As the small group walked down the path, following Rivsk's nose, Gartroth began helpfully pointing out dangerous plants and animals, as well as non-dangerous plants and animals, as well as interesting plants and animals. Also interesting rock formations, and self-proclaimed interesting factoids about the section of the woods that they were apparently in, and was that butterfly a xynnia ravlia, or an undiscovered species? Maybe she should start thinking up names, just in case, huh? She wished she had brought her sketch pad.
It was clear she was not taking her audience with her, but not to her. She was too enthralled.
Eurillya had made an effort at first, but her attention wandered quickly to the surrounding foliage. She turned her head slowly, taking in the wildlife, occasionally drifting back to the lecture when the subject matter happened to line up with the current object of her scrutiny. Rivsk, sniffing at the head of the group, was intensely focused on the wavering scent of Magpie in the air, and didn’t seem to register the troll aside from the occasional twitch of a nostril as he attempted to compensate for the copious clouds of carbon dioxide emanating from Gartroth’s position. Rathin was the only person really listening, but with an unconcerned air that suggested he was largely doing so because she was the only voice in earshot.
Of the four, Rosort seemed to be having the most trouble tuning Gartroth out. After fifteen minutes, the polite, waxen smile glued to his face began to look a little strained. Already walking briskly to make up for the height of his legs, he picked up the pace, catching up to Rivsk and putting some distance between him and Gartroth. At the half hour mark the smile had started visibly shaking, and he was barely three steps behind the Caniloper.
The impromptu guided tour had been going on for forty-seven minutes, and Rosort looked about ready to pop, when he found his concentration broken by the tail whipping across his nostrils. “Pthatbpth!” he sneezed, loud enough to interrupt Gartroth, in the middle of a convenient lull.
Rivsk had stopped suddenly, turning his head to the right and sniffing hard. “The trail starts heading off the path here. Into the woods.” He stood up carefully and pointed his nose as high into the breeze as he could. “It doesn’t smell like it’s going to join back up with it any time soon, either.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” said Rosort. He sounded like he meant it. "We’ll have to continue on as a smaller group, and leave Rathin and Eurillya here."
“What, just like that?” asked Eurillya, incredulously. “Are you being serious right now?”
“I don’t think we should split up, brother,” Rathin agreed.
"I feel the need to remind you two that we are in the Ravelwoods. This is not a charming jaunt through the forest!" Rosort's heels clicked together, and, seemingly without being aware of it, he began to pace, slowly.
"Consider the well-worn path beneath our feet!" he declared. "This clearly marks the safest route through the woods, and our quarry has turned off of it. Unknown and unpredictable dangers await, and it can be assumed that the Magpie is far more familiar with them than we are. Our streamlined group will include our most capable fighter, a mage, and an expert on the local geography. Rathin, you can make camp just off the path here. Guard and sustain yourselves as you await our return."
Eurillya, who had been listening with her mouth open, closed it. "Okay, so you were joking. I couldn’t tell. That is the most—
—unwise decision you could make right now, Mr. Serrin," Gartroth chimed in. "Even assuming we catch the Magpie, without a clear trail to follow back, we'd just get lost."
"Please, dear scholar. I'm sure a trail can be arranged. You could… uproot a sapling every ten yards or so, or perhaps our mage friend can do something."
"Brother, no, this truly is unwise," Rathin ventured.
Rosort spun around. "You too, Rathin! You've been on just as many marches as I have, you know these tactics work!"
"We had a clearer destination on those marches, and greater resources."
"It's not as though we're chasing an army, dear brother."
"You admitted the path ahead is unpredictable. We may be needed. 'Unknown problems may require unlikely solutions.' Cheiftain Soo Chee Lin. Remember the Art of War."
"Soo Chee Lin was the enemy in the accounts we read! His tactics were underhanded and his personal fighting style lackluster at best!"
"But he won, brother. He wrote the rest of the book."
"You read ahead!"
Eurillya chimed in, "These are all very good points, Rathin and Gartroth, but I was trying to point out that we don't know any Way out of the woods. I thought the whole plan was to catch up to the Magpie and make it tell us how to get out of here. Are you going to come all the way back for us, then travel all the way back to whatever exit you learn about?"
Rosort turned to face Euryllia with his mouth open, raised his clawed digit, closed his mouth, looked away, lowered his finger, looked back at her, opened his mouth again, paused, and finally made an about turn towards the Magpie trail. "We will group ourselves as follows! Myself and Rathin will bring up the front, followed by Rivsk at a distance of two meters, who will scan ahead with his sense of smell for the trail and any dangers! Eurillya will stay directly behind Rivsk and Gartroth will bring up our rear, remaining within one meter at all times! Are there any questions?"
"How long is a meter?" asked Rivsk.
"Slightly below my height," Rosort replied.
"Could you lie down for a second, I'm having trouble visualizing—"
Gartroth said, "Your concern is understandable, Rosort, but I studied the Ravelwoods for a significant amount of my adult life. The Walkers do a very good job, but their paths are far from the only safe ways through the woods."
Rivsk piped up, "I also did a good amount of digging on the woods to prepare for my commission, and I can verify that. The Walkers' Paths are not the only way of navigating the woods."
"Exactly."
"But they are the only ones that reliably last, a lot of the time."
Nobody said anything, but the group turned as one to face the forest that they had been standing at the edge of for several minutes.
"Well, it sounds like we should get a move on!" said Eurillya, walking up next to Rivsk.
They all turned into the brush, and began walking quickly through the dense trees.
The days in the Library were… difficult to pin down. People slept, they woke, sometimes more of them were doing one than the other and things were a bit quieter, but time was largely a matter of location and consensus.
The sun currently orbiting whatever twisted multidimensional honey glazed torus of spacetime this particular section of the Ravelwoods happened to exist on, however, beat down the seconds exactingly, reminding the five creatures trudging through the ferny undergrowth that they had circadian rhythms. As they walked, their pineal glands began insisting that they had been awake far too long for the sun to still be rising.
There was no sound but a light shivering, as the light grew on the small group, and the leaves of the trees began to change shape. Mossy, bearded pines mingling with jagged-leaved oaks gave way to smooth green ovals and translucent maple leaves. While the five stared up at the sunlight dappling through the warmer air, the endless bosk, without ever appearing to change in any way, developed some grassy patches. An errant flowering bush appeared a long way off, and a clearing was suddenly apparent some distance away.
“Gartroth, explain please,” said Eurillya, more than a shade apprehensively.
“Huh,” said the troll, who had been resting her voice for the past hour, “so that’s a shift, then. Nothing to worry about, everyone.”
“The trees changing species suddenly seems rather significant to me,” said Rosort, distracted by the rambling branches trailing far over his head.
“It’s really not. Trust me, before you know it you won’t even be noting it when it happens.”
“Well, my nose doesn’t lie,” said Rivsk as he trotted to and fro along the path. “We’re in the exact same location, there’s our trail behind me.”
“And the Magpie?” Eurillya wanted to know.
“Dead ahead. The trail’s stronger than ever now.”
Rosort took his eyes off the leaves to face Rivsk. Rathin’s head perked up slightly a second later. “Really? said the shorter of the two Desthari. “About how long would you say it took our Magpie to walk the next… 10 meters?”
“Uh, give me a second to convert that into Rosorts… He’s definitely been letting his scent soak into the environment more for the last hide or so. I’d say he’s slowing down. You think he’s settling in for a long journey?”
“We’ve been off of the path for the better part of a day without encountering anything more threatening than a hand slug. I believe we can assume that our target thinks itself safe. And, so long as we have a clear trail to follow, there’s no point in racing the Magpie to its nest.”
“No problem there,” said Rivsk. “I don’t even need to follow the magic in the book. Whatever dark mojo those things surround themselves with, it lingers.”
“So we can make camp?” asked Eurillya, fiddling with her belt.
“Thankfully, I’m almost certain now that we’re somewhere in the Belted Valleys, which has a relatively low period of incursions-“ began Gartroth.
“We can make camp,” said Rathin quickly and finally.
“Quite right,” added Rosort, getting the last word.
As well as beginning the next thought,”Our first priority will be finding the ideal spot to ca-“
“That clearing seems nice,” Gartroth interjected.
"Aha! Your nai-"
Rathin cut into his brother's boast, "There's a rise. Northern edge of the clearing. Thick copse of trees on it. Thick enough to slow down anything big enough to cause us trouble." In a rather tired, knowing tone, he continued, "I don't see any higher ground, brother."
"Water- "
"I can hear a brook babbling," added Rivsk. "It's telling me it's only 5 or 6 rods away. Just tie your bottles to me. I'll go for a swim. What's next, sir?"
Rosort stood silently for a few moments. He rose his head, though he didn't look up into anyone's eyes as he murmured, "…provisions."
Euryllia half-rose her hand awkwardly. "I guess I should mention at this point that I have a pouch of jerky…"
"Ah! Capital!" Rosort brightened up slightly. "I am rather fond of jerky, it's most kind of you to offer-"
"I'm not! -uh… offering, sorry." She put up both her hands in a sheepish expression. "I mean, not unless there's no other option, I mean. I've got this protein deficiency, so I carry this jerky around for when I'm feeling faint. I just wanted to bring it up so nobody would accuse me of hiding it…" Momentarily flustered by everyone's attention, she regained her composure. "How about I go out hunting? I've got this knife, it's not really for combat, but I could whittle down a branch and make a spear. Or if you have some string…"
"The Ravelwoods isn't just a catchy name, I'm sorry to say," said Gartroth. "It's unlikely that you'll find many long, straight branches lying around."
"Then I'll make a boomerang! The point is, I'm not giving up my jerky if I can find something to replace it."
"I have string, and rope," said Rathin, who was digging through his pack. "I also have a combat knife." He brought out a battered metal canteen and a sturdy, faded leather one. They looked worlds apart, though that wasn't particularly unusual for any long-standing Library patron. He pulled a length of twine out of some unseen roll buried in his supplies and snipped it off with a claw. These items he handed to his brother, before reaching up to clap Euryllia between the shoulderblades. "Let's go hunting."
With that, he walked off towards right side of the hillock he had mentioned. After a few seconds, Euryllia shook her head and briskly started after him.
The three remaining party members watched them go in silence. Once they had disappeared around the rise, the troll and the wolf-wizard turned their attention to the short, prim lizard man, who had not yet moved. All three seemed to be waiting for someone willing to penetrate the awkwardness.
Nobody had to wait very long.
"I don't know why they were so eager to go hunting," Gartroth murmured to the air in the vicinity of the back of Rosort's head. "I'm quite familiar with the edible flora of this region. In fact I saw a clutchberry bramble not long before we came into this clearing, and while the seeds are rather infamous for their extreme purgative effects on most warmblooded animals, clutchberry jam has been a trade staple of indigenous—"
The sound of the scholar gaining verbal steam was enough to snap Rosort out of it. "Right! Well then, learned Gartroth! We will leave the frumentatory duties to you," he dropped the canteens and string on the ground and began digging in his own pack. First he brought out a folded green linen drawstring bag, embroidered with red and yellow lillies, which he handed to Gartroth with an instruction to "collect the delicate fruits last, lest you stain the fabric." This was followed by his own collection of anachronistic water containers and a roll of red string, which he snipped in the same manner as his brother. In the end, including his own, there were seven bottles to tie to Rivsk. Gartroth set out as Rosort began the process of affixing them to his midsection.
"Mind the belt, it's full of stuff," said Rivsk when a glass bottle slipped through the loop Rosort was tightening around it and fell to the ground.
"Isn't that why you have zippers on them?" the Desthari inquired absently. With one hand he kept the complicated, half-formed knot from springing apart as he slowly reached down to pick up the bottle with the other.
"Generally speaking, yes," replied Rivsk as Rosort repositioned the spout inside the loop and tried to contort the fingers holding the knot so that he could grab the end he needed to pull with one. "But all the pouches are free-hanging, so they're level whether I'm on two legs or four. If you're not careful, you can get one stuck twisted around itself upside-down. Some of this stuff I've got can even leak through zippers if you give it enough time."
"Seems you should get something that seals better than zippers." Finally the tip of a flailing claw caught on a loose fiber in the thread and Rosort, oozing concentration, slowly and carefully pulled the finger as far as it could go, closing the knot around the bottle.
"I've tried. Everything fails zomehow, but zippers work best." He shrugged, producing an array of bumps, clanks, and chinks. "Magic, man. Zo many arbitrary rulez. It really zuckz zometiméz." He waited expectantly, but Rosort was too busy tightening and double-checking all of the knots. Rivsk drooped slightly. "So what'll you be doing while we're off gathering you a grand feast with all the tracklements?"
His work done, the soldier stood up straight and tall, insofar as he capable of doing so. "I shall prepare our camp for habitation. Gather firewood, dig a latrine, establish a defense perimeter… Don't you worry about me, my fine furry friend, I shall be more than adequately occupied."
Time passed…
Gartroth was having difficulty orienting herself in the absence of a path. She knew the proper names, growth stages, and most common raveling patterns for all of the plants and trees around her, but she was having trouble picking any singular one out of the crowd and saying definitively, "Yes, I've seen that tree. I remember looking at it before." This lush wood was completely different from the trackless highland meadows and stark alpine forests of her youth, and those memories were a lifetime away besides.
Reluctantly accepting her current inability to perceive order in the wilderness, she opted to forage within earshot of the clearing they'd decided to make camp at the edge of. Thankfully Rosort was engaged in something effortful, and his enthusiastic grunts and gasps gave the city troll a clear direction to latch onto as she ventured further into the woods. Recalling the fussy lizard man's instructions to refrain from soft fruits, she started by gathering twigs off one tree which, lightly smoked over three days to eliminate some of the more potent irritants, would yield a fortifying and flavorful tea. Nearby she noticed a bush with large, woody nuts. Recalling stories about avian tribes who discarded the hard and bitter nutmeat to carve beautiful whistles from the shells, she tossed several handfuls into the bag.
Then she began lightly digging underneath some broad-leaved ground-hugging plants with her hands and pulling them up by the roots, scanning them for tubers and tossing them over her head when she found none. Then she went back to her discarded root pile when she realized the "carrotlike" protrusions she had read about were not quite so large and triangular as she was expecting, and, sifting through the roots with a more careful eye, found slightly thicker roots two inches below the stem with the paler coloration and slight horizontal banding she'd been searching for. Muttering incredulously to herself, she worked them out of the rootball and placed them in the sack before moving on to the greens and berries.
The shadows were just beginning to lengthen when she drew the string for the final time over the gently bulging bag and began walking towards the continuing sounds of masculine effort coming from their campsite. Picking her way into the clearing through a thicket of brambles, she looked around for Rosort, whose voice was still echoing off of the trees and into the circle of sky above them. She didn't see him, but there was a cleared fire pit surrounded by stones and a small woodpile over near the northern rise. A massive amount of fresh dirt, presumably acquired from a nearby latrine, was piled into a crude windbreak that half-encircled the campsite. White steam curled from a pot set among some glowing embers. A straightish fallen log, big enough for three or four trolls to sit on, had even been chopped in three and dragged around the circle of stones.
Finally extricating herself from the thorns at the edge of the clearing, Gartroth stepped towards the homely scene, and lost her balance as her foot hit air where she was expecting ground. Using instincts that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with walking while reading books, Gartroth's hand immediately shot skyward, keeping the bag from getting crushed as she tumbled into a shallow ditch that had not been there when she left.
"Ah! Gartroth! Welcome back, my bookish friend! That move with the bag was something to behold! I'm truly grateful, understand, but you'll need keener instincts than that to survive in the wildnerness." Rosort ran along the ditch he had dug instead of a latrine to help the troll up, or at least provide moral support as she got her bearings and stood on her own. He was covered in dust from top to toe but nevertheless seemed in much higher spirits. "In any case, I'll have you know you're rather lucky, young lady. By pure happenstance I've only just finished the trench. If I'd had time to lay down the brambles and flint, you'd be in quite the spot of bother! Have you found any exotic teas, by chance?"
Gartroth attempted to absorb this as she observed the trench. Standing in its deepest point, it came just to her knees and covered most of the section of camp left open by the windbreak. It was a ridiculously impressive amount of work for a couple hours, but… "I've found several, but they all need some form of processing. Why have you dug a trench, Mr. Serrin?"
"No matter, I always keep some of my own special blend on hand. It's quite rare and expensive, but under the circumstances I should be happy to share a few cups whilst we prepare our own."
She stepped out and continued to observe the trench as she offered a hand to the much smaller Desthar. "Thank you. Am I the first one back? Also, why have you dug a trench, Mr. Serrin?"
Rosort made a beeline for his pack, producing several tin cups which he left on a log, a small amber glass bottle, and a couple of soft rags. He began to dust off his scales before he replied, "I haven't seen Rathin and the young lady, but hunting is a rather more patient game than the legends make it sound. Don't expect to see them until closer to sundown. Rivsk came back earlier. We had a chat and a drink of water, I more than he, naturally, considering my exertion. He conjured a spot of flame for the campfire, I set a pot of water to boil for tea and then I sent him off to refill the canteens again… oh, must be at least half a summer's hour by now." Having fastidiously wiped down every inch of his upper body and what was visible of his legs, Rosort returned to his pack, found a thin telescopic brass stick with tweezers on the end, attached the dustcloth to it, and began rubbing down between his ridged shoulderblades with practiced ease. "He was muttering to himself a bit as he went, now I come to think of it. Lad's a few drinks shy of an oasis, if you don't mind my saying so." Once he was finished dusting, he doused the other cloth in oil with a piney scent and began to repeat the process.
"It's possible that he may have been muttering about the fact that you felt the need to dig a trench around a campsite we will be spending a single night at. Why did you dig a trench?"
"My dear woman, why not? A well-fortified perimeter has proven the difference between victory and defeat in half of the battles I've been in! They may slow the enemy for hours or seconds but when you're staring down a loaded bayonet those seconds become crucial to formulating-"
"Most large predators are capable of clearing a gap like this, Mr. Serrin," Gartroth protested. "I'm sure that your tactics are perfectly sound in a military setting but when faced with purely natural threats it can be wasteful to—"
"Young lady, these tactics are time honored and proven against all variety of situations, from before you or I were even born—"
The growing argument was interrupted by a sudden and frenzied rustling coming from the trees hanging over their campsite. Rosort dropped his polishing cloth and scrabbled in his pack for his knife while Gartroth froze and tried to identify the source animal by the sound. Just as he'd gotten the sheathed blade free there was a muffed curse in a foreign language with Rosort's accent. He clipped the knife to his belt rather than dropping it back in the bag and went to help his brother, who was frantically attempting to shove himself into the clearing through the tangle of branches he had recently deemed too thick for animals to bother with.
Once Gartroth joined in the two managed to pull the wide-eyed, wide-bodied lizard man into their campsite through the raveling wood, where he stood, panting. It was clear that he'd been running. While Rosort helped Rathin sit on a log, Gartroth dipped a cup into the pot of simmering water and set it aside to cool.
"Easy, dear chap, easy," Rosort said with his hand on his brother's chest. "Breathe first, then report. That's right. Gartroth, get the square tin from my pack. Drop a pinch in that cup you drew-" he stopped as Rathin waved his own hands.
"We- need to go," he said heavily. "I caught a whiff of— pheremones… from a big mammal. Female. Smelled really— agressive. Lot of postpartum hormones, too. I followed it, there's markings every twenty meters. We're in the middle of a giant mother-something's territory!"
"Calm down, brother. Whatever it is, it's not here, and you've brought us advance warning. Excellent work!" Rosort clapped his brother on the back, producing a hoarse wheeze, and turned to Gartroth, who was hovering uncertainly over the teacup with a tin in her hand. "Drop the tea in the pot and take it off the coals, dear troll, we shall have to drink as we emigrate. For now, let us pack up and await our comrades' return." Rosort collapsed his polishing stick and stowed it, along with his cloths and oil. Gartroth proffered the tea tin, which he added to his supplies before zipping up his pack. He pulled two more cups out of Rathin's bag, to monosyllabic protest, then turned to him. "Now, where is Euryllia? Is she returning with your catch?"
Rathin's expression, never particularly revealing, changed. It looked… slightly sheepish. After a few seconds, he spoke, "We'd just finished her weapon. We'd been looking for a game trail for five minutes when we stumbled onto the first scent marker.""
"Alright," said Gartroth encouragingly, when the Desthar did not continue. "So what happened? Did she want to keep hunting?"
"I… don't know," the reserved voice grew quieter. "I… just… ran for camp and…. possibly….. lost her."
"What!?"
Following ancient and immutable laws of the multiverse, this exclamation was cue for an enormous body to smash through the eastern windbreak and tumble face first into the remains of the fire, coming to a stop immediately in front of the log where the three beings sat stunned. By relativistic physics or quantum mechanics, the pot of hot tea flipped high up into the air and landed directly into the already dazed creature's squinting eyes as it—
HHHRREEAUNGH-GH-GH-GH!
The titanic mass, silhouetted in the flying dirt, reared and Expanded somehow as it screamed. Its diameter grew by several feet and its outline appeared to blur at the edges. The shock sent the Desthari brothers in opposite directions. Rosort dove into his trench while Rathin scrambled up the tree wall that had so recently entrapped him. Gartroth stumbled backwards and tripped over the other windbreak, landing heavily on her back with a loud thud. She stared up at the creature, paralyzed.
Details began to resolve themselves as the dust cleared. On four legs, the beast was still ten feet tall. Ursine feet resized for an elephant supported powerful hind legs, jointed like a lion but wide as a rhino's. These buttressed an enormous round hindquarters which rose above the main body and accounted for at least three feet of its maximum height. The ridiculous backside quickly tapered as it approached the front, giving the animal the overall appearance of a teardrop laid on its side. The dully-clawed forepaws were closer in size to an actual grizzly bear, but its long, muscular legs once again followed the design of an animal made for pouncing. The teardrop ended suddenly and without ceremony in a stubby muzzle that barely reached beyond the front paws. Black eyes, flaring pink nostrils, and long, squared-off rodent's teeth made up the entirety of the face.
None of these details registered to the group, who were all staring at the creature's hair.
It was brown. It was shiny. It covered the thing completely and it was as thick and hard as bamboo. The air was filled with chitinous clacking as each strand appeared to flutter in its own personal breeze. As of yet, the beast still seemed distracted after having its face steamed. Though it was tall enough to see over the dirt wall to where Gartroth was sprawled, gaping up in terror, it was snuffling and shifting in place.
"Freeze!" came Rathin's voice from the trees, followed helpfully by, "No! On the ground!"
"Gartroth!" called Rosort in a stage whisper, "what is this beast? Where are its weak points?"
"Aawwaaaa… Gh-gh-gwaaaa…" Gartroth's mouth hung slack, her eyes staring wide and unblinking at the enormous thing towering over her. The strange squashed face approached, though it had yet to focus on the troll. It was still glancing back and forth, grunting as the hair on its body began to flutter closer to its leathery skin.
"Good!" was the encouraging response from the trees.
"Rathin can't distract it for long, scholar, where shall I aim my blade?"
"Uh- uh…"
"Get its attention!"
"Aye-aye, brother!"
"What? No, Rosort, not you!" But it was too late. Rosort sprang from his hiding spot and clambered up the beast's back using its hairs as a ladder. Grabbing one carefully to avoid the dull, but still pointed, tip, Rosort braced himself against the creature's shoulderblades and brought his knife down just as a handful of strands flew up to reveal a patch of skin on the back of its neck. The blade barely sunk a centimeter before it met resistance and bounced out of Rosort's unprepared grip.
In the same breath, all the hair on the thing finally went flat, locking rigidly in place and pinning Rosort's stabbing arm to its back. The thing stopped approaching the still-prone Gartroth as it turned its attention to the wriggling thing biting into its neck. It began to buck, awkwardly, using its mammoth backside to build swinging momentum. The log seats scattered as it swayed violently, missing the dirt wall by scant inches. The small lizard man on its back flopped around like a rag doll.
Still, even as his body smashed against the armored hide again and again, he still managed to bellow, "Di-URT GAAAAAHhh-t in yourEYES, scho-oh, OH! -lar? Name anananand pertinent details! NOW!"
Gartroth finally snapped out of her stupor and scrambled backwards just as the western windbreak blew apart in a vicious swing from the beast. She stumbled to the edge of the clearing before yelling behind her, "Armored Hepchink! Omnivorous. Scavenger. Highly aggressive and territorial! The female defends her territory by cannonballing into invaders with her massive hindquarters! Most notable feature is its armor-like fur, controlled by a dense layer of muscle under most of its skin!" In a less automatic tone she continued, "You have to surprise it! Break its concentration and its armor will loosen!"
"Rivsk! Do something!" called Rathin from the trees.
And then a ball of piss came flying from beyond the trench and splashed against the side of the Hepchink's head.
Rivsk was taking his time making his way back to the campsite after Rosort sent him on his second water run. It wasn't because he was annoyed with the little prick for drinking most of his first supply and dumping the rest in a pot to boil. Or, rather, that wasn't quite a precise enough explanation. His progress was slow because he only had three legs to make it with. The fourth was carefully gripping a crudely formed clay thimble with a drop of water in it. Several gallons more were suspended in a rough bucket shape above his head, sloshing as he fought to keep the thimble level, his fake thumb pressing so hard it was starting to slide up his paw.
Enough water to fill any other containers that might have slipped Rosort's mind, thought Rivsk. And if it turns out he doesn't need it all, I can always just dump the rest in his stupid trench. While he's in it.
These charitable thoughts were interrupted by a rumbling crash and a deafening screech from the northeast, just beyond a stand of rhododendron. Where the camp was.
…
"Okay, fine. I guess I can at least check before I move on ahead…" he announced to the empty air.
Slinking around the densely-leaved bush, clutching the tiny bucket close, he crept into the clearing directly behind Rosort in his trench, just in time to see the dust clear around the Hepchink.
"Nope," said Rivsk under his breath. "That is definitely a nope."
Unfortunately for Rivsk, he made eye contact with Rathin in the trees just as he started backing away.
"Freeze!"
The Caniloper froze guiltily.
"No! On the ground!" Rathin pointed above his head, where the large blobule was floating, then at the bare ground between him and the trench.
He rolled his eyes. Oh, sure, I'm a mage, so obviously I can just pull any spell conveniently out of my rectum. "Oh, hold on. Maybe…"
First he brought the thimble and the water blob close to the ground and tipped it out slowly to avoid making a noise. Then he reached around to one of his pouches and brought out a pinch of Surface Dust1, dropping it onto the water. Immediately the tiny grains spread out along the surface, encapsulating the entirety of the puddle and preventing it from soaking into the ground.
He crouched down and scratched hard at the magical barrier with a claw. "No obvious marks… only a couple atoms deep, can't expect to see…" Working blind, praying he wasn't being too sloppy, he sketched the easiest cooling spell he knew into the bubble, finishing just as the film began to soften. There was a discreet flash as the spell spread across the remainder of the magic and dissolved alongside it into the water, creating a clear, flawless plane of ice.
"Good! Get its attention!"
"How?" Rivsk tried to mouth, which is hard to do with a muzzle, but at that point Rathin was distracted by all hell breaking loose. Rosort jumped out from the ditch in front of the ice and climbed up the giant thing. He went for the jugular, insofar as the creature had a neck, but he ate it and got stuck somehow while it started to buck him.
"Uh… ummmm, alright, attention…" The clanking of various heavy water containers bumping against his sides were not helping Rivsk's concentration as he looked around frantically for something to throw that would get the creature to look at him.
His eyes fell on the voodoo bucket.
But he was out of extra water!
He'd had a drink…
The chaos continued in the background.
Alright, years of training in balance and focus. Just take aim, visualize the target in your mind… unclench this muscle and jump!
A couple of drops landed in the thimble. He jerked himself up into a standing position and the rest came out in a stream, collecting into the familiar blobby bucket shape a scant button above ground level. He picked up the thimble and stood on two legs.
"Alright," he muttered, staring at the thrashing hepchink. "Just take aim, visualize the target in your mind…"
And we're all caught up.
The frenzied hepchink stopped trying to rid itself of the weird giant pinecone skink as its attention zeroed in on the scent of tiny carnivorous intruder invading its nostrils. It turned to face Rivsk, while Rosort sprawled on his back trying to catch his breath. It took a step back, then another, bunching its gigantic leg muscles and raising its absurdly unwieldy abdomen even higher. It sprang forward and leapt, backside thudding against the ground as it pushed off. As it cleared the trench it turned its body to the side, preparing to smash the interloper under its bulk.
Rivsk bounded out of the way at the last second. The monster hit the ice and its legs all went out from under it, spinning on its stomach until its head finally met a sturdy, solid tree.
It laid there. Silence came down like a curtain, punctuated by Rosort straining to pull himself free. Unfortunately the hepchink was only lightly stunned, and determined not to lose control of its armor again. As everyone watched, hearts sinking, it slowly stood up, shook its head and opened its eyes, trying to focus-
The hook came out of nowhere, practically sprouting from the hepchink's left eye and trailing a rope into the bushes. A bloodcurdling screech exploded from the beast as its hairs exploded outwards. The force of the hard spines beneath him flipped Rosort high into the air.
In that same split second Euryllia jumped out of the brush and seized the rope. With a short shout and a hop she yanked hard on her buried weapon and popped the hepchink's eye out of its socket.
Rosort shot an arm out, caught the edge of the hepchink's wailing mouth and scrambled for a less dangerous handhold to climb. As it reared again he screamed and jammed his clawed feet hip deep into the empty eye socket.
HHHRREEAUNGH-GH-GH-GH!
Time froze for a moment, and the beast with it. A quirk of physics left its bulbous undercarriage almost perfectly balanced on the ground. Eventually, however, it was unbalanced by the weight of its limbs, and slowly, gracefully, fell to the earth.
The first one to get their bearings back was Rathin, who clambered down from his leafy command post and rushed to help pull his brother out of the gigantic corpse he'd wedged himself into. Eurillya and Gartroth arrived shortly after, and the three of them managed to get Rosort free.
Rivsk, who had been hiding in the rhododendrons, finally slunk out just as they finished and Rosort was inspecting his gory bottom half with a tired, glassy-eyed detachment that was probably only going to last another thirty seconds.
No time to lose, then, he thought. "So," said the Caniloper to Eurillya, faux-manically cheerful, "you think that thing makes good jerky?"
Rosort and Rathin's packs had survived the destruction of the campsite, miraculously. The same could not be said of Gartroth's provisions bag. The smaller Desthari took it all in stride, for the most part, to the surprise of his three non-relatives. He recovered his knife and dug underneath the hepchink's dense layer of follicular muscle to liberate a hefty chunk of tenderloin, which was loaded into Rivsk's voodoo bucket after the thimble had been washed out.
They made a quick stop at the brook to clean up and dress their wounds. Rosort in particular had had some of his back scales ripped off by the spines that threw him in the air. His trousers had been permanently dyed in rusty brown, so he settled for washing out any extra viscera that might cause them to dry stiff.
It was around then that the adrenaline wearing off met the portal-lagged day of walking inside of Gartroth, and she fell asleep while helping Eurillya wring out the rope for her new throwing hook; which was basically just a heavy, curved piece of timber, hastily debarked and sanded down, with her knife lashed to one end.
Pokes and prods did nothing, but a bottle of water in her face got the troll lucid enough to walk with someone's hand guiding her. Facing the blinding sunset, they met back up with the Magpie's trail and followed it until Rivsk announced that they'd put enough distance between themselves and the hepchink that any curious scavengers probably wouldn't bother making a detour to see them. The last thing Gartroth heard was Rosort bemoaning the lack of natural strategic positions, the last thing she saw was a fascinating patch of Sternward's Feathered Peat, the smallest plant known to be affected by the Ravelwoods' trademark twisting. But these tiny, whiskered stems seemed to be growing larger as she watched. Even as she considered them they grew to the size of pine needles, then to the size of wheat stalks, then they were tickling her nose, then—
—the soft, dense mat of interwoven moss cushioned the thud she made as she hit the ground.
It was much, much later.
Gartroth catapulted from black, featureless sleep into black, featureless wakefulness. The first sensation to register was a dim crackling, followed by the smell of smoke and meat. She closed her eyes.
Then she opened her eyes. She had rolled onto her back while she slept, and theoretically from the sounds of wind rustling leaves and fire nearby she should be seeing stars or, if the tree cover was too thick, some amount of reddish light being reflected off the leaves. Still dozy, she reached out her hands, grasping like a newborn, trying to make out the outlines of her stubby fingers moving in the darkness.
"I have a flashlight if you need it," came a terse voice from far too close by.
"Ack!" Gartroth sat up, dozing to alert in one jerk.
"Careful, lot of smoke in the air." Finally she recognized Rathin's voice, which was coming from a few feet to her right. "Do you need the flashlight?"
"Errrrr…" she found something in the darkness for her eyes to fixate on, a small circle of very, very faintly glowing red not too far from the Desthar's voice. "No, I should be fine, just give me a second…" Edges and outlines slowly melted out of the darkness, spreading out from that singular point of light. It turned out to be a hole in a fat, rough looking cone about three feet tall. More dim red light leaked out from cracks and bulges near the bottom, and the top was billowing smoke, enough to block out any starlight that might have made it through the trees, at least if you were right next to the thing.
"It's a smoker. We built it over the campfire before bed. Rivsk put some kind of time thing on it so it'll be cured by morning." Rathin was sitting on a round-topped stone with his back to the oven. "We'll need it. That human girl is a big eater."
Gartroth's stomach started growling. "Thank the gods that I'm not. Do we have any meat that isn't being enchanted right now?"
Rathin passed her a metal bowl with a hunk of hepchink in it. She was so ravenous she devoured it without a second thought. It was cold and gamey, but well-cooked, and seasoned, she was pleased to find, with salt and some kind of mildly piquant spice she'd never tasted.
"What time is it?"
"Sun's been down for about seven or eight hours. That's just my guess. Nobody has a watch."
Late spring, Belted Valleys, during a period of 3 or fewer… "What are you doing up at four in the morning? Where is everyone else?" There was suddenly a slender beam of bright white light cutting past Gartroth. She threw up her hands and looked away to avoid being blinded, and when she did she noticed it shining on Rivsk, sprawled on his side less than a yard to her left. Two more gently shifting blobs of shadow nearby became Eurillya and Rosort. "Oh."
The flashlight cut out. While Gartroth rubbed at spots in her eyes, Rathin said, "We decided to sleep in shifts. It's my watch now."
The troll was a little put off by the lizard man's brisk manner. She wondered what might be causing him to treat her so coldly and winced in guilty recollection. "Sorry I kind of just… conked out there. Especially… after I was so useless during the fight. …Would you like to take a rest while I keep a lookout?"
"I'm not tired." Absolutely nothing in that statement told her anything about how he might feel about her. At least his being quiet didn't seem to be out of disgust.
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes as Gartroth's night vision slowly improved. She started using it to look for a topic that would spark a conversation in her stoic companion.
…
"You know, the raveling of these woods affects more than just trees. That moss I was sleeping on is a good example, but there are also some funguses, and it's long been theorized that t. spina infortunii is actually a known species of stick insect that has undergone raveling to better fit in with the environment. "
"Indeed?" Question mark aside, he didn't seem to need any further assurance of her account's factuality.
…
"That was, um, quite a battle, wasn't it? I don't know how I could keep my wits like you and.. er, your brother… did." Blushing in the darkness. Best time for it, really…
"Some people have it in their blood. Practice and acclimation for the rest of us. There's no shame in having had neither."
Blushing intesifies. "Oh! Uh, thank you. I… appreciate that."
"Don't mention it."
…
"I'm amazed you could pick out the scent of the hepchink's territory markers like that. With a sense of smell that strong, maybe we should be following your nose instead of Rivsk's."
"It's not strong, just a little more discerning than most. Picking out a specific scent like that is a learned skill, acquired through- "
"Chemoreceptors!" Gartroth's voice suddenly boomed in the close air around the smoker. "Sorry," she continued in a quieter, though no less enthusiastic tone. "It's just so rare to meet a sapient species that can actually perceive and describe instinct-triggering compounds; oh if Jordalf were here he'd have so many questions! He's practically had to start rewriting his thesis on pheromonal communications for the third time after a member of the—"
"You interrupt people a lot, don't you?"
"Have I been doing that? I guess I must be. Sorry. I'm used to talking over a lot of people who aren't really listening to me."
"You could just wait for them to stop talking."
"If I did that in a symposium at the Rheeve I'd die of old age before I got a word in. Anyway," continued the scholar, "That's a really incredible skill. Do you learn it in the army?"
"No. Our people, the Desthari, are nomads, miners, and merchants."
"Oh… I just assumed, what with how proud your brother is of his military background, that it must have been part of your culture."
"We're mercenaries, actually."
"…Oh."
…
"It's not like that."
"I never said it was like anything." She hoped he couldn't see her drawing herself closer and scooting away.
"We just ask for money because warlords tend to be suspicious of foreigners who fight on their side for 'the glory of battle.'"
Gartroth stopped scooting. "I'm sorry?"
Rathin's silhouette drooped as a a heavy sigh escaped his vicinity. "Don't look at me. It's Rosort. He… admires soldiers."
"You… don't?"
"There have some very admirable soldiers throughout history, and I've met plenty worth admiring on their own merits."
"But the 'soldier' lifestyle isn't for you, is it?" It was odd. The lizard man was normally so spare with words, that the more he did use, the easier it was to spot the ones he wasn't saying. "Ah! Sorry! I've only known you for a day, it's not my place to start judging you."
"Don't worry about it. My lifestyle is looking after my brother."
"Really? That's odd. I could have sworn he said he was the older brother."
"He is."
"Shouldn't he be the one looking after you, then?"
"That's not how it is, where we're from."
"Really? That's quite interesting. The hierarchy of age doesn't often change much no matter what plane you exist on, at least in my experience. So how does it work for your people?"
"It's not that interesting."
"I disagree. Naturalism is my one true calling, but I've always been fascinated by how different societies operate. I can't tell you how many times I've crashed lectures in the Cultural Aeonology department."
…
"If it's a touchy subject, or if I'm crossing some kind of cultural line—"
"No. No, it's just… lot of gawkers, lot of new people, in some parts of the Library, you know? Explaining gets…"
Gartroth winced, "I know what you mean. Why do there have to be so many doors to the Jailed Earths in the entrance hall? The ones that try to be respectful at first can turn even worse sometimes. Forget I asked-"
"No, it's fine." Rathin hunkered down on his rock. His gruff voice took on some extra polish. "Our species has one child every five years. The period when it happens is spiritually and biologically significant." In the same rehearsed tones, he continued, "From birth to puberty, a time which lines up with the next mating cycle, the parents take care of their oldest child's every need. First time participants in the mating ceremony couple for life, but refrain from having children until the next cycle. If the child fails to find a mate, or, far more common in the modern day, chooses to suppress and delay their mating cycle, they indenture themselves to their parents as thanks for the care they received as kids."
"Wow. That's… really really interesting," Gartroth's eyes were already opened as wide as possible to compensate for the swirling smoky shadows surrounding them, but her eyelids were twitching with the desire to go wider. "I don't quite see how it connects to your brother though."
"Whether the oldest child mates or not, most of the responsibility for raising the next child goes to them. When that child reaches puberty, their indenture goes to the older sibling, rather than their parents."
"That is so… amazing! What an unusual and intricate system of family dynamics that must create!" She stopped mid-enthuse as the implications sank in. "Wait, doesn't that make you your brother's slave? At least until you mate? That's… a little…"
"It's really not like that. Most people don't take the custom as seriously as I do. Especially nowadays, when everybody's waiting."
"But still, if you want to do something else with your life—"
Rathin held up his hands in front of himself. "I want to look after my brother. He took on a lot of responsibility after our parents died. It almost broke him. He found new purpose. All I want to do is support him."
His expression was impossible to see in the darkness, and his voice was never very emotive at the best of times, but again, Gartroth had the sense of words going unsaid in the midst of the uncharacteristically sudden protest. She let the silence flow back into the clearing.
…
…
"I… really owe Rosort an apology."
"Oh?"
"He put his life on the line to protect me. Protect all of us. I thought he just a foppy twit with a height complex."
"Don't beat yourself up. He's all of those things."
The joke was sudden and unexpected. Gartroth found herself involuntarily giggling as the tension slowly leaked out of her.
Then immediately filled her again as Rivsk bolted upright from an apparent dead sleep right next to her screaming, "MAGPIES! THEY'RE HERE!"
The smoker continued to softly flicker and belch as the troll and lizard man whirled around in the warily returning quiet.
…
"Uh… maybe I've been too focused on the trail," Rivsk muttered, "You know, you just build up a habit… dreams are… you know. Smell and memory get kind of…" he slid back to the ground and covered his eyes with his paws as he mumbled.
Gartroth was aware of a quiet wheezing to her right. Rathin was laughing. She couldn't help it. Her giggles came back. The naturalist and the mercenary laughed at the awkward mage until he joined in with an embarrassed chuckle of his own. He bid them goodnight and the much-abused silence finally settled comfortably back into its place around the smoky clearing.
After a few seconds, the shadows retreated slightly.
« Chapter 1 For Sorrow | Coming…? »
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