back of the big tent and could see the water and supply wagons.
“Yeah, trying to impress you?”
“Maybe, I dunno. Here we are!” she beams, waving her arms at the nearest water wagon.
“Thank you, you’re too kind,” Ilyana replies, sagging with relief.

“So... do you want to check out the town, later? With me?” Hyrilea asks, ducking her head. Her left leg began pawing at the sand, digging a small divot nervously.

Ilyana frowns, glancing back. Was she flirting with her? No, that couldn’t be it, they weren’t even the same species or sex. There were other centaurs, of course, but most of them looked to be paired up. Hyrilea was probably just bored, not that she blamed her for that. Had to be hard trying to set up a tent when they'd been so long on the road with a town just over there.

“Uh, sure. When do you get off?”
Hyrilea blushes furiously as she glances up at Ilyana, but she was already walking towards the water wagon’s attendant.
“I’m off in an hour, I can meet you at your cart!”
“An hour,” Ilyana nods, waving her left hand and not seeing the centaur dash off.

---

---

“Better hire some help,” Granny Siri sighs, watching as Pilot the construct struggled with spreading out the canvas. “We don’t need any more frogs.”