Eyes Abound

Polished 9.1 — 49m06s — 2021/07/14

Polished 9.1 —1h47m58s — 2021/07/17

Polished 9.2, 9.3, and 9.4 — 31m17s — 2021/07/19

Polished 9.5 — 20m22s — 2021/07/20

Embarrassed, Baet begged off, so he might soak in the hot springs for a while more. At midnight, he still had to stand guard with the brothers—but at least he was likely to win a bit more coin.

Eventually, Carringten came round. He joined Baet, sat in the tubs, and also avoided the subject of the priestess. From certain pools, they could see the rest gathered on a slight hill a couple hundred yards behind the main cluster of cabins, though they generally ignored them too. On top of the hill, in the light of the fire, the others gossiped.

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 involved in what had happened. They’d caught only a bit of language—just a few of the curse words Wenifas screamed. Homoth glanced at his brother. “Why was the priestess so mad? Why was Baet on his knees? Were they friends before, or were they always hostile towards each other?” Aim joined in their considerations, and also Andrus. The more they speculated, the wilder the speculation became. Did Baet do something wrong? Did he deserve the attack, or did Wenifas go to far? Were they possibly jaded lovers?

Duboha joined in the discussion and Saleos soon after. Before long, their was little conversation about anything else around the bonfire. Despite his hesitation to talk of other people’s business, Toar thought it might be best to give a little history. They’d get it from Baet and Wenifas—or at least their tinted versions. They might as well start off hearing someone more impartial. He could give a more even account, and so he reluctantly spoke.

“The lot of us have not known each other for all that long,” Toar admitted. “Indeed, it is the depth of our friendship that keeps us together—and not the breadth. I have known the Saots for less than a month, and I’ve known the priestess and her companions for about half that," he clarified.

"We all met on a rather difficult night. We were captives of the Ministrians, held prisoner in their slave camp—a camp that was attacked by a war of bugbear. The alarm sounded, and the the battle began, we overpowered a couple guards, and escaped. It is regrettable that men had to die—but the worst of it was that the priestess saw what we did,” Toar shook his head. “She came around the corner as we defeated our adversaries.”

Impressed, the militiamen whispered of murder.

“I would not call it murder,” Toar replied. “Two men were certainly killed, yes, but they had no right to lock us up. They also stole most of our stuff. We simply tried to leave, and they tried to stop us.”

“It does explain the animosity—and also why she has not raised her issues with the rest of us,” Saleos noted. “We would not be sympathetic to slavery.”

“She sure does hate him,” Duboha shook his head.

“He seems to court it,” Toar noted. “It doesn’t help that he also drove the knife—and this isn’t the first time she's tried.” he told them. “She shot at us with his own musket,” he nodded. “We still don’t know how she got the weapon in the first place.”

“If she hates you so much, why did she not stay with her own people in Falderfallen Hovey?" Duboha wondered.

“You were at court,” Toar noted. “Did you not hear the Jay banish her?”

“Which makes it even ore puzzling,” Saleos noted. “I should think if she hates you so much, she wouldn’t have come to court in the first place.

“She comes to court so Meriona can betray her and banish her?” Aim added. “He’s right. That doesn’t add up.”

Celesi returned. She sidled up to Toar and beamed at the young Bouge while the others gossiped arround her. For a second, Celesi thought to keep her silence and protect the priestess; but as she stared at Toar—well—she decided he could handle the truth. “Meriona conned Wenifas into coming. Oddly enough, the priestess had command of the guards on the road, and she refused to relinquish it—which upset Meriona.”

“Why and how did Meriona trick the priestess?” Toar asked her.

“Oh, that…” Celesi hedged.

Toar stared. “What are you hiding?”

Celesi shrugged—then decided to spill the beans—because Toar. “Meriona promised Wenifas that she'd see the lot of you hanged by Kezodel and his court," she beamed at the young Bouge. “That fell apart—thankfully.”

"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 replied. “We must cut her loose. We don’t need such deviousness amongst us,” he glared.

Celesi shook her head. “You did kill her man. Can you not forgive her for trying to return the favor? She has done nothing else until tonight—and you cannot say Baet didn’t get what he deserved.” Celesi held up a hand before the others could retort. “Luckily, Scurra stopped her before she could go too far.”

“Wenifas has caused you no issue—until tonight—and you cannot blame her for that!” Celesi continued to argue. “Did you not see the way Baet antagonized her?! 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. “She lost her lover—and that was a pittance of a few days!”

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

“Earliest convenience!” Celesi huffed. “What is so convenient about any of her current circumstances?! Is it being homeless? Without a people?! 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?!” the apprentice Jay snapped.

“More reason to leave her here, now that it’s safe,” Toar answered.

“If it’s so safe, why don’t you stay?” 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!”

“Who says?” Toar cast his doubt. “Didn’t she just try to stab Baet?”

“That’s not fair,” Celesi replied. “You think she wants to cross you—and all of us—just to get back at the tea drinker?! He instigated tonight’s little drama!”

The two stared, upset and disappointed with each other. Eventually Saleos broke the silence. “Little in the world is ever simple,” he began. “I feel this is an understandable outburst—especially if both Baet and Wenifas remain quiet about it. The priestess has done nothing else to jeopardize us. I see no reason why she shouldn’t continue in our company.”

“Thank you,” Celesi grinned.

“Fine,” Toar gave up. Perhaps if Baet raised issue. The priestess was far more likely to kill him anyway—and she wasn’t even too likely to do that—though Toar 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.

Happy to be done with all that, Duboha turned to Toar. "So all of this occurred as the bugbear warred on your prison?"

"That's how it started,” Celesi answered for him.

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

Toar stared at Saleos. “Tell us about it."

Saleos shook his head. "You haven’t finished your tale yet."

"But that is the end of it," Toar protested. "We escaped the prison, dodged a bullet, rescued Celesi and Meriona, then met Wenifas and the other survivors on the road to Ebertin. We traveled with the protection of the Jay, so Wenifas could not deny us. We marched a good week, stopping in Falderfallen’s Hovey, then trudged for another couple days, until we arrived in Ebertin, where we met you in Kezodel's chambers," Toar shrugged. “What more can we tell you?”

“Let us hear your story,” Celesi pleaded. “Distract us from our petty animosities. Tell us of Salyst."

“Fine,” 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. Still, they did their damage—only to slink back into the mountains, satiated with our blood and treasure.”

"Bugbear make the worst neighbors," Toar interjected.

Saleos smiled. "After the war ended, the militias decided they could not leave the vermin to proliferate. The Salystians formed up, intent to clear the buggers from the near side of the Cloud Mountains. When I first caught wind of the attacks, I grew incensed, and wanted to go help my brothers in their troubles.

“For a year and a half, the Salystians chased the buggers through the canyons and along the ridges before I arrived. Still, much work to be done. I joined the campaign, looking for glory and adventure—only to find blood and hardship. It was a crash course in fighting on uneven terrain, in bad weather, and also underground. We chased the bugbear in their caves, and through thickets of needle thorn, poison sycamore, and the ever-present strangle vine. We wore thick leathers with interwoven chain; gloves, and full masks to defend against the bugbear poisons. Indeed, by the time I arrived, the deadliest of the bugger poisons were in short supply—but we still saw them all. There were a handful of times that I saw wurmbyte take a man. Thankfully, it was rare to see a man get stuck with a dart—or step on a spike—only to drop dead in seconds. Most of what we saw was the rot, slow, insidious, and difficult to heal.”

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

“Constantly,” Saleos rolled up his sleeve and revealed a webbed scar on his arm, maybe twice the size of a lune. “They make it from strangle vine and never suffer a shortage of the stuff. The beasts grow it in massive thickets, and make the entrances of their warrens among it. We got really good at treating the rot. By the end of the war we were losing less than one out of every ten men that got infected. I dodged that arrow thrice,” he noted, and showed them a smaller patch of rot further up his arm, and also a large patch on his foot.

“The duke got the rot,” Toar noted. “Indeed, I saw him get poisoned.”

“You managed to heal him?” Saleos asked.

“No,” Toar admitted. “I kept him alive a good week before he was taken and healed by some stranger at the camp. None of us met the man. Indeed, not even the duke knows who healed him—and his recovery was remarkably quick. I wish I knew who did it—and how—but I fear whoever did it perished in the bugger war.”

“He had the rot for a week?” Saleos whistled. “It must have been bad.”

“It was his entire right side,” Toar nodded. “The Minist surgeons refused to even try. They turned him over to some native they had locked away from the others.” He turned and for a split second stared at Krumpus.

“A week,” Saleos mused. “Few among us ever suffered the rot for more than a day before the cures began.”

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

Homoth and Aim agreed, and as Toar was also interested, Saleos acquiesced. He shrugged as he bagan again, somewhere in the middle of it all. "It was a slow and persistent grind to chase the bugbear from their warrens. If you know buggers at all, then you know along with being devious trappers, they are talented diggers. Slowly, we pushed then over the mountain, and deep into the caves. We pushed them so deep that we were often in the caves for days. We stopped when we began to encounter things that were far worse than bugbear. There were plenty of pitched battles, both under and above ground. Half the bulls, bitches, and pups we came across fought tooth and nail to the grim end.

Saleos shook his head. “The victory was short lived. As the militias warred against the buggers, the real threat approached from the south. 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. They wanted slaves, not a ruined city,” he shrugged. “Seeing that you were attacked by bugbear, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were once again all over those mountains.”

“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 silver-tongued Ministrians.

“The situation deteriorated rapidly,” Saleos continued. “Salyst was small for a city and it wasn’t long before the Salystians were heavily outnumbered. Bouge militias came to help. Some were bought by the Ministrians. Those that refused the blood money were attacked and harried for interfering. The siege continued and the city suffered. More and more Salystians escaped into the Red Desert, hoping to find refuge in the wilds. I realized I had to make a choice: chance it with the Salystians and go live beyond the desert, 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 nice to me, though they were different than the other Trohl races. 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? Lost with the corruption of the old ways?"

Toar grinned and 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 tasted 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. 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 imagine?” Saleos asked.

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

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

Finally, Duboha prodded Saleos. "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."

"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. “I’ve not heard of any of this,” he complained.

Saleos began again. "After I returned home, I went to Land's End, then followed opportunity to Solveny. I continued to learn Saot as I worked as a post runner for the Silver Service. We wore thick chain mail coats, burnished to a shine, adorned with the standard of the post. For nearly a decade I traveled throughout the Saot kingdom. But 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 our money—and even more eager to get away, once they heard our cause, and realized we could not be turned with drinks, drugs, or women,” he noted. “In my estimation, Minist is ruled by a conniving and villainous lot that wants nothing to do with honest endeavors.—and they are all marked with a set of silver and gold fangs."

"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 often wore those ubiquitous pins. Still, I enjoyed the opportunity to see Minist, even if it was not much to my liking,” he 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 once they found out why we were there. The Empress refused to even see us. Our company split after that. Some returned to Danyan by boat, while the rest of us returned to the kingdom over land, and through Wibbeley. From there, my friends dispersed, 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 invited to swear an oath and take their colors. That was, what? 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," he grinned. “I was never really one of that people. My mother was born poor and estranged from my father. It was a tumultuous youth. By the time I was grown, the open road was more of a home than any of the cities or villages of Gramgoar,” he told them.

Saleos leaned back and shook his head, “But that is another story altogether, and I am growing tired of my own voice. It is time to hear from someone else to speak,” he said and stared about the others.

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

Meu slept in her serpent form between Claiten and Meu. She shivered as the night grew deep, but not for the cold. Her dreams turned to her daughter and a clutch of new nieces and nephews, attended only by their haggard mother. 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, as he’d 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.

But this night, unsettling thoughts crowded her dreams, and she found herself waking ahead of the sun. Consumed by concerns for 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, though both were somewhere else. 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. He’d heard of skin-walkers and often wondered if such powerful magic was indeed possible. Now he’d seen it and knew it was real. He smiled and muttered to himself before he turned and walked away, “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 over 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. The eldest screamed and wailed and wept as he was pulled beyond his limits. Creigal was pleased with the sound—until the voice turned feminine. Suddenly, it was no longer Aerindoun that he tortured. It was his second child, Daphne, upon the rack. His heart lurched at the cries 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 himself for wounds. The dream was too real. 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 a 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 grooming 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 unbelievable cruelty!

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. The duke’s spitting, sputtering rage was cut short as he turned in the direction of the inn.

"ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!" The cry of the rooster sounded again. Creigal sat and waited, somehow sure the rooster would crow again and again now that the sky was beginning to light. There was something in its tone that made him quite sure. He thought he knew birds quite well—though this one sounded strange. Still, it only called twice…

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. Then, 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 to the naga of Beletrain. 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. She 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 simply 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. At the time she thought of it as good coin.

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 seemed to be more reserved, more stand-iffish, more angry of late. He was no longer outgoing and carefree. Or was it simply that there were no children his own age to distract him? No. Ever since Beletrain, he seemed quiet and reserved, with a deep seeded loathing that sparked from his eyes. 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. Wenifas 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—though this was more than a mere bird. It was a song of bittersweet longing, of family and friends, in a past that was all but forgotten. It was a song of an anticipated homecoming.

Creigal knew the voice. He’d heard such beasts many years ago. It’d been so long ago, and such a rare encounter, that he could barely believe he was hearing the same song. He crept among the trees on soft slow feet and scanned the canopy, looking for the source of the song. Finally, he spotted her near the top of an ancient maple; feathers splayed, as she sang with her whole body. His jaw dropped as he gaped at the majestic beast. He had not seen a wyrm in several decades, since the last time he ventured through Haltbrush.

He distinctly remembered the day his father introduced him to a council of wyrm-folk. He’d often wondered if they were simply figments of men’s imaginations—until he witnessed a good dozen turning in lazy circles, as they regarded the boy with bright eyes. On that day, oh so long ago, one of the beasts wrapped about his father’s shoulders. His father talked as if he knew the creature’s thoughts, which convinced Creigal that his father was also a bird-talker, though he claimed he was not. 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. Creigal never needed the bite. 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 its anguished song of a missing daughter fit the duke’s own longing mood. He stared on in wonder.

Eventually 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. He ran after, curious to see where the creature might be going. 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 watched as the creature made its way down through the branches, to the ground. He waited 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 knew what she was immediately. 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 of mischief 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.

Self-aware and suddenly entranced, Creigal smoothed his rumpled clothes, then stepped from his cover with a foolish grin glued to his face. “Hi,” he smiled, as if he were always addressing skin-walker wyrms.

Yet, their eyes were not the only ones about the woods. Indeed, there was 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, and there would soon be more.

Maligno turned to Golifett with his burnt and useless eye. “The boys crows,” he nodded. “There is indeed a winged serpent.”

Golifett grinned. “A skin-walker,” he repeated, finally putting it together.

Maligno nodded. '“You’ve crossed a dangerous beast.”

Golifett huffed. “What of the boy’s song?” Golifett continued. “How long was it? How true is the curse?”

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

“Sporadic,” Golifett frowned at his cousin. 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 well-muscled 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.