Dust and dirt kicks up into the air where the Caravan roams, a cloud of disturbance that forms around and clings to it like a cloak. Hundreds of people and animals (the people walking or riding, the animals tugging caravans and weights) move together like one massive, living thing. It has left its trail all over the world. It is as if the Caravan and those who ride within it are lost in some great, endless search. But, whatever the Caravan may be looking for, it has never found it. For centuries it has roamed the world like this. And it will roam for centuries more.
Today and for the past seven days the Caravan has moved snail-like through an old forest called Emerald. The place is so named for its color: the leaves and grass here are a shade of green so bright they nearly hurt the eyes, and those who live nearest to it tell rumors that the trees drop jewels, cut and polished, instead of fruits. Its smell is sweet, but with an undercurrent of something wild, and something very threatening.
Threatening, yes. There is a sharpness to the air in this forest that the Caravan has found itself in, in every breath a certain feeling of something old, something deep and furious. The Emerald Forest is awake, the Pilgrims have begun to realize. It is alive. And not only alive in the way that all plants and such green things are- but alive in the way a person is, like a spirit. It has a Mind and Will of its own. What, you must wonder, does it think of the Pilgrim's Caravan worming its way through its body? It feels... hostile.
Perhaps that is why so few people build here. As the Pilgrims roll through the Emerald Forest, they have met no other humans, elves, or any other friendly faces. There was a town that sold them needful supplies just before they entered, and there is good word of a crumbled old city on the other end of it, to the East. But no humans or humanoids are said to dwell within, nor have for centuries. To live in a forest is one thing, after all. To live in a Living Forest- that is
completely another. It would be like building your house in the stomach of some great giant. Here you are always feeling the air breathing around you, the wind sucking in-and-out between the trees in a way uncomfortably reminiscent of the air in a man's lungs. The last people who lived here did so ages ago, and nothing remains of them but the haunted barrows they left behind, silent stone tombs scattered throughout the wood.
Some in the Caravan are beginning to grumble that they never should have come here at all. They've had nothing but misfortune and delays since they entered. Every day a wagon wheel pops off, and every night a child or an old woman falls ill. They blame the forest itself, or some curse that must be seeping out of the barrows. The sick are multiplying even when they get good food and rest; but the likelyhood of having much of either dwindles with every day they spend in this forest. The Caravan is usually well-supplied, but it cannot last indefinitely, and already a week has been burnt up. The animals are depressed, despite the green grass and bright air. They are still days out from getting through to the other end. They are on a path- the
only path, in fact, that exists through this wood- but it is uncomfortably narrow for a Caravan so large, and it means that every time a wagon up ahead breaks down, all behind it must stop and wait.
During one of these inevitable stops, a crowd of about twenty strangers emerges from the woods with hungry faces, pleading desperately to join the Caravan.
--- ~--( )--~ ---
"Do you know where they came from?" asks Athulwin. He is sitting in his own caravan, a small but cozy one, filled to bursting with pillows and books and blankets. There's a little man stooped in here with him, a messenger.
"Not exactly, Navigator," the little man answers. He was the one who drew the short straw, got sent to tell Athulwin about the two-dozen strangers who appeared out of the wood asking for food. "They say that they've been lost in the forest for weeks. They look it, too. Oh, you should see 'em, faces all sunken and ribs showing. Poor creatures! Said they're from the city, came in as loggers hoping to fell some of the great big trees that only grow deep in the wood. But once they came in, they said, they could never find their way back out. It was like the trees closed up behind 'em, they said. And after that-"
"And
after that," Athulwin finishes, sighing a gust of wind, "they had nothing but misfortune and bad luck, until eventually they ended up cart-less and starving, and now they have to beg for their food from us."
"Well, that's about the shape of it, sir."
"Alright. Spare what we can for them. Give them some straw bedrolls to sleep on tonight. Bread and water, the like. Did they say anything else? Anything
useful?" At the word '
useful,' a flame flickers inside his mouth. He's quite frustrated at being interrupted. He'd been meditating on the Eld Breviary when this messenger came in, and everybody knows that Athulwin hates for that time to be disturbed. He doesn't care if he shows his irritation- he considers himself entitled to it.
"Just one other thing. Uh, it's probably nothing, you know, mister Navigator."
"It's alright. Speak, messenger."
"Well, it's just, some of them found one of those old barrows that they say lay around these parts, and when it was getting to be dark the other night they tried sleeping inside it, you know, and... they saw
dead things in there, mister Navigator."
"One often finds dead things in a tomb."
"No, no, I mean they saw dead things that was still moving like they were alive. Said a bunch of bones came walking up to them. And it
said something to them, too, that frightened them so bad they all went running, even though nobody could guess what language it was."
"Undead, then. I'll put the word out. Thank you."
The messenger turns and whisks his way out of the caravan. He knows what Athulwin means by 'put the word out,' and he doesn't much like to watch it happen. It freaks him out. Soon as he's gone, the Monk turned Navigator begins to speak stirring, gasping words in a foreign tongue. It does not sound like normal human language. It uses the inhaled breaths as much as the exhaled ones. It sounds more like the rustling of leaves in the breeze, like an arrow whistling by your ear, like the stirring of a tornado. He is speaking the language of the Wind, and at his words a breeze suddenly comes into his open window and begins to circle around the room, rustling the fabrics. He reaches out and grabs it.
The wind whirls in Athulwin's palm, tickling his fingers. It is his own pet windstorm, held in the palm of his hand. He brings the hand to his lips and whispers his words into it. Normal, human words, this time. When he opens his palm, the wind will fly outwards, out from his caravan, carrying those same words to the intended Pilgrims, where they will hear his speech as if it were carried on the wind. In this way he can talk to people far off, without having to bother getting up and walking over to them.
He could have just sent the messenger, he realizes. But that would have been less impressive.
He sends his wind-borne messages to most of the key figures of the caravan. The guard captain, the quartermaster, and so on. He also sends messages to a few of those who might not be
leaders, per say, but nonetheless stand out in one way or another; they are often the most useful.
To Galaxor Stoneclaw, the great giant explorer, he says:
"Stoneclaw, O giant wanderer of our Caravan, there is word of ancient barrows nearby. Was it not your purpose to see the world, so that you may bring stories of it back to your tribesmen? Well, while we are stopped for some time, perhaps you'd like to venture out and explore these forsaken old ruins. Some others may wish to go with you. I hear of tales of undead- and I admit, I do not like having such a threat so close to our Caravan. Take your axe and your fists with you, should you go. I do not think any skeletons will withstand you."To Gru, the cheesemonger and friend of rats, he says:
"Gruyere Yarg, O man of cheeses and wines. You will no doubt have heard that a small, hungry group of refugees has come beseeching our caravans. Basic supplies are being granted, but I wonder if perhaps they would also benefit from something hardier and more cheering out of your supply of cheeses and wines. I do not expect it is in your nature to give people something for nothing, but nonetheless I ask. They may also have some gold or meager goods to barter with, if you must profit from this." He paused a moment, and as an afterthought he adds:
"By the way, Master Yarg, your last sample of Brie de Meaux was deeply impressive, as always your work is. One day you will have to let me see your methods." Athulwin was an appreciator of things like fine cheeses and wines; many of his fellow monks produced similar goods, back in the monasteries. He was a reoccurring customer.
To Knossos, the occultist, he says:
"Knossos, O Walker of Dreams. What do you know of undead and old tombs? More than I would like, I imagine. We are very near to some of both. Ready your occult knowledge close at hand to protect us. But, please, spare my sensibilities the details."To Malleck, the wanderlusting bard, he says:
"Malleck, our friendly musician. Your ears have heard of the refugees that have come asking our aid. Food and necessities have been supplied, but they are in poor spirits. Perhaps you may ready your instruments and your voice; I imagine a follower of your faith knows what to do."He gives no suggestions to the other stand-outs of the Caravan- Ilyana, Mergoux, Jason and the like- though he can guess what they might do. Some will no doubt go forth exploring into the old barrow-tombs, hoping to crush the undead who live there. Some may join Malleck in trying to cheer the refugees, or find out from them more of what strange things they experienced. Some may even simply go wandering in the forest, trying to find out the source of its strange hostility towards travelers. And some others may do something he has not even thought of.
It doesn't matter. Each in the Caravan is a free soul, as always. Even Athulwin holds no true sway over what they choose to pursue, whatever he may suggest.
With that humbling thought, he reaches again for his Eld Breviary, and continues to meditate. He has not moved from his caravan.
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