Fumiko muttered a long, elaborate string of curses under her breath as she glared out from under the shade of her haphazardly constructed personal wagon. It was adorned with spacecraft debris, everything of value she had been able to salvage, plus some structural components she was determined to turn into a functional mobile shelter. Some day.

For now, though, she was just trying to keep out of the damned sun. She had never seen sunlight so bright - in truth she had barely ever seen sunlight at all. Only the thin polar night of distant lights to the south, from those other nations her own had in the past warred against. She had never left Yatovina’s borders, and though bright light was not something she was unaccustomed to, bright sunlight certainly was. The heat, too. The heat was horrendous. She couldn’t escape it. She’d only felt something close to this when stuck in protective gear in a heated lab – usually it was cold to which she was accustomed. Bitter cold. Always trying to seep in from the perpetual nuclear winter outside. Warmed and lit only by the dimly glowing remnants of the world’s star and by the wan light of the suns of the southern Gods, she had known cold all her life.

But this damned heat? Nothing like it. She was sweating buckets, even with the cooling properties of her suit. It was built to keep her cool even in volcanically heated environments, or within the confines of a cockpit that would get hotter with every passing second, or indeed the balmy interior of a spaceship. It certainly alleviated the worst of it, but still, the heat was murderous.

And yet despite the heat, she was curious. Curious about this world that was, like it or not, her new home. Curious about the people she’d found herself traveling with - having had the good fortune not to encounter some sort of medieval highwaymen instead. She was curious about this desert city they’d stopped at, too. She hadn’t learned much about it - her grasp of their common tongue was far, far too limited. She had mastered… a few words. The most basic of sentences. Not enough to glean much more than the name of the… polity? under whose banner they now rested.

And she was curious about that one human - the woman, if she remembered the term correctly. The one who kept making the strange symbols whenever she saw her, and who behaved strangely. Strange even by the standards of terrified inhabitants of a medieval world encountering a literal alien in their midst. She certainly understood fear - she was afraid herself. Her copilot was dead. Dead and laid to rest in some strange forest in a strange world, away from the songs of home and the familiar spirits that would have accompanied him. The ship’s spirit was with her at least. And that was something. The shrine - a tiny little thing that gave him something to bind to - was just a little talisman that presently hung around her neck. She held it in her hand, claw gently tracing over the finely engraved details on it.

A hand rested on her shoulder. A familiar warm presence. He was right behind her after all. She had figured he might be off invisibly poking around the camp - but no. He was here. With her.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she looked back to him. “Ah, there you are.”

“Here I am.” Came the matter of fact answer. “You know. Sitting here does you no good. They’re as scared of you as you are of them. You’re eventually going to need to go speak to them some more. You may as well start now.”

“Yes, yes, Nesora, but what do you expect me to say? I speak… what, thirty words of their language? I can barely understand a single word they say. What conversation am I going to have?”

“The one human that keeps making the weird hand signs? What about her? We’re both curious to find out what they mean, no? Stop making up excuses and go.”

Fumiko sighed, jumping down from her wagon. Her boots hit the hot sand, and she was once again reminded why those comical looking boots for desert operations existed. The sand seemed to eat up her feet. They were admittedly smaller feet than a human’s - digitigrade like those of a fox, rather than the strangely flat and ungainly human feet. But their bigger feet did have one advantage - lower ground pressure. She grumbled, stepping awkwardly through the sand as she trudged over to the strange human’s wagon. She made a unique sight, she was sure. A creature unlike anything else in this world wearing clothes and weapons without like or equal, struggling along with what looked very much like another of her kin walking lightly behind her but with the sand showing no disturbance where he stepped.

The strange human’s wagon was distinctive enough, at least. She didn’t need to awkwardly ask one of the caravan members to help her find it. Hesitantly she approached its door, knocking on it and then, awkwardly, “Eh… Morvanu, right? I… am wanting to… tahk?”

Heavens. She hated this language.

Ivraan let out a solid chuckle at being confused about what sand was. It made sense but still, the way he described it was great. Hot yellow snow, yeah that was a new one. Once at the side of the crowd, Gadri spoke about midday prayers which piqued Ivraan's interest. He himself wasn’t exactly religious but if he could believe the stories about this territory it was seeped in religion. On the other side, Terilu and Galaxor mentioned going to an arena. That was really more Ivraan's speed, plus he liked the two. Having fought a battle together always helps with growing a bit of trust so.

Ivraan was in between the two options but as Galaxor shouted; “Ivraan, you coming? Fun things happening in this direction. Maybe some booze, eh? ” Ivraan was sold. He was joining Terilu and Galaxor and quickly caught up. Honestly, the sight was very funny, a bat sitting on the shoulder of a giant and a half-elf following suit. Yes, this would be very out of place.

“If we tag by the arena we should see if we can join. I also need to buy some stuff here so maybe we can visit the market after.”

With this Galaxor, Terilu, and Ivraan set off towards the Arena. On the way there Ivraan would occasionally have a gander at some of the small vendors in the streets. Buying some local snacks to feast on and try out. From his pocket, he’d grab a small booklet in which he made notes about the local specialties. Honestly, he loved just trying out all different kinds of food, and he would rate it too. Currently at the top of his list was a seafood stew that he ate when he was in a big port town. Fresh Halibut, shrimp, and squid are stewed in a vegetable stock based on roots such as sweet carrots with a second stock made from the halibut bones.

The local specialties here would rank somewhere in the middle, but who knows? Perhaps something surprising would cross Ivraans path..

---

Terilu gazes down his long snout at the people of the street, these Dinnin, who are staring right back up at him. The sight of him makes faces upturn and eyes widen, people not knowing how to reconcile his strange appearance with the normal range of their experiences. How often do you see a bat-boy? There's a poor old man who looks up at the bat with so much shock, his mouth all rounded like a yawn, that he doesn't even notice his turban slipping back. Terilu laughs at him. This scene is not at all unfamiliar: Terilu is often high over others, and he usually does inspire shock in those who don't have the pleasure of meeting Eratie as part of their drear daily routines (whatever those routines are, Terilu has no interest in them), but what's fun about this instance is that he's also inspiring shock because he's riding on top of a giant. That's a new one.

Galaxor turns his head slightly to him. His bat passenger is grateful that motion doesn't knock him off of the shoulder-ride. The giant asks: "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." Some of the onlooker's brows crease in an even deeper confusion. Not only is there an Eratie riding on a giant, they wonder, but the giant doesn't even know the creature? Terilu laughs at that, too. In normal circumstances the whole question would irritate him. The Eratie are a great race. All should know of them. But this scene is so comical, he doesn't have enough edge in him to care just now.

He pats the giant on the back- an interesting action, when his back is under you- and says "What am I? Oh, my oversized friend, what a giant-like question to ask. I'm Terilu, Ascendant of the Third Caste and Called by the Reaching Hand, in Form of Baítudatu-Thumilie, of New Dawnlit. That's my full name. But you can call me Terilu. Just don't call me Terry, a human did that once and I was obligated by my honor as an Eratie to turn him into a skeleton." The giant's footsteps were so efficient, they were already approaching the arena. When they reached a point where the buildings seemed to clear out a little, one could just see the outline of an amphitheater on the horizon, thronged with souls hungry to see blood. They weren't the only ones. Ivraan had joined the party, too, occasionally dodging off to the side to buy some street-vendor food that was probably disgusting. "That bit about turning a human into a skeleton was a joke," admitted Terilu, forced into honesty about it in case either the giant or the elf-human-whatever had recently tuned up their moral compasses.

An Ainok picks this time to walk through the crowd far below. Terilu points him out. "Anyway, see, that is what I'm like. An Eratie is a beastrace. We're..." How does one explain this in a way that it could be understood even by a barbarian who doesn't know what sand is? Terilu, struggling to sift through the theology and anatomy and history of it all for the easiest to swallow explanation, at last says, "It's like we're part human and part bat, Galaxor. We were created by a goddess long ago- Ad'Itie, my goddess. She lured humans and elves into a cave, she fused their bodies with the cave-bats, she gave them fresh souls and taught them her ways through a mystical dance. That's when they became the first Eratie. Every kind of bat-man creature like me descends down from them. So the story goes."

The amphitheater was close now. It was a huge, open-air circle of stone, lined up with seats where paying spectators could watch their brutal show. They'd be safe up there. Down in the center is where blood would wet the sand. The opening attraction: a fight between a gladiator, and a hungry lion prodded by cruel handlers into a blood rage. Terilu was looking forward to that. But is wasn't the only thing.

"Hey, Galaxor, Ivraan" says Terilu, "look there-" he points with furry finger where, hardly five steps to the side of the grand entrance, between all the vendors selling their exotic food and souvenirs (who doesn't wish to remember the time they saw a man eaten live by a lion?), there was a sign-up for people who wanted to join the show themselves. Non-lethal fights, you get a chain necklace to show you're a contestant. "I am not going to do it, but I suspect one of you will?"

Gnolls had a reputation for evil, something Thozna still found confusing even after all her years interacting with the other peoples of Alwyne. Gnolls had no inherent respect for life and saw no problem in killing for what they needed, but they weren't mindless. Friends and family were to be respected and protected, and the Caravan was now Thozna's pack. She presented no danger to them unless they for some reason turned on her and Ryt.

But the Ainock must have grown up with too many stories of her kind, for his body betrayed him by displaying his fear. Thozna found it gratifying, even if it was unwarranted, for there was no better boost to the ego than knowing that someone was scared out of their wits by your mere presence.

She bared her teeth in a smile, so used to the human way of doing things that she didn't realize just how poorly the gesture could be taken until it had already been made. "I could do so." She shrugged. "I just wasn't sure what sort of things I could expect."

The Ainock was still frightened of her, a slave to his ancestral memories, and when he backed away Thozna took the hint. "The elder is right." she said with a polite nod to Athulwin. "Gnolls do not turn on packmates without reason."

Morvanne was utterly miserable. The woods had been one thing: an ancient yet living thing, where the Prist hung so heavy in the air that she swore she could have plucked essence as if it was a fruit... But one didn't need to be an Obliturge to know who held sway here. Its intensity, its power, it's heat was enough to make one consider just how thoroughly the Sunderer had done its job of splitting the Glory.

It was no wonder, really, that the people here were obsessed with the thing. "The Light-and-Flame," she had heard it called, and as on-the-nose as that was, it certaily didn't seem inappropriate. There was the Sun Divided, and there was the Flame's creations, just outside her wagon. Directly in the sunlight. She groaned and rolled over in her bed, about to continue her languishing when a knock came at the door, followed by a question. The broken common, the accent...

Oh dear.

"One moment," she called back, before scrambling to her feet. She filled a kettle with water, lit her small tea burner, tossed a few leaves in and set it down to boil, before immediately turning to her wardrobe and rummaging through. She was in her undergarments at the moment, and there wasn't a a chance among the devils that she'd be meeting this stranger in a few pieces of linen. But... What to put on that was quick enough to don without leaving her strange guest waiting, and thin enough that she didn't immediately wish to tear it back off again?

She flicked through her garments quickly, then picked one without thinking over it too quickly: this was not a ritual, it didn't require her to spend hours contemplating. Already she could feel her instincts telling her she'd left the guest waiting for too long- she should have been ready to accept visitors when it was acceptable for them to come over. Squashing them down and tossing on the pale red gown she'd plucked out, she could finally smooth the whole thing out and hurry to the door, unlocking it just as the kettle began to bubble.

Fumiko would find the inside of the wagon to be homely, if a little cramped. A small cot was pressed into a corner, braced up by a wardrobe that had had hooks attached to the sides just to hold more clothing. Bookcases and shelves were crammed in wherever there was room, the storage space filled with scrolls and trinkets alongside the expected books. Small bundles of aromatic herbs dangled down here and there, and the wall closest to the door had been adorned by a tapestry as broad as a man's wingspan.

Morvanne herself offered Fumiko a small curtsy, then, as she had done every time she interacted with the woman, made a quick gesture with her right hand: index and pinky finger extended out towards the alien, the rest tucked in. A ward against bad luck and evil.



Malleck managed a quick yip before Athulwin emerged to try to smooth things over. Unfortunately for both Thozna and the monk though, a lifetime of ingrained learning did not vanish quickly - especially when the towering gnoll bared her teeth and commented that she could, indeed, kill the young storyteller. [color=khaki]"Wouldn't be the first of your kind to tear apart an innocent,"[color=khaki] the Ainok commented bitterly, only sparing her a sceptical look when she commented that she wouldn't turn on her 'pack.' How many of her 'packmates' had thought a similar thing before they were hacked apart or had a chunk ripped out of their chest by those jaws?

"Jus' don't feel comfortable around gnolls. Lost too many of my pack to 'em. Need a hand with those steps Athulwin?"

"One moment,"

The words rattled through the door after a short pause. Fumiko frowned, trying to remember their meaning… ahah, right. Once again - how she hated this language. That it was a language she could at all recognize as a language was in and of itself remarkable. But, then, it was remarkable that humans had apparently developed independently here. Was it really any more remarkable that their languages were still ones she could, broadly, learn and understand with practice? She was already in some ludicrous parody of reality - what was one more flagrant violation of probability?

All this pondering did, at least, give her time wherein she did not process Morvanne’s delay in getting ready. Even with the blistering heat of that sun and the alien song of the world around her she still found herself easily lost in thought. Perhaps one day she could even find herself lost in pleasant thought? It would be difficult, though, with all these strangers around her, and the uncomfortable world. Already she was feeling the effects of being displaced. This was not her environment - she had acclimated to the interior of a spaceship. Now she was thrust first into a magical forest, then a scorching desert. She was out of place. And who knew how long it would take her spirit to acclimate to this world. Would she acclimate to this caravan instead? She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to contemplate another few years of this grinding malaise.

At last the door opened, and Fumiko gratefully stepped inside and out of the sun, giving the woman a small bow as was custom. Or, at least, custom in her own home country. She bent over, the nine tails behind her following her rear and briefly filling Morvanne’s vision as she quickly stripped off her boots, leaving them just by the entrance to avoid tracking in dirt. Nesora followed her - though he, in his at times maddening incorporeality, seemed completely unphased by the sun. Looking back up she could see her host, and her host’s home. She raised an eyebrow at the interior of the wagon - it was… nice, actually. It was rather nice. Bundles of books and herbs thrown every which way, a small bed. She had expected worse, for some reason. But- there it was. That symbol again. The strange hand symbol she always made towards herself or towards Nesora.

Fumiko’s eyes narrowed involuntarily. “Tsat!” She exclaimed, “I-” she paused, letting out a small sigh, quietly mumbling “Shtora ya nechisurei shidemakita…”. She wasn’t sure how to excuse herself for rudeness in this language. She did not even know the word for rudeness in this language. Hopefully the message would be conveyed regardless. She pointed Morvanne’s hand, more slowly, miming the gesture with an expression of obvious confusion. “I am… not… know vhat tsis is…” She struggled for the word, frowning, “Vhat is eh…” She shook the hand gesture around, hoping that despite her lack of knowledge of this language, her meaning would get across all the same.

---

As the water wagon attendant jotted down in his log of the four gallons of water issued to Illyana, there came a heavy sigh from underneath the wagon, and a small figure crawled out from underneath - Thistrideth Dragongrog, the beardless night baker. Many a dwarf gave the redhead a double-take when they saw her naked chin, the blood-red lipstick or the blush on her bare cheeks. While many a dwarf made noise of disgust, sometimes one of them would hang back, and ask her in a trembling voice where they could get that makeup, too?

Athulwin most likely had caught wind of her makeup parties with the interested female dwarves, but he wasn't invited. And makeup was a lot more comfortable than that itchy false-beard that her mother made Thistrideth wear.

However, she wasn't wearing her signature makeup at the moment. She looked annoyed, unhappy about crawling out from under the best cool spot in the desert. Her studded sleeping mask had been shoved up like some weird headband.

"Hey," Thistrideth called out to the wagon attendant, shaking her head to clear it, then staring at the receding back of Illyana as she made her way towards her cart, "Was that Hyrilea with that boy?"
"Uh, yeah."

"Not again," Thistrideth grumbles, then sighs as she pulls herself upright. "Don't let anyone take my spot."

As she entered the commissary tent, Thistrideth could see the centaur with the other servers, helping to lay out carpets on the sands.

"Hyrilea!" the lowland dwarf bellowed angrily, making every head in the tent jerk in her direction. The centaur frowned, but cantered over.
"Thist,..."
"What the hell were you doing with that boy?"
"Boy? Oh, nothing. He didn't know where the water wagons were...."
"And so you offered to show him," the baker said scornfully. "And you then offered to show them around town, too. What's the matter? Kostantinos' eyes wandering around those new fillies?"
"I... I don't know what...!"
"Save it, honey. The last thing we need is a jealous guard attacking a half-grown half-elf. Do you want to see him in a slave collar here because he killed that boy? Maybe you as well? Do you know where you might wind up if you get collared?
"He's not a boy, he's a sailor off of a navy ship! He's got all those battle scars...!"
"He's not even forty!" Thistrideth retorted. "Hell, I don't know his have dropped, yet."

Blushes burned on a few cheeks behind Hyrilea.

"Boy's got no family name, he's been disowned," the baker went on. "What was Athulwin gonna do? Leave the lad behind, like his crew did? The kid's got a good head on his shoulders, I don't need you messin' with it because you're angry at Kostantinos and tryin' ta make him jealous!"

The centaur ducks her head, her right hand wraps around her left elbow.

"I... I'm sorry, Thist...."
"Yer sorry," the dwarf says scornfully. "They tell me dat lump on your shoulders is a head, you best start usin' it. If yer angry at Kostantinos, take it out on him. Kick him in da shins, give him a nip - he's a big boy, he can take it. Don't go draggin' others into your mess, and I won't have to find someone else to pull the spice wagon."

---

"Hey, you!" Siri called out, spying Illyana. "I need some help with this tent, think when you're done with yer water, you could come back here? There's coin in it for you!"

"Coin?" the half-human said, blinking at the Wanderer cleric. "Sure, I'll be right over."

Siri frowned as Illyana trudged away.

"Did he look okay to you?" she asked Pilot.
The construct shrugs, turning back to tugging at the canvas, trying to spread it out.

Destination: The Hold of Clan Buraq

As the older occultist walked along toward the entrance gates of the city, the little wisp of fire returned to him in seemingly a flash. Turning a brief glance to it, before his eyes returned to the road ahead, the little wisp of fire began to recall to him the return message from Athulwin. While the monk was not seemingly too happy about things, at least to his ears, the little daemonic fire at least had done its job talking. Hmm. He did need to have a more consistent messenger or two he could summon, maybe something the monk wasn't as uncomfortable with? Eh. There was no changing the past, as it were, but later he'd have to ask if nothing else. Give a small list of ideas.

But the wisp seemed a tad frustrated in and of itself still, and after a small puff of smoke and a demand to 'go back home' the occultist would give a wave of his hand. As a result, the wisp would disappear, sent back to its 'home' and no longer running his errands. Better to end things there than risk it trying to go off and set something on fire....though as its summoner he had authority over it in this case. More importantly, however, was the message it had brought back.

Return to Knossos, [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.

Hmm. The two of them had been having the same sort of concern, perhaps, but the occultist would stretch his arms for a second as he tried to mentally gear himself to keep such an eye out. He'd be looking into his own business, but he'd keep eyes and ears out while their resident Navigator sat collecting the usual dust he supposed. Or in this case would it be being buried in sands? Ah, at least they weren't out in proper sand dunes and the like. Nasty things for first-timers to face, those, and he knew that from firsthand experience to boot. Nothing against Athulwin in the end of course, he did his job well. He also did good to send word to them of things farther back in the caravan along the way to boot. Made for some good company at times, even, around the campfire or during dinnertime.

Sometimes, though, the monk just seemed ever so 'tired' to the occultist. Like something more than physical strength was being drained from him. Could see it in his eyes, just about, but only due to his own experience in the field of curses and such ilk. Did this draining have to do with the darker magics seemingly afflicting him? Perhaps, if not most likely so according to his own gut instincts, but he wasn't about to pry either unless Athulwin came to him about the matter for some odd reason.

But what would be better to send a rep-....ah. Aha! That would be a perfect choice in this instance. At least since he wasn't too close to the city gates yet.

Weaving his hands in a peculiar and almost circular pattern, a small chant was mumbled off of the human's lips for a moment. Something that didn't quite sound like it was a real language, or at least aything 'civilized' with regards to many areas he'd been to before, but which made sense in the place it had come from. A nice little backwater, where he'd assisted some local tribes with a couple of cursed items they'd been tricked with in trade in return for learning more about them. A splendid time after all the de-cursing and such was said and done, but some of that knowledge had given him more tools in his 'belt' as it were.

In a light puff of smoke, a small floating mask appeared about two feet from his face. Several colorful feathers were stuck in the top of it, and its mouth was large and its teeth even somewhat imposing. While the things used to make its 'face' overall were a bit odd, though, it happily grinned wide at him as it seemed to bounce a little in place in the air.



"Ey dere, squiddy' mahn! Whatcha doin' in dese' parts?"

....Why had the spirit chosen that as a nickname for him, of all things? It was more natural than anything, akin to conjuring some little nature spirit with a bit of a twist. Or well, it was a sort of local spirit that possessed a mask offered to it that it had also made into its body. A cheerful minor being, he had to admit, always one for the positives and jokes despite whatever circumstances were going on.

[color=B0C4DE]"Er...let's not use that nickname around here please, Kua. I just need you to return to Athulwin and tell him I'll be seeking work in the city after speaking with Gadri soon. Barring that, I'll make sure to keep an eye and ear out for any trouble caused by members of the caravan here.

Once that's done, you're free to remain back at the Caravan for a bit or just return home if you'd like.

"No problem dere' boss man! Kua be' doin' his thing, den', before headin' home after a wee' little look-around da' place, eh?"

Giving him a joking wink with the mask's left eye orb, the spirit wouldn't stick around as he went off to deliver his message to Athulwin. Or, well, as the spirit had nicknamed the monk: "De Grumpy Boi". Albeit he'd only brought this spirit out in the Caravan once before, but bound to the wind this spirit was certianly closer to what the other man had 'requested' than the prior messenger. It would, though, be the first time the spirit would approach the Navigator. But Kua was a good spirit, jovial sort of compatriot, and frankly good for telling stories around camp fires should one need. All just as much as he was a lesser guardian spirit of sorts too really.

Wasn't as if he could summon the desert spirits of a certain people he'd run into in the past. Yet safe to say that bit of the past was before joining the Caravan. Which was to say, in short, that it wasn't a place he'd normally deign to return to by going 'out of the way' for it. Not unless the Caravan was already going to the place would he return there, and there he'd simply try to peddle his services as usual. Nothing too strange there, albeit cetain magic he'd have to keep especially discreet if the scars of that 'event' were likely still affecting the area. Ugh.

Still, with his last response sent the occultist would continue on his way with haste in his step.

...

...

...

It wouldn't be too long before the magic user would manage to catch up with the others. Well, Gadri and whoever else had still decided to linger around before setting off into the city. It was enough to get the older man to visually scan the faces he knew there, though, to see if anyone was showing signs of potentially making trouble. Still, without skipping too much of a beat Knossos would approach the peculiar but welcome presence of the Caravan blacksmith that was Gadri. A peculiar species, but he'd yet to get a good chance to talk to them about things and the Dinnin and so forth more. A lot he'd yet to get to like that from time to time, really, due to business or other things going on in the Caravan and its destinations.

"Gadri! Apologies if I am interrupting anything, but I just need a moment of your time. I was hoping to ask you a couple of things about this area, if I may, as I am to understand you are from these parts. Though what I wish to ask mostly amounts to 'what should I not do here' and if there's any locations I might be able to drum up some business or assist anyone around here...if possible.

Barring any of that not working out, just in case, I'd be curious if there's any good places to visit here, food to try, or the like you can think of to occupy my time otherwise admittedly."

A soft smile of mild excitement was on the older man's face, even if not very beaming and bright. Hard to be with some of the things he and others had seen on the way in, but he was hoping to make the best of the situation and where they were if nothing else. What was he going to do, be the one to cause trouble this time? Heavens forbid that day ever came!

@Enigmatik@Tortoise

Thozna would have understood Malleck's distrust more if she hadn't known of his species's penchant for slavery. If one had a problem with the killing of outsiders it would only be logical to assume they didn't use forced labor, for both fates were the ultimate deprivation: the theft of the self. Her people took lives, Malleck's took souls, and yet he felt he had some sort of high ground over her? Preposterous.

Her peacemaking efforts dissipated in an instant, the Gnoll's tail swishing in annoyance as she eyed the painted pup.

"Your people take child from parent and husband from wife as surely as do mine; spare me your talk of innocents. We sit at the edge of a slave market stocked by Ainok hands, and if I were to hazard a guess I'd say that some within the Caravan have lost their own to Dinnin."

She turned to face the elder again, bowing respectfully to Athulwin.

"I plan to visit the city. Is there anything you would like me to bring you?

Athulwin nods at the gnoll's bow- but holds up a hand when she speaks. "There's no need to fetch me anything. For one who travels as much as I do, I travel much too little. I'll be going into the city myself. I should stretch my old legs. But- thank you for offering." It's fascinating. For as much as their reputation speaks of evil and bloody fangs and death, Athulwin's experience with Scrapblast has her painted as a respectful and dutiful member of the Caravan. Sometimes he wishes more of them were like her. He would perhaps make more conversation with her, but the Navigator thinks he sees something moving out of the corner of his eye. Something colorful and jovial popping out against the monotonous gold-brown shades of the desert. He half-turns for a better look at it, and-

-it's a floating mask.

An actual floating mask, or a spirit that appears like one. As it comes closer, he can see that it has a ridiculous, exaggerated kind of face and a feather crown of many colors permanently attached. He can also see that- oh, by Eld Frowen, why?- it is coming directly for him. Flying over the Dinnin's sands in search of the Navigator.

Sometimes, Athulwin believes he's being punished. That perhaps the Curse laid on him by Alder was of a deeper, stronger kind than he ever knew. Because it seems that whenever he tries to rest for a moment or two longer than he might deserve, something bizarre and magical happens that immediately commands all of his attention- and forces him to interact with it. Not long ago, a woman fell from the sky. She had been riding inside of a star. Today, he is pestered by a parade of mystical messengers.

The mask approaches him, hovers comically over the ground and has the aura of wind about it. It relays a message from Knossos. It calls Athulwin- again, by Eld Frowen, why?- 'De Grumpy Boi.' Athulwin does not question this. It has a rare accent. Athulwin also does not question this. He thanks it, and it flies away, saying something about how it was going to have a look around the Caravan for a while. He sighs deeply. He sighs very deeply.

"My apologies, erm, Scrapblast. Malleck. Hazards of being the Navigator. One day the reaper will finally come for me, and it will turn out to have been a messenger from Knossos all along."

---

They'd gotten the center pole up and hoisted up the center ring and the canvas - trust a sailor to understand rigging, Granny sighs. But there was something bothering her about the half-elf - he wasn't sweating.

"Boy," she called out to the youngster, "Are you feeling well?"
"Yes," Ilyana lied, but the priestess waved her over and pressed her hand against her forehead.

"Your hand, it's like ice...!" Ilyana sighs, leaning into it. "Why is your hand so cold?"
"And you have a fever," Siri nods, taking away her hand and stepping inside her wagon. Moments later, she reappears with a small folded square of paper and a waterskin. "Swallow the power inside, and wash it down with water."
"What do I owe..."
"Nothing," Siri says. "Just sit there for a bit and try to make yourself comfortable."

The Outsider entered her little wagon, and Morvanne took up her place by the teapot like a good host... Only to find that her gesture had clearly attracted some attention from this strange, foxlike creature. "The symbol?" She tried to help with the woman finding the right word, then sighed a little. "For protection. Keeps away... Bad energy." She framed it in a way that would hopefully come across as simpler and perhaps less offensive than its true purpose: to keep whatever twisted energies swirled around the woman from taking a hold of Morvanne, or anyone else in the caravan for that matter.

The occultist still hadn't forgotten the nihi in the air when she had first arrived. The way that the forest fought against this unnatural presence, and the way the Glory must have rejected it, for it to sail down from the sky in the way it did. Gadri, bless their heart, had done nothing wrong by their own knowledge, but she knew better. This woman was a threat. Perhaps not herself, but at the very least by herself.

"Tea?" She gestured towards the kettle now keeping itself warm and took a well-cushioned seat facing the door, carefully setting a small earthernware cup atop a saucer and sliding it across. The house she'd served in so very long ago had had porcelain for guests... But such an expense would be crippling for a small-scale merchant such as herself, unless perhaps she was buying it wholesale with the intent of making a profit.



Gadri breathed out a slow sigh of relief. Most folks had left them on their own, which was a much, much better outcome than the absolute crowd the dwarf had managed to gather previously. This was doubly good, because the sun had almost reached its zenith, and Gadri had taken far, far too long to get into the city with the horde surrounding them. Just as they were about to quietly slink away though, Knossos arrived, asking a surprisingly normal set of questions.

The elderly mage was one of a vanishing slim number of people in the caravan who the dwarf didn’t see as a child, and so they supposed they could spare a few moments of their time. To help them out. "I am not intimately familiar with this particular hold," they began, "but broadly speaking, my siblings hold themselves to the same standards regardless of whom they happen to serve. As for yourself, mushrik, I'd be cautious. Ka-outsiders are given leeway in our lands because they're not of the faith, but your spirits will not be welcome in public. In all other matters, defer to the guards, conduct yourself peacably, and as for the rest... There should be a merchant's quarter and any number of coffeehouses. Should you visit one, do let me know if they offer nutmeg; I've been wanting a proper bre-" Before they could finish their sentence, a cry went up from the towers and rooftops across the city, echoing off the walls and reverberating through the streets.

The astronomers were singing. The sun had reached its apex. It was time for prayer. Gadri offered a hurried bow to Knossos. "Apologies. That call means I should be at a masjid now. Best of luck to you."



"Believe what you will then. One of our peoples know true loyalty." The fur around Malleck's neck puffed out even more as they spoke, a single flash of an elongated canine bared to the gnoll before his lip settled back over it. On his own, Malleck knew Thozna could easily kill him, but if she wanted to come, ask him for help, then spit in his face? "Besides, you're one to talk of slaves, hauling about a half-orc like you do. I'm sure he joined you on your travels willingly."

The bubbling argument was mostly dissapated by an incredibly peculiar arrival however, all the signs of Malleck's aggression vanishing at the appearance of an oddly-speaking floating mask. He cocked his head to the side to try to make better sense of it, but neither eyes nor nose were able to give him much more information than that the bare minimum he had already gathered. "Does he... Frequently use such weird messengers?"

Once the laborious process of hauling the work-in-progress cheeses to their shelves to dry and age finally concluded, Gru and his crews of rats could finally take a well-earned break. Despite the masterful engineering of the Chuck Wagon, designed to maintain a consistent internal climate however extreme the conditions outside might be, there was only so much that insulation and heat shielding could do to mitigate the cruel alliance of scorching hot day without and arresting humidity within. Though his darlings could be reasonably comfortable up in the dry darkness of their attic, Gru found himself utterly unable to relax even in the Chuck Wagon’s dry compartment, even after a change of clothes to try and freshen up. A number of rats tried to help by fanning him, which was lovely and earned them some extra pellets, but the biggest source of discomfort was his own mind.

After needing to spend his bottom dollar to kickstart his business, he could now do nothing but wait and trust in his craft, which all things considered made the man rather anxious. As much as the secure confines of his vehicle comforted the cheesemonger in the face of an unknown and potentially hazardous culture, he knew that he desperately needed a change of scene. Somewhere shady and cool, with a strong drink to perk him up, would work wonders. Appetite was beginning to gnaw at his stomach as well. Having worked through the whole morning, Gru realized that lunchtime must be nigh. With Gadri long gone, however, he lacked any sort of guide who could make a foray into Buraq’s Clanhold less intimidating. To make matters worse, a profuse singing now echoed through the vast citadel. What was a man to do?

So Gru sat there in his chair for a while, listening to the unknown song. Before long it concluded, replaced by more typical goings-on outside his wagon, but still he continued to sweat and psych himself up for an adventure. In the course of his hesitation, however, he received a surprise in the form of three loud squeaks from the sentry rat on lookout duty by the door. He’d seen somebody coming through his peephole and sounded the alarm; two squeaks meant ‘friend’, but three meant ‘stranger’. The cheesemonger jumped to his feet, surrounded by scurrying rats. Gru scurried alongside them. “Just a moment!” His darlings vanished into their holes to hide in the walls, closing the little hatches behind him. Some piled into drawers or climbed into chests, while others just hid behind books and things. With nowhere else to go, thirty-two of them threw on little capes of white or black and went for the empty chess set on Gru’s desk, where they hurriedly adopted poses appropriate for bishops, rooks, and pawns. Gru dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, adjusted his hat, and stepped toward the door. By the time he opened it, there were no traces of any rats at all.

“Good morning, noble visitors,” he greeted his visitors, bowing deferentially, perhaps excessively. Better to be safe than sorry. Three Dinnin-dwarves stood before him. They were squat, broad, clad in loose clothing of evident quality and rich coloration, and their voluminous beards featured styles that looked similarly audacious but braided and bejeweled by different conventions. Not soldiers, as one might expect given the proximity of the nearby military encampment, but decently well-to-do citizens, perhaps of a merchant caste. Though their manner seemed stiffly formal, much like Gru’s own, their guarded expressions still betrayed the curiosity in their eyes, and a little amusement. The cheesemonger’s unusual appearance and clear eccentricities tended to provoke such a reaction, making him difficult to forget or dismiss offhand. First impressions, after all, were everything. “What can I do for you?”

For the briefest moment the dwarf in the center looked past him, taking in the Chuck Wagon’s interior at a glance, but he found nothing more than the furnishings of a wealthy tradesman. Not wanting to be impolite, he did not allow his gaze to linger, and quickly fixed it on Gru himself. Of the three strangers, this one appeared to be the broadest, endowed with the more impressive turban and a double-decker mustache that inspired a sense of unflappable authority. Maybe he saw some kinship in Gru’s triple-decker mustache, despite its comparative thinness.

“Please forgive our intrusion,” he began. “Welcome to Clanhold Buraq, newcomer. I am Argun, and these are Dilar and Ufuk. We represent the Dawnlight Opportunities Firm. Our business is the discovery and promotion of worthy ventures that otherwise wouldn’t be able to penetrate the tight-knit Clanhold market. This morning, we happened to receive reports of a great many rats running rampant around this area, and you yourself featured in these reports invariably. Naturally such sightings invite worries of pestilence and whatnot. We merely wanted to meet you and make sure that all is well.”

Gru barely heard the dwarves’ concerns about rats. Naturally, his rather unique entourage tended to spark such trepidations everywhere he went, and by now he possessed a wealth of experience when it came to defusing such situations. While most everyone harbored prejudices against his darlings, he never tired of extolling their virtues, and the cheesemonger could convince the average rodent-fearing skeptic in his sleep. What interested him more was these dwarves’ trade. Marketers, he realized immediately. That could be just what he needed to get his business off the ground in this market. Of course, there was no such thing as a free lunch, and his pessimism told him to expect a steep cut. That might just be the price of doing business, though. Realistically speaking, Gru knew he ought to be grateful that he got a visit from marketers instead of soldiers, here to arrest him for operating without some sort of license. He needed to act fast, get the preamble over with, and start forging this connection.

The cheesemonger clasped his hands and put on his most disarming smile. That wasn’t to say he wielded the good looks to inspire a sense of trustworthiness through the halo effect, but with a smile like this he could inspire a sense of pity through the implication that this inquiry was just the latest chapter of a long-suffering epic. “I see, of course. Please, allow me to reassure you. You’re hardly the first to bring such understandable concerns to my doorstep. In a sense, the reports you received were true. But the magnificent creatures your eyewitnesses beheld were no mere rats. They are not just my pets, but my employees and associates, bred of the finest stock imaginable and surpassingly intelligent. They can pour your tea, butter your bread, and perform tricks of such stupendous caliber that you’ll scarcely believe they’re not magic. And they’re not just brainy, but also unfailingly hygienic, and wonderfully affectionate.” Gru stepped aside from the doorway, sweeping a hand toward his wagon’s interior. “Perhaps you’d like a demonstration?”

The dwarves seemed impressed with the craft and speed of his speech. “You’re clearly no stranger to such inquiries,” Argun said, laughing through his nose. He clearly knew a sales pitch when he heard it, but if these rats were workers rather than commodities, he couldn’t help but wonder about their trade. He climbed the stairs somewhat ponderously and stepped inside. It might be warm in here, but at least it was out of the sun. His associates followed him, and by the time Ufuk closed the door behind them, Gru had already poured them tea. He kept his tea set in a padded chest just for occasions like this, never using it himself. Bought at a high price from maritime traders over a year ago, its soapstone featured an intriguing texture and gray-rust coloration.

“I must apologize for my meager accommodations,” Gru told his visitors. “My humble mobile home is woefully unsuited for entertaining guests.”

For the moment, Argun seemed more interested in the aromatic new cheeses on the shelves. He had no idea how many tiny, beady eyes were watching him at any given moment. “Not at all. In fact, this is quite exquisite for a mere wagon. Is this your product, here?”

Gru nodded enthusiastically, sweeping over to shower his cheeses with gesticulation and showmanship. “Correct, sir. Made fresh this morning, these high-quality cheeses must age before they can be eaten, but very soon they will be ready for consumption. Though the wealth of the Clanhold is vast indeed, I daresay that its venerable people have never tasted the like.”

Dilar nodded sagaciously, clearly interested. “I’ve never smelled anything like it myself.”

“And that is but a shadow of what is to come, once time had worked its magic,” Gru smiled. “And I do believe we may be able to make some magic happen together. As you might expect, I’m rather new here, and though I’m confident that my cheeses’ quality speaks for itself, that means little if nobody’s around to hear it. But before we talk business, I believe a demonstration is in order. Not just of my product, but of its producers.” He brought his guests over to his table, where he pulled out a chair before seating himself in the other. On the table lay his chess board, each piece already set up for a game. “I’m sure you know how to play?”

Argun plopped down, bushy brow raised at the suggestion that he might not. “Of course.” His eyes lay on the curious pieces, clearly not yet sure what he was looking at.

“Ah, but my house rules are slightly different. Observe.” Gru tapped the head of the white-cloaked pawn in front of his king, then tapped the square two spaces ahead. To his guests’ surprise, the pawn seemed to come to life, marching to the designated spot to stand with unflinching stillness, her tail coiled around her little feet. “See what I mean?”

Though taken aback for a moment by the realization that he’d been invited to play chess with live rats, Argun’s surprise turned to amusement. “Surpassingly intelligent, hmm? You weren’t joking, hohoho!” With an almost childlike eagerness he reached out, gently tapping one of the black-cloaked rats between his ears. Once directed, he marched forward to face Gru’s pawn, where they stared one another down with mock fierceness. “Clever. Well then, mister…?”

“Yarg,” Gru supplied.

“Mr. Yarg. You should know that even though this is not a Dinnin game, I have yet to be defeated. Rats or no rats, I have no intention of losing.”

The cheesemonger tipped his head in respect. “I expect nothing less. I’ll try not to make this too easy for you.”

Argun chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “Then let us begin.”

---

After the prayers had stopped, Siri raised her head, then stepped over to check Ilyana's temperature. Her hand was still cold to the touch, despite the noontime heat.

"Well, your temperature's down," Granny said, nodding sagely. "It's likely just exhaustion from traveling. I'd suggest sleeping for the rest of the day, I'll give you some medicine for later..."

At the entrance of the tent, someone clapped loudly twice.

"May I enter?" a deep voice spoke.
"Aye, if ye must," the apothecary-turned-priestess sighs.

The flaps spread apart, and the largest centaur Ilyana had ever seen trotted into the tent. Skin tanned dark, broad in the shoulders and covered in muscles. His face was handsome, with locks of curly dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard that made his jaw stand out. In his right hand, he carried a spear, but a massive sword hilt was behind his left shoulder, ready to grab.

"Ah, Kostantinos," Siri frowned, tilting her head at him. "Your boss want something?"

The guard glanced down at Ilyana, then back up to face Siri. "No, madame. I carry a message for this... young one, if he be Ilyana."
"I am..." the half-human frowned. Who could it be?

"Now now, stay put for a bit," Siri ordered, then glanced at Kostantinos. "He's under my treatment."

Beneath her velvet words, both heard the rasp of steel in her voice.

"Hyrilea, one of the centaurs who work at the Commissary tent sent me," the guard stated, a rueful smile twisting his lips as he placed his left hand over the first of his hearts. "She's run afoul of Thist, the night baker, and cannot accompany you to town today."
"Really?" Siri snorted. "How sad for them both."
"Indeed. I have connections within the city, I thought perhaps I could arrange for a local escort," he said with a slight bow, "But if you're ill...."

"I'm feeling better," the half-human stated, facing him.
"You should lie down," Siri warned, but Ilyana shook her head.
"I'm low on stock, I need to get product," she said, brushing her hair back with accustomed flip of her hand. "If I don't go today, the others will have stripped the market by morning."

"Most like," Siri sighs, nodding, then giving Kostantinos a hard look. "An escort...?"
"Merely an old friend who owes me many favors," the centaur rumbled, holding up the palm of his left hand. "I swear he will be in better hands than mine, and thoroughly safe."

"I'm no stranger to a city..." Ilyana scowled.
"You are to this one," the guard assured him. "An escort will keep you out of trouble."
"I'm just going shopping...!"
"All the better to get a local guide, then."

"Well, if yer set on this," the Wanderer priestess drawls, scratching behind her right ear.

Shortly before the departure of the caravan from the Emerald Forest…



Fumiko stood over the body of her copilot for what would be the last time. Shortly before the caravan of… unusual individuals she had joined was due to leave this place, she had excused herself as best she could with the few words she’d learned so far. None of them knew her copilot, or her, and she set off into the forest alone save for Nesora, ready to bid farewell to a friend they’d both known for years in the empty solitude of a strange forest and a strange song. They both wondered about his future. Would his spirit be alright in these lands? Would he dream well before he reincarnated? Where would he reincarnate? She didn’t know. Neither of them knew. They were alone in an alien world, looking down at the lifeless expression of the only one who would have known them or the things they’d seen. The only other one of their kind in a strange land.

Neither were particularly open with their emotions, and yet in this moment tears flowed from both. Fumiko tilted her head back, trying to stem the flow. It was all too much in this moment. There were supposed to be friends and family standing here with her and with him. He wasn’t supposed to depart this life like this. Alone. Far from home. He would be the first Yatovinan citizen laid to rest in a semi traditional manner in… centuries, easily. And yet she found only small comfort in that. Laid to rest in a foreign wood under foreign stars. There was no welcoming presence of aeons old spirits past stirring in their slumber to welcome one of their own back to the fold. Just the press of this unfamiliar forest. She was out of place, here, she knew. He was out of place here, too - but what else could she do?

She choked back a sob, hunching down beside him as her hands clutched around the thin sheet draped around his body. She couldn’t just say goodbye like… like this. She didn’t want to do this on her own. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t proper.

While she thought, there was the rustling sound-off of movement from the underbrush behind her.

It wasn’t graceful, like a deer, trying to make as small of a sound as it could while it slipped its way through the forest. It wasn’t firm and unafraid, either, like the great bear that pushes through with confidence and makes the rest of nature move around her by her sheer size and ferocity. It was a sound as loud as the bear would make and as un-confident as the deer. This is because it was an unsteady old human, unused to the woods.

Athulwin shook off the thorns clinging to the trail of his robe. He frowned at the sight in front of him. It was an all-too-familiar one. He knew what the woman was feeling, because he's felt it, because he's seen others feeling it. Whatever Curse may hang over his soul, however he may have broken his vows by coming out here to this far land and leading the Caravan, Athulwin was still an Uttering Monk at heart.

It was ancient tradition. Uttering Monks must appear for the funerals of those who have too few to mourn them. Someone should mark the ending of a life. If this were happening nearer to a Monastery, Athulwin would have called to his brothers and brought down a flock of hooded and gray-robed men of the cloth to attend this service, for this traveler from beyond the stars whose body is so far from home.

Athulwin could not speak the dearly departed’s language, or that of his friend. For all the tongues he knows, he could never tell this fox-woman why he came. Not in words. So, as he shuffled to her side, he just gently put his hand on her shoulder. He was here to put this other man of her kind to rest with her.

Fumiko did not respond at first. She stared at the empty form of her copilot, mind adrift in the recent past…

---

Fumiko turned back to the wreckage. She couldn’t simply walk away with this group. Not yet, anyway. She turned, Nesora behind her raising a hand in a gesture of peace, and watching her back as Fumiko walked back towards the crashed spaceship from which she’d come.

She hated the sight that awaited her - it was the same sight she’d awoken to, of course. But still. Perhaps some part of her had silently hoped that he might awake while she was outside. That she wouldn’t have to say goodbye to her crewmate and be alone in this strange world. But he was still there. Head still slumped to the side. She whispered a small prayer for him, and gently rested her hand on his head for a moment, mourning in silence. She’d need to find a place to lay him to rest. She was in a forest, at least - the first forest she’d ever seen with her own eyes. Old pictures from before the winter had set in, yes. Before her home had turned into a mass grave. But never seen a forest with her own eyes - even a tree. She’d never seen a sun before. Only the dimly glowing remnants lurking beyond her world, or the wan light from the southern gods. But the sun hanging overhead now? It was so bright. So unfathomably bright, even filtered by the trees. She’d been in bright light before - harsh interior lighting that hurt the eyes and seemed to bring the winter’s chill air inside. But it wasn’t anything like that light - it was warm too.

And despite all of that, she simply felt empty. Her copilot was dead. Her people were… who knew how many light years away. She would never see her children again - who knew what was happening to them right now? Perhaps she’d experienced extreme time dilation and they were already dead and the war long over? Perhaps she really had violated causality - what did that mean? What would happen? Evne if she knew, that still left the initial problem - she was alone. She was fucking alone. Alone on an alien world. Alone surrounded by- by humans. Humans. Here. On this world. She still couldn’t get over it.

Robotically, she moved over to her copilot’s console, picking up his own crash gear and strapping it to herself - he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. His sword. His own sidearm. There were unfortunately no rifles in the bridge - she sorely missed that presence, now. She looped her arms under his, pulling him out of his chair. She hefted him up, slinging her left arm under his legs - she didn’t know where she’d go. But she couldn’t simply leave him there. She emerged from the ship again - more things strapped to her body and carrying the body of her copilot. She did not speak anyone’s language, but the expression on her face was unmistakable as she looked at the humans helplessly.

---

The sound of Athulwin’s arrival finally jolted her back to the present. She turned to the sound, her hand dropping down to the weapons on her hip - but she relaxed after a moment, seeing who the new arrival was. It was the same old man who had… ‘greeted’ her on her arrival to this world. She quirked an eyebrow at his arrival, wondering what his purpose was. Had something happened back at his group? For what other purpose might he follow her? She stood protectively over the body of her dead comrade, wary of what the human might try to do. She was still unfamiliar with them. Still didn’t trust them.

Her grasp of their language was not sufficient to truly ask him the question she wanted - but she did know one word at least. “Vhat?” She asked, the sound unnatural on her tongue and the word thickly accented. Her generally puzzled facial expression, she hoped, would do the rest.
Athulwin gestured out towards the body- ‘corpse’ was too harsh a word- as his only answer. He had no language to tell her that it was his oath to be here. And he was tired of worrying about it. Fundamentally, he was here, doing this, for Eld Frowen. And for the spirit of the departed, if such beings have spirits.

As things went on, fireflies started filling the air. Flown in from some other part of this Living Forest. One’s eyes caught them as a little glimmer of orange light over here, and then over there, like torches suddenly lit. The fox and the monk were standing in a sprinkling of flickering lights. Athulwin lifted out his hand towards one of them, not very sure of why he was doing it. It just felt natural. The bug landed on the tip of his fingers as if it had known him. And the second it touched him, he felt something fuzzy, a sensation running down through the skin of his hand and into his spirit- the feeling of Connection. The Emerald Forest was working its magic again. He doesn’t know how he knew it, but he did.

“Do you feel that?” said Athulwin, aloud. The question was rhetorical.

Fumiko blinked in visible confusion. The tenor of the forest's song had shifted, the melody slowing, harmonizing with her, gradually becoming coherent in its own way. She looked around in awe as she felt… not the press of familiar spirits, but of a different type of presence not wholly unfamiliar.

And then the human spoke. She whirled on him, eyes wide. Those words she had understood. Those words had come as clear as day - or rather… their meaning. The words themselves remained as unintelligible as ever, but as they harmonized and mixed with the forest's own song they filtered through to her in a pattern she recognized and understood. She stared open mouthed, before finally speaking, “You… I understand you. By the ten great spirits, what is this? I've never beheld something like this before. D- do you understand me?”

“There is but One Great Spirit,” said Athulwin, who knew by a long-ingrained monastic instinct that the first words out of his mouth should be the words of Eld Frowen. He had stared as wide-eyed and full of shock as she had when her words began first to carry a meaning, but now, ever calm, the monk was already accepting this new reality. He raised one hand up. The air felt charged, changed- charmed.

“This forest is a Living Forest, and it has been under a heavy curse for a long, long time.” Athulwin understood how that felt. “Some of my Caravan put down the source of the curse, a wraith, not very long ago. I think… this moment is the Forest saying ‘Thank you.’”

A long pause elapsed as the alien woman looked around at the forest around her, seemingly swaying almost imperceptibly in tune to some unheard melody. She closed her eyes, the long foxlike ears twitching around to noises utterly imperceptible to Athulwin or any others except the ship’s spirit who watched by her.

She turned, after a moment, looking to Athulwin, and gave him a deferential bow. “I believe you. This forest’s song is… strange. Not simply unfamiliar… by unnatural forces marred. You have done a great service. This I can feel.”

“Not I,” said Athulwin, “Pilgrims in the Caravan, yes. Galaxor, Ivraan, Nemeia, and others. You will learn the faces that go with those names in time, if you stay with us. Something unnatural had taken root in this soil, and they burned it out. They are more heroic than I.”

She paused again, closing her eyes, and nodding. “Then please, my thanks, would you give them to those you have named?” She lapsed into silence for a moment more, “It is a strange song. But not unwelcoming. For my… violent entrance I wish to apologize. But I must ask - for what is it that here you have come?”

"For duty," said Athulwin. "I am a Brother of the Uttering Monks, of the Monastery of Queensrock, of the Old Marshes. I have taken many vows in my life there, and to my shame I have broken many. But one rule I've never defiled is that old law: that an Uttering Monk must arrive for the funerals of those who have too few to mourn them. Someone should mark the passing of a life. So, when I knew what you were doing, I came."

Fumiko nodded. “My intent was evident, I suppose. For this kindness my thanks you have.” She turned back toward her fallen comrade. “You are… not wrong. More. There should be more.” Her clawed fingers clenched in a fist, her glove of strange material doing a poor job of hiding the tension that simmered in every inch of her body. “There should be family. Friends. Spirits he knew. And…” She nodded towards Nesora, who stood some small distance back, his head inclined, “Us two. For him that is all there is. A copilot, the spirit of the ship on which he died, and a human.” The word slithered from her lips slick with bitter bile and well suppressed anger.

She paused, then turned, looking mildly alarmed as she shrank back slightly, ears flattening on reflex, “Er- not that I- I-” She stood openmouthed a second longer before she gave a slight bow. “Please. I hope you can forgive me. I just… one of your own cannot… a human…” She sputtered a moment longer, “To grasp the significance of this a human soul cannot do.”

Athulwin merely looked at her passively. “I can go, if you wish.”

Again the fox woman looked as though stricken. “No! No. I… there is… much you do not understand.” She bowed again, lower this time, “Please. I was in error. There is much I have been through. I simply…” she turned away, attempting to hide a tear that rolled down her cheek as she brought her hand up to wipe it away. “On this world there is one other like me - and there he lies. Athulwin, your presence is appreciated, even if expressing it as I ought is beyond me at this time.”

Athulwin held up a hand and shook his grayed head. "There is no need. I only meant respect by offering to leave. You speak truthfully, your culture is not known to me. I did not know if a human would be welcomed. But if I am, I am here, as my Order would have me to be." He watched her make that motion with her hand, the universal wiping of a tear that he couldn't see but guessed had to be there, and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry, pilgrim. I cannot fathom what you have been through or what strange notes in the Song have brought you here. You have all my sympathy. But this is a bright and full world that you have come to, and as for my part in it, I will ensure that you have a place in our Caravan. No traveler flung far from home is turned away."

Fumiko looked back up, and, slowly, stood upright. “Culture… a part of it culture is, yes. But moreso than that - a spiritual difference is what it is. That around us permitting, all this I can later explain, if so desired.” She paused, “It is just… all this way for him to have come. Under foreign stars he now lies, amidst foreign spirits - where will he go? My own trials are great, certainly, but I am alive. And him…?” She sighed, “If a bright world this is, then for darkening this day I once again must beg your forgiveness. I suppose… I suppose I shall begin. And all your questions I will then answer. Does this please you?”

Now it was Athulwin's chance to bow, in the more Old Marshes style. "There's no need to concern yourself with what pleases me. I have come here tonight to assist you. Perhaps the spirit of your friend will find peace in the embrace of the Forest, now that the heart of this land has healed and it has found again its place in the natural way." He shook his head. "But, please, tell me if in any way I can be of aid."

Fumiko nodded. “There is little you can do yourself, but your company is worth much. It should not take long.”

She stepped forward, pulling a small bar from a pouch on her side - a small amount of synthetic chocolate. Part of dessert rations aboard the ship. It was supposed to be his favorite food in life - or even rice. But she had neither to hand. But he had liked this chocolate, at least. She hoped he would be pleased. She stepped forward, crouching beside him as she looked into his features - arranged as he was, he could almost have been sleeping.

A small cup of water sat in her hand, taken from a nearby creek. It sparkled in the wan light that pushed its way through the forest canopy above. She stared at it for some time. How many others of her home country would ever see this? The simple sight of fresh water, taken from a cool - not frozen - stream. Uncontaminated by fallout and the chemical byproducts of a centuries-past, decades long war. She shut her eyes tight, trying to maintain her composure - lifting the small cup to the copilot’s lips as she whispered a silent prayer. She dipped her fingers in the water, then touched them to his lips, setting the cup to the side. The chocolate followed next - touching it to his lips, and then set by his side.

She shivered. She had partaken in these ceremonies before - but never had she conducted one herself. On her own. Accompanied only by a spirit who could not help carry his body, and by a frail old human who understood none of what was going on.

She raised her hands. She knew traditional things to say. Back home. But here? What might the alien spirits of a whole different world say? Would they be some anathema to her and her own? Did the spirits of the land here harbor ill will toward intruders, especially with what had only recently been cleansed? She opened her mouth to speak. “Oh…” Oh what? What was she to say? She felt a wave of panic rise up within her - but forced it back down. She would speak from her heart. As best she could. “Oh foreign kindred of distant stars and unknown glades… please. My comrade - I beseech you to accept among your ranks one of my own just as refuge you would find among ourselves. Your names, I know them not. Your faces, I know them not. But your song - though I too know this not, that it is kind and warm I feel in my heart. Please, pity and mercy upon a lost one among us I beg of you.”

She continued, “On the second of Dawn Flowers Greet the Gentle Sky, 4167, he was born. His life was one well lived. Though the time to experience the world’s beauties and hardships in their full measure he was not given, the most of his time he made. No doubt of his courage and tenacity can there be. Volunteering the day the war began, his courage time and time again he proved. Unlike I, for into service by the sacrifice of my mother I was shamed.” She looked up, clearing her throat. “Izhunan Takaya for only three years I knew, but in those years as a close comrade and a good person I knew him.” She paused, “His friends and family… to speak here they ought be present. But only myself, our vessel Nesora, and he himself are here before you.”

Gingerly, she pulled away the thin sheet that substituted for a silk cloth - or a substitute silk cloth. She stood, making no effort to hide the tears that now flowed down her cheeks. What else was there to do in such circumstances? What else could she do? She bowed her head, paying whatever last respects she could in such a moment. Trying to make up for the lack of the… dozens upon dozens who would have come to be with him at the end of this turn of the wheel. Whatever she could do - it was not enough.

Nesora floated up behind her, and she stepped aside. The spirit stood with his head bowed low - whatever it was he was thinking, or whatever it was he might have been saying she knew not.

She turned to Athulwin. “You may… if respects you wish to pay. This is the time.”

At first the monk bowed, seeming ready to demure. But then he took a few old and cursedly unsteady steps forward to the body, and spoke over it. The words were not like his own, in the Common tongue he normally spoke, but were in a language strange, arhythmic and full of distant emotion. It made images of the cold lights of the night sky flash through a hearer’s mind. It was the Language of the Stars. A rarely used one, sacred. In a hollow and ringing voice that almost wasn't his own, Athulwin said:

"For one who came from the stars,
To the stars I speak and beseech
To his frame, rest
To his spirit, peace."

Fumiko watched in curiosity despite herself - the tongue he spoke, for even the by these woods it was clearly a tongue wholly separate from that he had been speaking prior… It was strange. Something about it tingled in her spine, the faintest hint of belonging.

She knelt beside his body once more, pouring some of the water she had collected from the stream into the soil. Mud formed quickly, and she dabbed it on his brow and his chest. A stalk of grain - bartered for with the reluctant aid of one of the caravan folk - now sat clutched in her left hand. And a simple facsimile of a small blade fashioned from deadwood in her right. Gently, she placed both of these in his hands and raised her own once more. “Thank you, kindred of another world, for your kindness. Please, allow him safe passage into our dream - whatever there may be of it here. And to welcome him back when he is ready, I beseech you to allow us.”

Fumiko stood. She bundled up the sheet in her hands robotically - that was it. It was a short ceremony. There were no crowds of mourners to wish him goodbye. There were no clusters of friendly familiar spirits bringing their warmth to proceedings. Though these woods seemed friendly they were still alien. She could feel something pressing in around them - but for now the spirits of this world remained unseen to her eye.

But there was nothing else she could do.

She turned back to Athulwin, heaving a weary sigh. “It is done. Let us give them privacy. Your questions, I will answer them.”

Athulwin gazed out at the forestal funerary scene for a long moment. "I have attended dozens of funerals," he said. "Almost all of them for strangers. To spend your life mourning those you do not know comes with the burdens of being a devotee of Eld Frowen. But I have never witnessed a rite such as this one. Thank you for letting me be a part of it."

Fumiko nodded to him in turn. “Thank you, Athulwin, for helping see off one who has traveled so far. The rite… It is… of the customs of the humans of my own world and my own nation I know little. But I would be surprised if you yourself had seen anything of its like.” She paused, “The customs of you soul bearers are to me just as strange. If you have questions - please, ask. As many as those around us permit I will answer. But...” she trailed off, “I must ask one in turn, if the impropriety bothers you not - what was that language you spoke?” she cocked her head to the side - much like a fox angling its head as it studied something of interest. “It felt… strangely familiar.”

"Indeed,” said Athulwin. “Few have ever heard it, even among the Caravan. That was the Language of the Stars. I-" he sighed just slightly, a small gust of wind coming from his mouth as he did. "I am what is called in my homeland a Sayer. One who attunes himself to nature, to the raw and primal elements of the universe, to learn to speak to them as you and I are speaking now. A rare magic, but true. I speak Fire, Wind and Stars. There are some who speak to thunder and death, ice and sunlight. I knew a Sister of the Deep Earth so potent once that her voice made the earth quake if she did not keep always to a whisper." He caught himself. “But I ramble. I spoke to the stars then because that is where you fell from, is it not?”

Fumiko frowned, her head cocked at a steeper angle now. “Fascinating…” she murmured, “So much alike and yet… what would they think, I wonder?” she trailed off, before nodding her assent. “After a fashion you are not wholly incorrect. I - and he - amongst the stars we indeed were. For… three years. Of our years - how long your own are, I know not. I– at risk of a great lecture, I became in a way of the stars. But from a world… both alike and wholly different from this one I hail - and within, a nation upon that world. I…” She trailed off, staring through him - once again the gravity of what had occurred weighed on her. “How I am here I know not. It is not– should not be possible.”

“Impossible things happen daily,” said Athulwin. “A morning has never dawned which will not see a million impossibilities before it turns to evening. I should not be surprised you are of the stars. I thought I could feel their light on you. You are…” he looked at her, a beautiful young woman but for the feet and ears of a fox, and more tails than any animal there’s ever been. “If I can ask- what are you? Your kind are not seen here.”

Fumiko pinched the bridge of her nose, searching for the words to explain it - but what good would it do? Explaining causality - and her violation of it? What would it do except possibly give this old man more to worry about? He was already aged and withered - clearly he did not have long left. There was no purpose in burdening him further.

At his question however, she raised an eyebrow, and then began to laugh. Not the mad barely restrained howling laughter at the sheer absurdity of her situation - but in a manner more mirthful than anything. As though Athulwin had just told her a clever joke. “Upon how much time you've to spend here the answer to that question depends.” She finally squeaked out at last, “Though are not wrong. Completely new here my kind almost certainly are.”

"And from another world, like and unlike this one?” asked Athulwin. “The scriptures hint of many foreign planes, some hidden away behind the stars and the sun... strange notes indeed. I wish that I knew how you came to be here. My Utterance lets me know many things other men do not, but only those that the Stars can tell me or the Wind can carry. But I wonder. You were listening to the Forest earlier, were you not? Is there no magic similar in your plane?"

Fumiko chuckled, “It is of planes you ask? Of these I cannot speak, however planets I can. Above my world the sun shines not. Over four thousand years ago, to unknown, dark forces it perished. But we persevered. Works of science and technology far greater than anything this world can imagine we constructed. Under the artificial suns of the living gods of the southern lands, or under those of our own artifice, we not only survived but thrived. But a planet it is all the same. A world just like this one, of rock and iron constructed. It is from there that I come. How, I too know not.”

She paused, her ear twitching at his mention of her listening to something. “Ah, that is right. The song. It cannot be heard by your kind - even with these magics you profess. The forest is alive in a sense altogether different from how you may normally conceive of such things. Spirits - or whatever term your people might find more suited - represent aspects of this forest. And of the world at large - at least, where I am from. Perhaps for the rest of this land it is silent, and from even the song of the land I will be alone.”

She stroked her chin, looking back from whence they had come. “Do you remember what I said to a moment ago? That the customs of you soul bearers to me are just as strange? What by that do you think I meant?”

Athulwin thought. His mind rummaged through remembered scriptures, books, scrolls from different cultures and faiths- he was well-read, and usually he would find a connection for any question of this kind. “‘Soul-bearers,’” he ruminated on the word. “I can only think of the words of Eruk the Believer, a half-orc poet from some few centuries ago. 'The duty of mortals, given by the gods, is to bear our souls unspotted through this world.' But I suspect that isn't what you meant."

Another light chuckle followed in response. “Correctly you suspect. Far, far more literal than that is my meaning - you, Athulwin, as a human being possess a soul, yes?”

"Thankfully," said Athulwin, thinking of Alder and his offer, a lifetime and so many gray hairs ago. "There was a time when I nearly lost it. I would have gained immortality, but what is that if you lose eternity thereafter? But I ramble again- yes, I have a soul."

“Oh? Immortality?” Fumiko asked, raising an eyebrow, “A… nice thing to have it is, yes. But yes, a soul you possess - and I do not. At least… it is complicated. Soulless husks, most of my people are, empty human corpses - but animated by spirits. Spirits of the world around them. Of this forest. Of the bustle of a city. Of the living land beneath our feet that with every step we take draws breath. Empty corpses with life filled, we are an unusual people. I myself in addition to this spirit posses a…” she frowned, “I know you and your people not. Before I continue, I seek your word that panic or flee you will not.”

"You have no soul?" Athulwin looked her up and down in the soft light. "I have to wonder then how you live. You make yourself sound like an undead, but you do not look like any creature of the crypt that I have seen or read of- you look still like the living, but in the usual wisdom, a person without a soul has ceased to be a person." He shook his head. "Yes, I promise I will not flee. You have my word. Complete this mystery for me."

The woman frowned, “But this I have explained - I, and my people, by spirits of the land we are animated and given life. We in every literal sense of the word are alive - simply in a… different manner than you. As for myself…” She cleared her throat. “I, like those specifically like me,” She paused, gesturing to the eight extra tails she possessed, “Am a half-demon. That is the best word, I believe. And immortal - at least, immortal to age, or to the randomness of death that otherwise plagues my people.”

Athulwin smiled, though it was not a very joyous one. And then he chuckled in an equally low, just as unhappy way. “That’s a familiar story to me, though you could not have known it. Yes, the chance I had at immortality was almost similar. Not one to stop me from being killed by a man with a stake or the morning sun, but the kind to stop the years from taking me, as they take all humans. You’re fortunate in that way. To have an everlasting life without having to pay up a soul to cover it.”

Fumiko shook her head. “Age takes us not. Those of my kind nine hundred years I age I have known - without the extra tails. Without the half-demonic nature. And yet from other mothers I heard of their children dying in their sleep. It is normal for us. Randomness defines our lives. That which I am was… devised as a remedy. I do not know what chance it is you speak of - and I myself was simply born into this blessing. The process however is… what do you know of demons, Athulwin, assuming such beings are here as they are on my own home?”

“Well,” the gray monk answered, “I will hardly know if they are the same unless you tell me what you mean by the word.”

“The degree of knowledge of these matters your own world holds I am not privy to, but what my own people know I will share. A demon is… well, it is a being formed from the soul of someone like yourself, is it not? The soul of a mortal without the protection of a god or of another greater entity - a vulnerable thing. It can decay. It can be consumed. It can be merely by the entropic nature of our universe dissipated into a lower ordered state. Something with the infinite potential for change and for expression a soul is - but because of this it is volatile, yes? To escape this… either reincarnate, under the protection of a higher power be taken, or become something more stable are their options. As gods are, in their various forms, domains unto their own, so too are demons a tiny Realm unto their own, by Task or by Purpose bound and defined. A more powerful soul retains its identity through this - but those weaker… consumed they can become. So named they are for the havoc they can, and will wreak if impeded in this task. Greed, gluttony, wrath - associated with demonhood here these doubtless all are. But of a god’s attendant? A soul in service to their patron deity molded? Is that not the same kind of entity? What of the harm such a being can bring if obstructed? Different names they hold only from their purpose more often than not benefitting their worshippers.” She paused, watching.

“My people, myself - ironically for originating from spirits of the land, natural we are not. Unstable we are. Volatile. Die at nine hundred years, or nine we may - a spirit and a living mortal body a natural combination are not. However a demon? Surely within this world occurs possession by such entities. And so… over a thousand years, through a mentally and spiritually grueling process, one to this world and to this life binds themself. From thin aether fashioning a soul - a demonic soul, bound to this same purpose. It is an anchor. At the end of these thousand years? A being of two halves. Greatly empowered. Fraught with peril is the process, but no destruction of the self is there, no cheap shortcut. And then…” she trailed off, coughing awkwardly, “There are those like me. Lucky enough to be born to it by those who have undertaken this process themselves… bound in the same way I am not truly, but… fixations you might say? Many would find themselves unable to study a specific field of science for… a hundred and forty years straight without boredom, I believe.”

Athulwin's eyebrows chirped up slightly. "An impressive time. I do not know all that you speak of, I can admit, but I think I understand what you're saying on the whole. I suppose forming a demonic attachment of such kind must have seemed a worthwhile risk to your mother, but I could not agree. Under my faith, in my scriptures, a demon is a tainted being. An incorrect note in the song that is the world. A Task or a Purpose they may have, but it is too often something bent and broken.”

Fumiko smiled, “But, my dear Athulwin - by another name a demon is as a god’s servant. Or a gods servant is as a demon. The same fundamental energy and nature defines them. A name of our own, my people have for those ‘demonic souls’ like mine - kyukazhe. On calling us demons those of other nations will continue to insist upon. Why? They do not like us. My nation.” She frowned, “It is not an attachment. The creation of a facet of your own identity from whole cloth it instead is. Civil service is that which my mother chose - and what she died performing. But…” She sighed, “It is difficult to comprehend. Hold ill will towards you for this I cannot.”

“I am glad,” Athulwin said. “People will risk much to live forever. Would you believe I once knew a man five centuries old? I try not to become envious. But- you have been honest with me, newfound Pilgrim, so I will be honest with you. Few in the Caravan know this, and you will not be able to tell them I suppose after the Forest's magic here ends, but I am Cursed. I am not as old as I look. I am but thirty-seven; my hair should not be very gray yet, my face should not be wrinkled, I should…" he sighed wind again. "I should not be so tired. But the Curse drains me. I expect I will be dead by this season next year."

At his second set of words, however, her eyes widened in visible shock. She took a step back, raising her hand to her mouth in horror - then, taking two steps closer, she looked closer at him, as if trying to see the curse. “I…” she opened her mouth to speak. “Of studies of the arcane I never partook in depth. There is…” She paused, “Of what manner is this curse?”

"Of a kind that has been destroying me for years, and will make my bones dust soon," said Athulwin. He knew the words were dramatic; but this was the first he had spoken of it out loud since the very night it came down on him.

"I... I stole my monastery's only two books on curses and dark magics when I abandoned it,” he admitted, in a quiet voice. “They have not been able to teach me any way to rid myself of it, nor any I have found across this wide world that I've traveled since. But to answer your question: it is the curse of an Old Marsh's Vampire, spoken in a moment of passionate hate, and I believe it draws its power from that vampire's hate. And- it draws its power also from me. Alder, the one who cursed me, said to me 'The sorrow that is within you will work its way out, graying you and rotting you until you age far before your time.' I have always been melancholic. It feeds on that, like a leech, as it feeds on Alder's hate, and as long as those two things exist, I don't know if anything will rid my soul of it."

A long pause elapsed as the fox woman watched Athulwin. At last she blurted out, “There is something! Something I could do-” She caught herself, cutting her words off midsentence. “I- my apologies. Impulsive and reckless that was of me to say- but…” She trailed off, frowning again, evidently greatly troubled. “Only a year…”

"Less, I think," Athulwin mumbled. And then, back straightening in an almost proud way and speaking more clearly, he says: "I have consigned myself to my fate. It has taken many years, but the truth of what is happening to me, and of what will happen, has sunk into my heart. I have no expectation of living; I no longer count it as a right that I have. Please, do not tease me with a false hope."

Fumiko looked visibly pained as she warred with conflicting desires in her mind - but that same desire that had lead to her outburst won out, in the end. “I… please. Your language, speak it you know I cannot. This, here, is perhaps my only chance to explain. My only chance to… offer you something that could help. A false hope it is not. Of this I am sure.”

Athulwin's face twists bitterly. "Alright," he says. "I only don't want to be lead up the garden path. Go on, what do you think the cure is?"

“My people, spirits we are, yes? Empty of soul, but consciousness borne in the body and in a spirit of the land. I am… technically, a simple human body is mine. An empty human body, by the spirit that is me altered and transformed. I… from humans we originate. And the ability to… remake them as us we possess. I possess.” She bit her lip, “Of vampires I know…. vanishingly little. But it is not as though by different rules their magics work. Aging prematurely is the affliction that ails you from this curse, yes?”

Athulwin said nothing, and only nodded.

Fumiko took another step towards him, “What if aging there is not?”

Athulwin spoke slowly, even though the conclusion was clear; these words seemed to have much weight to them. "Then... the curse means nothing."

An emphatic nod followed in response. “A choice to make lightly it is not. A… touchy subject among my people, it very much is. But… whatever questions you have, of any nature - to the best of my ability these I will answer whilst we can communicate.”

“You're hinting that you could remake me into a thing like you,” said Athulwin, lingering in some nowhere between a question and a statement.

Fumiko shook her head. “I could make you into…” She paused, “Well. Something like him.” She nodded towards the direction from whence they had come. “If the ‘demonic’ nature is your concern - then at ease be. Such is a process you could, if you so chose, undergo yourself. Possess the mental fortitude you almost certainly do. A spirit of the land you would be. A spirit of this universe as a whole. As a foundational part of its being intrinsically tied to it rather than as a mortal soul existing merely within it. And… of the curse, you would be free. This curse - can it affect a spirit of the land? Can aging it accelerate where none exists? Can a premature death be brought - when your time to go is instead in permanent flux?”

"I doubt it," said Athulwin. "But what you're offering, the price- would I not be giving up my form?" Athulwin had never pictured himself with fox ears. "And, furthermore, my soul? If I become a spirit like you are, then my soul is no longer a soul but a spirit." His eyes looked across the forest, the fireflies in the air, this place of nature and magic. He whispered an old prayer in the language of the Wind- "May my soul fly free-" and then said to Fumiko, "There is one part of what you say that I wonder at. I have told you about my art of Utterance? Utterance is a form of druidism, some say. It's a way of connecting yourself to the natural world by speaking to it. To become a spirit of the world, I must say, sounds to be an expression of that goal in its ultimate. But I do not know. I wish to die no more than any man- but this is a weighty thing you've put on me."

Fumiko paused, stroking her chin as she thought for a moment, “Your form… yes and no. Your form would be… remade? You would still be you, however. As to the soul and the spirit… yes. Pretend to understand the minutiae I will not. But as best I do understand - they are still, fundamentally, comprise of the same… stuff?” She paused, clearly unused to not knowing something in detail. “Your soul, like your body, would be remade. I- well, something I myself have undergone it is not. But this is what I have been told. As of your Utterance… while understand it in its entirely I do not, from your description of it it certainly does seem to hold no small similarity.”

She fell silent again at his last words, nodding, and searching for the right thing to say. “A heavy choice I have given you, this is true. Of asking you to make a decision now I would dare not dream. A year it is you have, yes? During this time you can think upon it. Answer your questions outside of this… gift from the land I cannot - at least, not for the foreseeable future. But if you to decide you wish to take me up on my offer, tell me.” She paused, allowing a ghost of a smile to creep through, “And if accept you do, to have the company of another such as myself will do my mind good. It is lonely when none but myself and Nesora can hear the land singing under my feet. I would have much to teach you, too.”

“Thank you," said Athulwin. "For the hope, that is."

Around the space, the fireflies were drifting off, slow and one by one into the dark, out of the clearing. Their lights were becoming far away-little signal torches by the moment. The normal air of the wood was reasserting itself.

"I think the Forest's moment of magic might be ending," said Athulwin. "Again... I will think about it, and thank you."

But she didn't understand him.

The amphitheater was great, a giant building of like-minded battle-crazed idiots forming a small queue to sign up for non-lethal combat. I mean, most likely they weren’t battle-crazed like Ivraan was, but they were in it for the money. Ivraan loved fighting, and as Terilu had correctly pointed out, this was something for him. Ivraan looked up toward Terilu and Galaxor. “Yeah you are correct, I’ll sign up, not sure what you plan on doing Galaxor?” But with that Ivraan joined the queue, quickly making a mental note to check out the food vendor during or after his fight. It wasn’t long until Ivraan made his way to the front; “The rules are simple, you get a wooden weapon, no magic allowed, and the fight ends if one party is unable to continue or forfeits. For each win you get paid, any questions?” Ivraan shook his head, “Nah sounds good, sign me up.”

With that Ivraan got a chain necklace and went inside. There he inspected the wooden weapons that were supplied. Honestly, the quality was pretty decent, Ivraan made his way over to the spears to grab a few for test swings and eventually settled on one. Soon after his first fight started. The amphitheater was pretty full, the crowd clearly out for a spectacle. Surprisingly his first opponent wasn’t a local, it was a human, tanned by the scorching sun, but clearly not from here. He was using a sword and shield, a classic combination. Ivraan and his opponent who was introduced as Randolf took their places and their battle had started.

It was honestly a very boring fight, Ivraan’s natural agility and skill with the spear dwarfed that of Randolfs, so much so that Ivraan halfway in decided to taunt his opponent with a handicap. “If you can make me move from this spot, I’ll consider it my loss.” That crowd laughed and cheered. Unfortunately for Randolf, this task was too much for him, as soon Ivraan disarmed him and put his spear to his neck and won the match. He was disappointed, if this was the level his opponents were at, why did he even bother signing up? Well, now the hope was that maybe, just maybe Galaxor signed up. Fighting the giant did seem like fun.

As much as Gru would have liked to say he gave the marketer a serious run for his money, Argun had not exaggerated when he alluded to his skill. With his associates from Dawnlight Opportunities looking on, as still and silent as statues, the cheesemaker’s opponent unleashed an onslaught of tactical maneuvers, each one more clever than the last. He did not rush his moves, but neither did he hesitate overlong. Instead the Dinnin dwarf remained calm and in control at all times, his bearded face unreadable. Once the momentum of the game really swung in Argun’s favor, Gru could see the deathblow coming from a mile away, but his opponent ran such a tight ship that the cheesemaker found himself powerless to keep the steel jaws of Argun’s trap from snapping shut. Time and time again, he was forced to sacrifice his pieces, and his forces dwindled with alarming speed. Though he managed to drag it out a bit, the writing was on the wall for Gru; before too long, it was checkmate.

“Well, that’s that,” Gru conceded at last. He reached out for his king, and gently lifted the crown off his rat’s head between thumb and index finger. Immediately the little creature played dead, making a big show of falling over, then dramatically reaching upward in desperation before he breathed his last. Chuckling, the cheesemaker leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers, and gave Argun a respectful nod. “You certainly weren’t lying, my friend. If anything, you sold yourself short.”

The marketer gave a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just dispatched his opponent with military precision. “I merely forced you to play defensively, taking control of the game’s pacing. You were so busy salvaging the situation that you were unable to turn the tide.” He reached up and tapped his temple. “The true battle is not on the board, but in here. To achieve victory, you must get into your adversary’s head. Only then will you be able to seize the initiative.”

Gru gave a solemn nod, making sure to treat the suggestion like sage advice. “Of course, of course. I’ll have to add that one to the playbook.” He inhaled deeply, looking around his wagon’s interior. “Well, I must say. All that fighting for my life has me quite parched.” He lifted an eyebrow at the Dawnlight Opportunities dwarves. “Would the Clanhold Buraq happen to have good coffee?”

The question instantly decimated all three dwarves’ stoicism. While the other two just stood there, flabbergasted, Argun managed to find his tongue. “Would the-!” Very quickly, however, he caught himself, turning his astonishment into a good-natured baritone laugh. “Ohohoho. You really must be new here, Mr. Yarg!” He stood up from Gru’s desk with such suddenness that all the rats sitting around on it scattered. “Come, come. Follow me. I’ll show you the best coffee in the whole city!”

Gru stood as well. “Oh, you’re too kind, I couldn’t possibly steal any more of your time.”

“Nonsense!” Already on his way out the door, Argun beckoned him to follow. “Our hospitality is the least we can offer. You invited us into your home, after all. And since I ran you so ragged to begin with, I would be remiss if I did not make it up to you! No better time to talk business than over a cup of coffee, either.”

After that, Gru could do nothing but concede. He locked up the Chuck Wagon and left it in the care of his rats, taking with him as many as the Dinnin would allow, then joined them for a friendly excursion. With his three new acquaintances to lead the way, vouch for him, and keep him company, he could finally cross the outskirts of the desert stronghold and into the city itself. On his own he would have balked at navigating its vastly complicated network of byways and footpaths, but the marketers guided him as if they had compasses in their heads. Luckily, their rather short legs and unhurried gait meant that their pace wasn’t so brisk that Gru couldn’t take in the sights. Between its culture and its economy, nothing seemed to sum this society up better than ‘rich’, and as an entrepreneur Gru could appreciate that. Though the Clanhold still possessed its fair share of subtle menace, the cheesemaker could appreciate its marvels keeping in mind the foundations upon which this civilization could rise to such remarkable heights.

Before long, Gru was sitting in an exquisite outdoor cafe booth alongside an inclined street. Each U-shaped booth could comfortably seat nine dwarves, so one could accommodate a human(?) and three dwarves just fine. Each lay beneath a bonnet that extended from the nearby wall for shade against whatever desert sun managed to penetrate the Clanhold streets, and the patterned futons were so fine that Gru almost felt bad for sitting on them. Each bore intricate geometric patterns in vivid red, yellow, and brown, not unlike miniature mosaics. In the center of the booth sat a low table, itself swathed in a tapestry of a tablecloth, and upon it sat a curiosity. On top of a flame-lit stove sat a shallow cauldron filled with sand. Argun was delighted to give Gru a demonstration of its workings. A well-dressed Ainok waiter delivered a set of four bronze cups, each lined with a muddy sediment of water and fine coffee grounds. When Argun placed them on the blazing sand, the cups magically filled themselves.

Even after taking the full mug of foaming hot coffee in hand, Gru hardly needed to oversell how impressed he was. “What sorcery is this?” he wondered aloud. “And how can I do it?”

“Trade secret. But here’s a hint: there’s nothing magical about it,” Argun informed him, subtly pleased. “It is nothing more than the interplay of tradition, science, and highest-quality ingredients.” He watched as Gru took a sip from his cup. “How does it compare?”

Gru swirled the liquid around his mouth, noting its surprising density. The grounds must still be a part of the finished product, he realized. “There is no comparison,” he said after a moment. “Next to this, all other coffees might as well be bathwater.”

His new friends laughed, and everyone chatted for a while as they drank their beverages. Gru did not allow his true goal to slip from his mind, however, and after an appropriate interval he switched back to the task at hand. “You know,” he began. “What you said about coffee rather reminds me of my cheese. I myself cannot boast the history of the Dinnin, but cheesemaking is an ancient craft in its own right, and to an outsider it may as well be magic. In truth it is no more than chemistry, care, and lots and lots of practice.” He smiled. “But the results speak for themselves.”

“Hmm, yes.” Argun set down his cup, then stroked his beard as he thought. “I do believe your business presents a promising opportunity. We Dinnin are an artful people, but cheesemaking is not among our arts, so cheese is something of a delicacy. I must ask, however.” He crossed his arms. “Cheese is rare, but it is not unknown. And neither is the itinerant nature of the Pilgrim’s Caravan. I cannot imagine that you would remain here long enough for your cheeses to age to completion. If we helped you, how could we expect to receive a return on our investment?”

Gru nodded. These dwarves were astute, as expected, but the cheesemaker came prepared. “It may surprise you to learn that not all cheesemaking is created equal. It just so happens that I can do in days what others could only do in weeks or months. I will have a bounty of cheeses ready for the market before the Caravan departs. On that, you have my guarantee, and I know that is not something the Dinnin take lightly.”

“No indeed,” Argun murmured.

“One other matter,” Gru continued, not missing a beat. “At present I lack capital. So in order to partner with you, I imagine we would be entering a revenue sharing contract.”

Though he hadn’t cast a spell, he did say some magic words. Revenue sharing could be lucrative indeed, provided one could be confident in success. Just offering it said a lot about Gru’s own confidence, and it tickled the marketers’ taste buds as well. Argun beckoned his associates to come closer, and they spoke only briefly while Gru politely turned his gaze to the bustling street.

After a few moments, the dwarves had their answer. “You’re a bold one, Mr. Yarg,” Argun told him. “We like that. We can see your product’s potential, and it is clear you are a seasoned tradesman.” He extended his hand. “Let us become richer together.”

The cheesemaker shook the Dinnin dwarves’ hands. “Yes. Let's.”

This was not Eriwyn’s definition of a good day. It had started as one, but the broken arm, cracked rib, and missing friend implied that somewhere, things had taken a turn for the worse. Of course, the day hadn’t started that way; it began, like most since she’d arrived in the clanhold, with plants.

Eriwyn started her morning like any other, brewing a cup of black tea and caring for her garden. She kept a great many plants crammed together on a custom terraced setup, built into and through the upper floor of her wagon, sweet-talking each plant to play nice with its neighbors and grow in the cramped confines. Her latest batch of Firemoss, a tobacco-like plant that smoldered slowly and gave off a sweet relaxing smoke, was nearly ready to harvest. She had given it extra attention that morning, describing to it how she wanted it to grow in the language of plants and emphasized how sweet and rich its smoke would be.

That done, she donned her outfit for the desert: a flowing, hooded robe of finely woven undyed cotton belted at the waist, with an additional over-robe to further keep the sun off her pale complexion. She left for the Arena, knowing her help might be needed that day as she often volunteered as a doctor for Arena contestants, both in the show matches and the more dangerous fights. Beyond that, a friend of hers, a gladiator and rising star by the name of Mirena Starborn, was fighting that day. Eriwyn was also rather worried about her friend’s involvement with an unknown bookkeeper and intended to ask her about this beforehand.

Perhaps meeting the other woman for a light meal before her fight would give her the chance to get to the bottom of what has been bothering Mirena. It wasn’t like her friend to be jumping at shadows, and she’d even seen her ducking out of sight to avoid some shady characters. They were of the sort that often loitered around the Arena, taking bets and making deals of many kinds. With these dubiously happy thoughts circling through her head she left in search of her friend, finding her on a side street leading towards the Arena.

Mirena was an Ainok of average height for her people, with muscle stacked onto every inch of her frame. Her hair was cropped short and kept out of the way, and her fur coloration gave the impression of a wildfire rippling across the grasslands, only the tell-tale scars of a fighter across her body to break it up. When not fighting, she wore an embroidered tunic and a pouch-covered leather belt to help carry anything she might need that day along with a small icon of the Light-and-Flame around her neck.

“Salamu Alaykum! I am glad I caught you early today, dear friend.” Eriwyn said as she caught up with Mirena, who turned to face her with a startled look. “Wa salaam, sister. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mirena said, the look of shock morphing into a nervous smile as she looked up at the elf.

“I had hoped to catch you before your bout, for a light meal at least. You’ve been dodging me for those shady bookkeepers for the better part of a week, so I came to hunt you down instead.” Eriwyn smiled mischievously at the shorter woman and hooked one arm around Mirena, who looked around anxiously as Eriwyn started the pair towards an eatery they favored. As the pair turned down an alleyway shortcut Mirena's nervousness was proven correct, as a group of well-dressed figures stepped from the alley's shadows, blocking the path.

“I’m sorry, Miss. The Boss has business with your friend but not with any… hangers-on.” One of the figures said to Eriwyn before an unknown assailant behind her backhanded her into one of the alley walls. Her vision faded to fuzzy black as her head slammed against the stone and she slipped into unconsciousness.

Eriwyn woke up not knowing exactly how much time had passed, though not too much based on the movement of the sun. Her head pounded from the impact and a sharp pain in her chest implied further damage, but she forced herself to stand regardless and to find help. Her friend was missing, and she could not let that stand. Perhaps with the influx of travelers, she could even find someone to help them.

---

"Right," Granny Siri said with a satisfied sigh, slipping into the relaxed talk of her childfood. "We just have ta...."

Pilot and the tent were suddenly gone, and the priestess found herself wrapped in fog.

"SIRI...RI..Ri..ri," a deep booming voice echoed. "I..i..aye! OW! Hey! Stop that!"

Her hand emerged from a thick patch of fog tightly pulling on a struggling ear
"Stop it or ya'll be 'One Ear' for da rest of yer miserable life," she warned sourly. "Show da rest of yerself."
"Okay! Okay! Just ease off, okay?"

The fog in front of her faded away, revealing a man dressed like one of the Wanderer priests. He stared at her, then lifted his hand to point at the ear she still had clutched tightly in her hand.

"Ah, right," Siri scowled, releasing him. His hand immediately started rubbing his tortured flesh.
"Was that necessary?" he demanded.
"I don't like surprises."
"I can tell," he scowls.

"Well?" Siri demanded after a moment.
"Well, what?"
"Why did you bring me here?"
"Oh! There's something I need you to do in town."
"I'm getting ready for evening services," Siri protested.
"It's just past noon," he shrugs. "Plenty of time (I think)."

"Huh? Did you...?"
"Did I what?"
"I.... What is it you want me to do?"
"Yes! There's a woman in town named Eriwyn. I need you to go and help her."
"You want me to help her?"

"Is that so hard to understand?" he frowned, staring down at his palms curiously. "Did I change frequencies?"
"What?"
"Oh," he says, waving his right hand dismissively. "Not important. Or did I miss something?"
"Why me?"
"Oh! It's a favor for a friend."
"Last time I was here, a couple of the local Dinnin turned into frogs...."
"Yes!" the man replied with a nod, raising his index finger to point upward, then shook his head. "Let's not do that again, okay?"
"I didn't do that," Siri protested.
"Sorry, I.... wasn't talking to you."

Siri could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising. There were others in this fog, watching them. One of them was breathing hot on the back of her neck. It'd had been years since she felt the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach, but it was back. She didn't like it.

"So... I'm just supposed ta help this woman...?"
"Eriwyn."
"And there's nothing else...?" Siri asked.
"No goat!" he begged suddenly. "Every time I show myself, suddenly you mortals are sacrificing goats left and right. How many uses could I possibly have for a dead goat, I ask you?"

A mummer ran around them in the fog.

"Ah - no goats, I got it."
"Bit of cheese would be nice. Some cookies? Oh, and some coffee beans, we've been without for a while."
"Coffee... beans?"
"If you would be so kind, yes," he nodded.
"Ah, so how...?"
"Just put it on your altar and say a prayer," he smiles. "No rush. Sometime this week, after all the fuss ends."
"O...kay," she drawls. "So how do I find this Erywhen...?"

There was a sudden sharp pain in her head, already fading, but Siri suddenly knew exactly where Eriwyn was.

"Well, best let you get on with it."

Pilot blinked at Siri worriedly as she uncovered her face.

"That was weird," she muttered, reaching into the altar to pull out a satchel that she draped over her shoulder. "I'm going out. Mind the tent."

---

---

The centaur's friend he called 'Little S'uat' was a tall, massive being dressed in concealing armor with a massive sword on his(?) back, moving around like it was a spring morning in some cool forest glen. A tiny crossbow hung from their belt. When they had come up with him, he was doing something with a string and a piece of fruit...

Clearly, an assassin. People were rippling around the walking suit of armor as if they were trying to avoid him(?) without looking at him(?). Pity, they weren't showing her the same consideration. A few glances she did catch were either slightly worried or slightly curious...?

"The market is this way," S'uat pointed. His(?) voice had a weird, echoing buzz, like it was bouncing around his helmet and through a bee hive before finally escaping.

"Wait, did you hear something?" Ilyana said, her ear twitching as she turns towards an alley where Eriwyn was coming to, then pushed her way through the crowd that just parted for the assassin."Over here."

The half-human knelt down by the woman, taking in her condition. "Are you okay?"