Eyes Abound

Polished 9.1 — 1h45m40s — 2020/12/20

Polished 9.2 and 9.3 — 18m19s — 2020/12/22

Polished 9.4 and 9.5 — 26m01 — 2020/12/22

Back at the bonfire, Baet felt embarrassed by the episode with Wenifas and begged off, so he might soak in the hot springs for a while more before standing guard.

Carringten returned and sat with the others for a time—then decided to join Baet—so he might also soak in the pool, and perhaps to check on his fellow guard.

“What do you make of all that?” Komotz asked of the fireworks they’d witnessed.

Of all the Jindleyak, Komotz and Homoth spoke the least Ministrian, though Aim wasn’t much better, and so they’d missed much of the nuance. They caught only a bit of the drama—a few of the curse words. “Jaded lovers?” Homoth guessed. Their speculation continued.

Despite his hesitation to talk of other people’s business, Toar thought it might be best to straighten out the brothers. They’d eventually get it from Wenifas, or more likely Baet. Toar felt he could give a more even account, and so he reluctantly spoke. “The lot of us have not known each other for very long,” he admitted. “Indeed, it is the depth of our friendship that keeps us together—and not any great length,” he began.

“I have known the Saots for less than a month, and I’ve known the priestess and her companions for about half that time," Toar clarified, then told them all of the bugbear war—the attack on the Camp and Fort—and how the three of them overpowered and killed a couple guards. "If we had not escaped, the bugbear would have slaughtered us and eaten our corpses. It is regrettable that a man had to die—but the worst of it was that the priestess saw. She came around the corner as we committed the act.”

“You murdered a man,” Komotz said, shocked.

“I would not call it murder—but two men were certainly killed,” Toar claimed. “It was us or them, and they had no right to lock us up. We’d done no harm.”

“How do you know his name?” Homoth asked, dubious.

“I have it from a source,” Toar shrugged.

"It seems she hates him the most," Homoth pointed toward the pools where Baet and Carringten soaked.

"Baet seems to court it, and… he drove the knife," Toar admitted. "Indeed, this is not even the first time she's tried to kill us. The very night we escaped, she shot at him with his own musket."

"If she hates you all so much, why did she not stay with her people in Falderfallen Hovey?" Saleos interjected.

“She accompanied us for her own reasons,” Toar shrugged. “Then, as everything unraveled, the Jay banished her because the priestess refused to relinquish her guards while we walked the road.”

“I get that she was banished, but if there was such bad blood between you, why did she bother to come to court at all?” Homoth asked.

Toar shrugged. He didn’t know.

Celesi had returned halfway through this tale. She sidled up to Toar and beamed at the young Bouge—until he faltered and could go no further with the story. She thought to fill him in.

For a second, Celesi thought she should keep her silence and protect the priestess; but as she stared at Toar—well—she decided to spill the beans, and only hoped to do it in a diplomatic way. "Meriona promised Wenifas that she'd see the lot of you hanged by Kezodel and his court," the apprentice Jay beamed at the young Bouge. “Thankfully, that fell apart,” she continued to grin.

"She meant to see us hanged?!" Toar recoiled. "That sneaky cuss…" he turned and stared daggers at the absent priestess.

Celesi noted her miscalculation and attempted to calm him. "Meriona always meant to betray her,” she justified. “She was always petty and vengeful! And Wenifas does have good reason to hate you,” she noted.

“Well, that does it,” Toar began. “We must cut her loose. We don’t need such deviousness among us,” he glared.

Celesi shook her head. “You did kill her man,” she began. “Will you not forgive her for simply trying to return the favor? And ever since court, Wenifas has caused you no issue—until tonight—and you cannot blame her for that!” Celesi argued. “Did you not see the way Baet antagonized her, and as she was deep in her feels?!”

“We never tried to hurt her,” Toar asserted. “All that time on the road and she still harbors this hatred.”

“All that time!” Celesi huffed. “A pittance of a few days!”

“And you think we should simply forgive her and allow her along?” Toar continued. “What is to stop her from turning on us at her earliest convenience?”

“Earliest convenience? What is convenient about her circumstances? Is it being homeless—without a people? Is it running from the law with only a handful of strangers to guide and protect her? Or is it having two children to watch while she does it?”

“More reason to leave her here, where she’s safe,” Toar answered.

“If it’s so safe, why don’t you stay here?” Celesi asked.

“Because the duke means to move on,” Toar answered.

“And wouldn’t you say that safety is one of the reasons he’s moving on?” Celesi replied.

Toar frowned, stung by her sarcasm. “That is not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Celesi snapped. “You mean to turn her away, because she planned revenge—back when revenge was in the cards! She’s not doing that now!”

Toar cast his doubt. “Who says?”

“You think she wants to cross you—and all of us—just to get back at the tea drinker?!” Celesi blinked. “She’d immediately get the blame! Besides, she has nothing against your duke! He has been quite kind to her!”

The two stared, upset and disappointed with each other, and eventually Saleos broke the silence. “Little in the world is ever simple,” he began. “Since the priestess has done nothing else to jeopardize us, I say we let her continue in our company.”

“Thank you,” Celesi turned on the militiaman, “And what if the Saot lord should say otherwise?”

Toar gave up. He figured that the priestess was far more likely to kill Baet anyway and she wasn’t even too likely to do that—though he certainly meant to keep an eye or her.

“Fine,” Celesi agreed, which was easier since she’d won—but was still a bitter pill. She’d distanced Toar with her victory. She thought he’d be happy to have the whole story. Instead, he was mad that the priestess would still be traveling with them. If only she’d said nothing.

Saleos diplomatically steered them to a different subject. "All of this occurred as the bugbear warred?"

"That's how it started,” Celesi answered, and Toar nodded agreement. “Unlike Wenifas, I owe my life to Toar, Baet, and Carringten—and so does Meriona—the ingrate. We were ambushed by bugbear, and they rescued us."

"Saleos fought bugbear,” Komotz interjected. “In Salyst."

Obsessed as he was with Salyst, Toar stared at Saleos. “You must tell us," he begged.

Saleos shook his head. "After you have finished."

"But that is the end of it," Toar explained. "We escaped the bugbear and marched for Ebertin. We came across Wenifas, the shaman, and her train of survivors—and they could not deny us since we traveled with the Jay. Then, we left the bulk of the survivors at Falderfallen’s Hovey and continued to the big city where we met you in Kezodel's chambers," Toar shrugged. "And I feel all of us have talked too much of what happened there.”

The others agreed.

“Tell us,” Celesi pleaded with Saleos. “Tell us of Salyst, and distract us from our own petty animosities."

Saleos acquiesced. "It was a long time ago, some twenty years," he began. "A war of bugbear stormed out of the Cloud Mountains and fell upon the mines, farmlands, and the smaller villages that surrounded the great the city of Salyst. The bugbear continued their assault for the better part of a week, marauding and ravaging outside the city walls. They did not have the numbers to attack the city proper, and since they’d already plundered enough, the bugbear slunk back to their warrens, satiated with blood and treasure.”

"Bugbear make the worst sort of neighbor," Toar interjected.

Saleos smiled. "After the war ended, the militias decided they could not leave the vermin to proliferate,” he continued. “The Salystians agreed that if they did nothing, the buggers would simply war again at their earliest convenience—so they formed up their militias, intent to clear them from the near side of the Cloud Mountains.

“For a year and a half, the Salystians chased the beasts through the long canyons and ridges of the mountains before I arrived. I joined the campaign, looking for glory and adventure—which came with a heavy frequent servings of blood and hardship. I got a crash course in fighting on uneven terrain, bad weather, even underground. I learned the treatment of numerous poisons, toxins, and venoms,” he noted. “We wore thick leathers with interwoven chain; gloves, and full masks to defend against the bugbear poisons. We chased the bugbear through thickets of needle thorn, poison sycamore, and the ever-present strangle vine. By the time I arrived, the deadliest of the bugger poisons were in short supply—but we still saw them all from time to time. Dragon’s fall, the rot… I always thought wormbite was the worst,” he shook his head. “thankfully, by the time I joined, it was a rare thing to see a man get stuck with a dart or step on a spike, only to drop dead in seconds. I mostly saw the slow and insidious."

"You encountered a lot of rot?" Toar asked.

Saleos rolled up his sleeve and revealed a webbed scar maybe twice the size of a lune on his arm. “I got it once myself,” he nodded. “And thankfully, just the once. They make it from strangle vine and never suffer a shortage. The beasts grow massive thickets of the stuff, and make the entrances of their warrens among it. Strangle vine is also very tough to cut, and dulls the blade quickly.”

Toar admitted. "The duke had thhe rot most recently—indeed, I saw him get poisoned. We kept him alive a good week before he was taken and healed by some stranger at the camp. —though we never did meet the man. Not even the duke knows who healed him. Indeed, his recovery was remarkably quick. I wish I knew who did it—and how."

“It was bad?” Saleos asked.

“It was his entire right side,” Toar nodded. “It was gnarly.”

“That much?” Saleos whistled. “That is a nasty case indeed.”

“The Minist surgeons refused to even try and treat him," Toar noted. “Instead, they turned him over to some native.” He turned to Krumpus with a questioning eye—but the shaman refused to look back at him.

"Few ever suffered the rot for more than a day before the cures began,” Saleos noted. “Indeed, I am quite adept at treating rot root after the fashion of the Salystians. Say you caught it today—or even yesterday—I could have you fully healed day after tomorrow, and you’d never be off your feet.”

"Enough of your medicines!" Komotz cut in. “Tell us more of the bugger war!"

Homoth and Aim agreed, and as Toar was also interested in that part of the tale, Saleos acquiesced. "It was a slow and persistent grind to chase the bugbear from their warrens. If you know buggers at all, you have to know they are talented diggers and devious trappers. Many fled across the mountains—but it seemed an equal amount stayed behind and fought to the last. Every bull, bitch, and pup we came across fought tooth and nail.

“But we were equally persistent, and eventually killed every bugger that refused to flee,” Saleos shook his head. “The victory was short lived. As the militias warred against the buggers, Ministrians began their infernal work, pretending to be interested in trade. Two years later, they managed to clear out the Salystians in a fashion similar to the way we’d cleared out the bugbear. Then, once the people were gone, the Ministrians left the ruins. They wanted laborers, not a torched city. Knowing bugbear, I suspect they’ve returned back over the ridge and claimed the ruins for their own.”

You were in Salyst when the Ministrians invaded?” Toar could hardly believe it. “What was that like?”

"We should have seen it coming,” Saleos shrugged. “As the bugger war ended, the Ministrians overpaid for everything, and quickly involved themselves in local politics. They were a disruption from the outset—but the militias were focused on the bugger problem, and many allowed themselves to be soothed and sweet-talked by the Ministrians. The situation deteriorated rapidly, and it wasn’t long before the Mininstrians realized there weren’t that many Salystians. They cleared up the countryside, then slowly squeezed the city until there was nothing left. Several Bouge militias came to help. Some were bribed to remain neutral. Those that refused Ministrian blood money were attacked and harried for interfering. As the siege continued and the city suffered, rumors that many were on an exodus across the Red Desert began to swirl among the survivors. I realized I had to make a choice: chance it with the Salystians and go live in the wilds, or sneak east and go back home. Though it was uncharacteristic of me, I decided to go home," he finished.

"What was it like among the Salystians?" Toar asked.

"They were nice people," Saleos shrugged. “They were quite like the other Trohl races—though they were almost completely of Yakkish decent. While the other tribes welcomed the Tallian refugees with open arms, Salystians remained cool and distant. Some few Tallians settled among the people as they were not totally heartless—but these Tallians were forced to forgo their own customs and adopt the ways of the Yak."

"It is said they possessed old magics and lost wisdom," Toar stated.

A knowing smile overcame Saleos. "Secrets and talents like no other?" He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, and everyone leaned in as he whispered among the group. "Powers beyond your wildest imagination?"

They nodded.

Saleos shook his head and leaned back. "Although the world certainly lost a heavy measure of ingenuity and goodness when it lost Salyst—they possessed no special magics or talents that might make them the envy of the world," he shrugged. "I will say that they baked a good number of delicious pastries unequaled by anything I've seen before or since—but after that, they were much like the rest of us," he claimed.

Toar frowned. "You mock their memory," he accused.

Saleos shook his head. "I most certainly do not. I knew a good number of them, personally. But despite my undying affection, I will not pretend they are more than plain men and women with common failings—just as you would find in most quarters of world. Besides, if they were such powerful and talented magicians, why could they not repel the armies of Minist?"

“They were heavily outnumbered,” Toar justified.

“And what are numbers compared to magic beyond imagining?” Saleos asked.

Toar glared at the man as he measured the statement. Though he did not like what the old man said it—he could not fault the evaluation.

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

Finally, Duboha prodded Saleos to continue his story. "That is not where it ended for you,” he began as he stared at his fellow militiaman. “After Salyst, you went to Saot lands. Indeed, you were a post runner for their king," he prompted.

Saleos nodded. “First, I went to Hearthstone, where I studied the Saot language among their traders. Then I went south, and spent a number of years crisscrossing the kingdom."

"Then you know Saot?" Toar asked. "But you never speak it with the duke, or the others…?"

Saleos shrugged. "There was no reason. They speak Ministrian, and we speak Ministrian—except the brothers."

"You spied?" Toar half accused.

"I simply never bothered to mention it," Saleos replied. "If it comforts you, I've never heard anything suspect from the duke, or his men; not in any language."

Toar glared at the man for several more seconds—but since the others only snickered and grinned, he let it drop.

"Enough of such gossip! Tell us of your time in the Saot Kingdom," Komotz insisted. “You’ve never told much detail,” he complained.

"I went to Land's End, then followed opportunity to Solveny,” Saleos began again. “I continued to learn Saot as I worked as a post runner for the Silver Service. The locals referred to us as 'the silver fish'. We wore thick chain mail coats, burnished to a shine, with no device or sign; aside from a simple pendant of the post. For over a decade I traveled throughout the Saot kingdom…

“But despite a decent pay, running post is a monotonous job,” Saleos revealed. “I grew bored and eventually left their ranks after I chanced upon a consortium of minor nobles that hoped to win favor with the Empress Seviticah. They had special charter from the king to solicit in Minist; and since they wished to appear more cosmopolitan, I joined their ranks as an adviser in Trohl affairs. Admittedly, I knew little of our politics at the time—but I certainly knew more than foreigners—so I made for Minist among their mixed company."

"And why would you meet with the Empress after what she did to Salyst?" Toar asked.

Saleos shrugged. "A love of travel is in my blood. I have no real interest in the Empire—but I thought I should like to see the country, that I might understand it for myself. Besides, I thought our request should be denied. After what happened in Salyst, I thought the Empress would have no reason to back our efforts, and I thought this because I thought our efforts were noble. In the end, I was proved right. We did not even meet her—though we did see her from afar. Instead, we met too many of her ministers and advisors; all quite eager to meet us and hear about our money—and even more eager to get away once they heard our cause and realized we would not be bought with drinks, drugs, or women,” he noted. “Minist is ruled by a conniving and villainous lot that wants nothing to do with honest endeavors."

"The Baradha," Toar noted. "I've met some number of them when I worked in the house of Kezodel."

"Is that what they call themselves?” Saleos shrugged. “They were quite tight lipped about the true form and function of the Empire—though they always wore those ubiquitous pins, the ones with the teeth…

“Still, I enjoyed the opportunity to see Minist, even if it was not much to my liking,” Saleos reasoned. “Trohls are not held in very high regard there—even when they travel in the company of noble Saots. Indeed, the Saots were treated with nearly as much contempt. Our company broke. Some returned to Danyan by boat, while the rest of us returned to the kingdom over land, through Wibbeley. From there my friends went south, and I came to Ebertin. I initially meant to go home once more, but I chanced upon Traust and these others among the Oak and Beast. They investigated the Bouge and tried to understand what had happened in far-off Salyst, so I shared my insights.. we became friends… and since my intelligence proved useful, I was eventually invited to swear an oath and take the colors. That was two years ago?” He looked about the others.

The militiamen nodded in agreement.

Saleos shrugged. “I’ve been with them ever since.”

“You’re not a Jindleyak?” Toar noted.

Saleos nodded. “I'm Gramgoar by birth, though I've served the Oak and Beast longer than I ever served in any Gramish militia—mostly because I never served in any Gramish militia at all," he explained. "I was born there, but I was never one of that people. Indeed, the open road was more of a home than Gramgoar ever was—but that is another story altogether, and I am growing tired of my own voice,” Saleos shook his head. “It is time to hear from someone else…” he stared at the others as they sat about the fire.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

That night, Meu slept between Claiten and Wenifas. She shivered as the night grew deep, but not for the cold. Her dreams turned to a clutch of new nieces and nephews. She felt she must not remain too long among these humans—though she hoped to stay with them a bit longer. She wished to see the shaman’s home, and he promised to introduce his wife and kids. It was maybe ten day’s journey and generally on her way, so she thought it’d be nice to spend a few more days with her newfound and hard-fought friends.

This night, unsettling thoughts crowded her dreams, and she found herself waking ahead of the sun. Consumed by thoughts of her daughter, Meu shifted into her human form, crept from the cabin, and made for the edge of the woods. She stepped under the obliging boughs of a weeping willow and summoned the shadows.

Despite her discrete manner, she did not go unobserved. Andrus was watching about the inn—as were Duboha and Toar, who were both about somewhere—but Andrus caught the faint creak of the door as Meu stepped from her cabin. Then, because Aim had made him suspicious, he followed the slight redhead as she stepped to the edge of the trees. When Meu didn’t turn toward the privy, Andrus knew she was up to something sneaky. He followed her as she slipped under the branches of the weeping willow. He saw the shadows gather and slip about her as she shifted into the form of a winged serpent.

Shocked to see such witchery, Andrus stared after Meu; as she crawled up the branches of the tree, opened her wings, and flew toward the river. Amazed to have witnessed such a transformation, Andrus stared after the strange beast for quite a time after she was gone, then smiled, and muttered to himself, “So that’s how it’s done.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Oblarra rose over the waters of the river and cast the landscape in an eerie crimson light. Creigal remembered sitting late into the night, skipping rocks on the river, as he allowed his thoughts to wear themselves out. He laid back in the shade of a maple, and thought only to rest for a bit; but a weariness overcame the duke, and sleep came quick.

Creigal suffered a strange vision as he laid next to the river. He had Aerindoun on a rack and stretched him for his crimes. His eldest stretched and screamed, and Creigal was pleased with the sound. Then the voice turned feminine.

Suddenly, it was no longer Aerindoun that Creigal tortured. It was his second child, Daphne, upon the rack. His heart lurched at the tortured sounds of his lost daughter. He undid the binds and gathered her weak form into his arms. Holding her close, he sobbed for his rough treatment and begged her forgiveness.

As he hugged Daphne, she morphed into his third child, Samaraut. The boy was confused, as was often the case, and for some time the duke tried to make sense of his second son's ramblings—though there was little sense to be found. Then the figure was Samaraut no more, but now the youngest in his place, Jeppith; the most devious and manic of the lot. Before Creigal could stop him, Jeppith pulled the dagger from his father’s belt and stabbed the duke in the stomach.

Creigal gaped at the blood gushing between his knuckles and felt his strength ebb away. Jeppith stabbed him again and again, and chortled as he did so; then danced and skipped with the blade held high. Creigal laid on the ground, his life slipping between his fingers. Blood pooled at his mouth. His vision blurred, and the world began to go numb. He was sure he would die.

Creigal woke with a fright and immediately checked his stomach. He sat up among the trees, somewhat shocked and confused to find himself next to the river. It took the duke several seconds to remember why he was here, under the canopy of the large maple. He marveled at his own behavior. It'd been some time since he'd slept out in the open, without even a blanket.

The darkness of night was beginning to lift. It’d be morning soon. Slowly, Creigal sat against the trunk of the tree as he shivered and wondered at his strange dream. He felt the wrath and suspicion he had for his sons was somehow poisoning the love he had for his daughter, and wondered if the best way to honor the memory of Daphne was to offer his sons forgiveness for their multitude of crimes—including Daphne’s murder.

But such a thing was unthinkable! The duke found himself offended by his own musings. The thought of forgiving his sons was beyond repugnant! If not for them and their plotting, he'd still have his wonderful Daphne at his side! He’d still be gromming her to lead! In addition, his sons had mocked their mother, his loving wife, as she grew sick and died. They celebrated the fact that there could be no more siblings to usurp their ambitions. That was the fealty and worthiness of his sons: they conspired and murdered their own sister, then danced on the grave of their mother, and finally mocked their father's loneliness. And he was to forgive them?! He would not do it! He could not do it! There was nothing the gods might offer—unless they should reunite him with the dead—he could not forgive his sons for their cruelty!

His spitting, sputtering rage was cut short as a sudden call broke through the woods and shattered the quiet. "ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!"

Creigal nearly jumped out of his skin to hear it. He sat, and wondered that a mere rooster should shock him so—but he was in quite a strange state. He was lost, somewhere in Trohl lands, and bothered by a vivid dream. Thrice on this trip, he’d been on death’s door—and now that he thought of it, he wondered how long might his luck might hold out. Would this mad quest for his daughter—no—his daughter’s necklace, lead to his death?

"ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!" The cry of the rooster sounded again. Creigal sat and waited, somehow sure the rooster would crow frequently now that the sky was beginning to light. There was something in its tone that made him quite sure—and since he knew birds so well—but it never called again, which made him wonder.

Creigal stood and began back toward the inn as he thought of the rooster, and its defiant, courageous call. That’s when he heard another song, a thin and high-pitched mew. He’d heard such song before, a few times, in a quiet corner of the duchy, where a strange and powerful people lived. We wondered, could it be, could it possibly be…?

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten was about to crow a third time when his mother’s voice caught him off guard. “What’s this about?” Wenifas asked, bewildered. “Why are you strutting like a cock?” She leaned against a wall and stared at the boy with a pained and worried expression.

For several seconds, the two simply stared at each other, then Wenifas doubled over, heaved, and spilled gross on the ground.

The smell of it caught in Claiten’s nose, and for a second he thought he too might retch. He suppressed the urge to purge. Worried for his mother, , he ran to her side and put a hand on her back. "You okay?" He asked.

Wenifas gave a weak smile to the child. "These native foods don't agree with me," she claimed, though she didn’t think her sickness was caused by the food. Of late, she was all nerves and anxiety. She was apprehensive about being in a new place, among people she barely knew, and customs she didn't understand. She was on edge, especially after almost losing her son, not to mention Derris—which she preferred not to mention. All this tension, all this worry and headache was making her nauseous. But there was no reason to worry the boy with such adult concerns, and thought it best to let him think it was just a bit of bad food. “Everything will be fine,” she smiled, and tried to believe it herself. She had money and many good people around her—or so she hoped. She also suffered the company of men she despised, and one of them refused to stop staring at her. She'd known men like him before, men of an obsessive nature. She'd bedded men like him, despite their neediness. It was good coin at the time.

But coin was no longer a concern.

Then again, Derris needed her, especially at the end. He had looked at her in a similar fashion. Indeed, in that small way, the one reminded her of the other; and that made her hate Baet all the more.

Wenifas shook her head and turned her attention back to her boy. She frowned, “How are you?”

“Fine,” he lied with a shrug, but Wenifas knew better. The boy was no longer outgoing and carefree. Since Beletrain, he’d become quiet and reserved. In most ways, Claiten seemed to be relatively unscathed by his experiences among the naga—but something dark and sinister was still about him. She’d have to talk to Meu about it; which meant the wyrm would probably bite her; which was not a pleasant thought.

All this worry made her stomach knot. She turned from her son and spilled more sick. "What are they feeding us?!" she complained as she wiped her mouth. She stared back at her boy and wondered if he could spot her lies as well as she could spot his. "Come here," Wenifas said, and wrapped Claiten in a hug. He hugged her back and she held him for several long seconds. "We're going to be fine," she claimed as her worries continued to play through her mind—then, despite her claim, she pushed her boy away and held him at arms length; so she could be sick once more.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Creigal stopped and listened to the odd song as he moved away from the inn once more. The song was rich and clear, and he knew it’s subject the same way he always knew what birds sang. It was a song of bittersweet longing, of old friends and good times, in a past that was all but forgotten. It was a song of anticipated homecoming.

Creigal knew the voice, to a degree. He had heard such beasts singing many years ago. It’d been so long he could barely believe it, as he crept among the trees on soft slow feet and scanned the canopy. Finally, he spotted her near the top of an ancient maple; feathers splayed, as she sang with her whole body. He couldn’t believe it! The duke had not seen a wyrm in a good dozen years, far to the south, in the Haltbrush Hills.

He distinctly remembered the day his father introduced him to a council of wyrm-folk. Growing up, he’d always thought of them as figments of men’s imaginations—yet there they were—a good dozen turned in lazy circles as they regarded the boy with bright eyes. One of the beasts wrapped about his father’s shoulders and viewed the boy from this nearby perch. His father talked as if he knew the creature’s thoughts, which convinced Creigal that his father was secretly a bird-talker. Only much later, when he went to Haltbrush dressed in black, to tell the creatures of his father’s passing, did he realize the creature had bit him. But Creigal never needed to be bitten. Their words were always like other birds and very plain to his ear.

Creigal stared at the creature, dazzled by the coloring and majesty of the beast. It was just as he remembered, only so much more for being out of his life for so long; and it sang a anguished song to its daughter, one that perfectly fit the longing and mood of the duke’s relationship with his own daughter. He stared on in wonder.

The song ended. The serpent leaned from its perch, spread its magnificent wings, and lifted into the air. Creigal watched as it turned a few lazy circles over the tops of the trees, then disappeared back toward the inn.

Creigal ran after, curious to see the creature going toward the inn. He almost lost the strange beast and was sure it would soon disappear over the cabins and various other buildings of the inn; but just as he thought it should fly out of view, the creature settled in a willow at the edge of the woods. He paused as the creature made its way down through the branches and to the ground. He watched to see if the creature might come crawling out—but it did not. Instead, Meu stepped from under the willow. She adjusted her slight sundress and Creigal stared at her as if seeing her for the very first time. He had not expected a skin-walker among his new friends—and yet, what else could it be?

As the duke stared, Meu felt eyes upon her and turned. She caught sight of the duke and promptly stared back at him. As the initial shock of being discovered passed over her, a glint lit her eyes and a curious smile bent the edge of her lips. Meu raised her hand and beckoned the duke to come out of the trees.

Entranced and self-aware, Creigal slowly stepped from his cover with a foolish grin glued to his face. “Hi,” he smiled, as if he were always addressing skin-walker wyrms. But their eyes were not the only ones about the woods. Indeed, there was yet another that followed the duke from the edge of the water and saw the shape-shifting wyrm. As the duke was joined, the creature turn and slithered back to the water’s edge and away from the inn full of waking men. The naga crawled into the river, slipped through a submerged tunnel, and emerged in a dry cavern. Several other naga were there, waiting for others to return, including Golifett.

“I heard him, and I saw the winged serpent,” Maligno nodded.

“You saw it?” Golifett asked.

“A skin-walker,” Maligno nodded. '“You’ve crossed a dangerous beast.”

Golifett huffed, as he had not considered this possibility on his own. “What of the boy’s song?” Golifett continued. “How long was it? How tight is the curse?”

“Twice,” Maligno answered. “He crowed twice.”

Golifett frowned at his cousin. Either he was constantly interrupted—which was unlikely—or the spell was weak. If the boy slipped the curse, he’d be increasingly hard to track. Indeed, if he slipped the curse, Maligno and his cronies might see it as a bad omen and might even abandon the hunt. Golifett figured they’d have to act soon if he hoped to have the boy and the remainder of his gold.

Maligno shook his head. “They are far too many. We cannot hope to take them here.”

“Agreed,” Golifett said. “Yet, we have time. Let us follow while we can and see if their numbers thin. If they do—when they do—I will call down a storm of such proportion that it will shake the earth as it passes!”

The others smiled and cheered to hear this—but not Maligno. Instead, his cousin simply stared at him. “We’ll see,” he stated, then turned and slipped out the tunnel, while those of a more pure faith and courage crowded around their leader and clapped him on his shoulders.

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