July 23rd, 5 AC
Timothy's head came up sharply as he noticed a change. It wasn't an abrupt change. Not like the transition from the valley to the deep jungle but the trees were growing smaller and spaced farther apart. Thinned-out branches began to let trickles of sunlight through and made running the skyroad difficult.
It was still the jungle, but a large shelf of granite below the ground prevented the roots from going nearly as deep and in turn the trees from growing nearly as large. The shelf, or rather two shelves that pressed against one another under the river.
Timothy paused for a second in a pool of sunlight with his eyes closed. It had been far too long. He wasn't depressed by a week or two without, but the return of it was something worth basking in. He didn't linger, but as they moved closer to the river the opportunities continued to increase. Somewhat painfully so. It was trending towards late evening and it was still more light than his eyes were used.
And light gave birth to an entirely different kind of life. The bushes shifted from the twilight blends but they also grew considerably larger. Larger than many old world trees, but still underbrush compared to even the junior versions of the great trees. Their branches bowed under the weight of fruit and berries of a dozen species. With such an abundant food source and abundant cover, the ground was littered with stealthy herbivores. And in turn, a large number of ambush predators that hunted them.
It was a dangerous place for the oblivious. But in turn, a great place to teach young hunters how to, well, hunt. In beasts, magic follows use. With weak beasts, usually a single use. So they could hide or had powerful ambush attacks. In contrast, they sucked at defense.
A good spread of traits for beginners with their small mana reserves. It taught skill over brute force. Right up until they ran into a passel of hogs.
There were always exceptions.
It was also close enough to town to make finding anything above Tier 1 extremely unlikely. Even high tier 1 was pretty uncommon here. It was also close enough that they might get some help if things went south. Though with the speed of combat, Timothy wouldn’t bet on it. With the ridiculous breeding rates, there was always plenty of danger to be had. But also, plenty of loot.
Risk and reward. Plants from greenhouses rarely survived once they left.
He glanced sideways for a moment, grinning. There had been a fairly suspicious green lump on a tree branch up there. The skyroad wasn't much of a road here, but it made a great vantage point to snipe from. He held in a snicker. It wasn’t true that there were fewer predators here with the frequent culling. The two-legged variety made up the numbers.
Timothy glanced upward without slowing down. It was hard to tell from the angle of the sunlight, but Timothy could taste the ambient mana trending toward shadow. It was getting late. Those hunters had better start packing it in soon.
Not that he would warn them. They’d learn one way or another. Or they wouldn’t. They'd done their bit of rescuing already today. He glanced to the side again at the blood-streaked figure, now mostly dried at least, that was running beside them. Only one now, the other was being carried.
In their defense, they’d run till collapsing, refusing to be more of a burden than they had to be. A good attitude. Though one that was hard on a body.
Between the potions they'd already taken and the wounds yet to heal a bit of exhaustion might be the least of their worries. It’d take a month to drop their contamination levels into the safe zone. Till then they'd be playing the silly buggers game. Flush as much from your system as possible, then take another potion. Rinse and repeat while the contamination spread and unhealed wounds got worse.
Timothy grimaced slightly. It was something he'd dealt with a time or two as well, and it was hell. Even the little bit of healing potion he'd taken earlier had left a bit of foreign mana behind. Contamination by another name. He'd have to pick through his own aura to find it and excise it with extreme prejudice. It would still take him a couple of hours. And that was with a Pathfinder's sharper senses and a very light case.
The more contamination in your aura, the more it muddied your mystic sight. In turn, making it harder to remove.
He hoped for their sake that they were only close to the limit and not over it already. It was a bad way to go. His brows furrowed a bit as he gave the two another look. Only their faces were currently visible, with the rest of their bodies resting inside a loot sack. It was a bit undignified, but it hid the blood spoor and made them lighter.
Just as well they were passed out. It couldn't be comfortable. Between jumps, bumps and hundred-plus-degree temperatures, those sacks had to be hellish. More like a soup pot than a car seat.
Timothy shook his head, flattening his body and extending his arms to slide below a hanging glue vine mostly on instinct mid-jump. A bodyguard made a brief appearance to glare at his sheepish face. That vine had been obvious.
Time to get his head back in the game. Down this largish branch, leaping sideways 15 feet to a tiny (wrist thick) leaf stem, he pulsed his weight reduction enchantments to high before running across the top of the leaf, then bounding sideways to a tree trunk only to redirect to a hanging Liana vine. A casual swing brought him in range for a leap 25 feet to another stable branch. Letting his weight return to normal on the 6-foot brown boulevard and sprinting down its length. The rough and cracked bark provided excellent tread.
He slowed for a moment to pluck a sweet Fuchsia fruit from a low-hanging vine. He didn't harvest this close to town, felt like stealing from the baby hunters, but a single fruit for eating was well within the limits.
It was a popular, if common, fruit. Just so long as you weren't greedy. They were very mildly toxic. Eat one and it was tasty and refreshing. Two and you might feel some swelling in your extremities. Three and your throat might swell shut.
Still, one was good. And it made for great jams, jellies and wine. Cooking it removed the toxin.
He bagged the fruit. It was a bit too juicy to eat on the fly. He didn't mind staining his robe, he'd trash it in not too long anyway, but the scent would linger. Even here that wasn't wise.
He wasn't the only one to snag a fruit either. Or maybe it was a berry? About the size of an old-world apple, it was hard to think of it as a berry. After a moment he threw the question aside. Pointless. Fruit or berry it had been a long time since breakfast, and survival bars might provide fuel, but a long trip made him wonder about their so-called food status. It did have the benefit of being nearly scentless. Now if only it had been tasteless too.
Not long now and he'd get something good. Something warm. Considering Paradisian cooking traditions, perhaps too warm! The sunlight was starting to fade, not because the sun was down, but because clouds were rising to block it out in a wave of gray. A gray that was only marginally different from the solid wall of stone he spotted in the distance.
It wasn't quite the cliffs of insanity, but they were tall enough.
And more, they were home.
Paradise, an island of safety in the storm. Or rather a mesa of it in the jungle. The stone cliffs rose several hundred feet above the river it overlooked and equally important, above the still massive trees.
It was a damn impressive sight from any side but this was Timothy's favorite. Especially on evenings like this with the mist rising behind and above the cliffs with fat angry clouds promising rain. A sad muted blanket ripped through and torn by beams of light overhanging an indomitable wall.
Sometimes he wished he had the talent to paint.
Ah well. Instead of trying to capture it, he merely basked in the moment. The new-world might be violent and unforgiving, but it had a savage beauty, an urgency that made life so much more vibrant. He didn't talk about it, but he wouldn't give it up for all the safety of the old.
Shaking the moment of whimsey aside he kept moving forward. Who would have imagined a village on a hill would become this? Its once gradual slopes made steep by a simple trench. Now it looked more like Masada.
With an effort of will and an offering of mana he thanked the Spirit of the Mesa for sanctuary. When what you lived on also lived, it paid to be polite.
There was a lot of that in Paradise. The spiritualism practiced here was powerful. Raising the spirits for whatever task needed doing. For work, for play and of course combat. They had spirits for everything, and those spirits required attention, rewards and the occasional bribe not to be too mischievous.
A bit of sugar cane left in the water barrel to keep the hoochka happy and the water clean. A pretty rock by the bedside for Bunyip who kept your floors dry. A bit of alcohol left in a bowl on the stoop for the Brownies. At least if you wanted your food rot and insect-free.
Incense for the bath spirits kept it a happy place of emotional healing. Not to mention leaving them an hour every day in the wee hours of the morning to bathe themselves. Forget and you'd have fistfights and simmering frustration.
It was a lot to remember, but living here, you picked it up pretty fast.
Or you woke up with your hair braided into your blanket and all your clothes stuck inside out.
Timothy shook his head as he made another massive leap, bouncing off a crooked limb to grab a drooping vine and swinging down to the jungle floor. That was for the little spirits. The big ones were a very different kettle of fish.
The Spirit of Paradise, he mused as he slid around and through a few final bushes and approached the clear-cut defensive perimeter. The bird-mountain-god-spirit cum whatever else it might be. It was the first such creation. He'd managed a bit of divination to confirm that. The First Hold Spirit. A title, not just a description. And one with teeth to it.
He had no idea where this particular experiment would lead to. And despite a certain of worry about man creating a god, even a minor one, that fact thrilled him. A new field to observe and explore!
He shook off his musings and slowed to a trot with the cliffs towering overhead. Only a single zigzagging road broke up the uniformity of its walls. Or at least only one they could see. A similar path graced the opposite side, leading down to the river docks. Towers and fortified positions dotted its length but there were no gates.
The lack wasn't an accident, and despite how it looked, it wasn't a mistake either. You couldn't avoid flaws in a defense, but you could guide them to a known location. That seemingly open path was counterintuitively a powerful defense.
Timmothy called it the Achilles Principle. Even the son of the goddess, that legendary warrior of antiquity, was only mostly invulnerable. He still had his heel. But conversely, the heel made the man.
The story goes, that he was warned by his mother before he ever left the shores of Greece, that he would lose his life if he went. But in return, he would gain glory enough to live on eternally. He chose his fate, death and glory. The two were not separate. Glory only came because he also faced his death.
Bravery granted him his heart's desire. But an unkillable godling wasn't brave. How could be brave if he was never actually in danger? Invincibility made for a boring story and magic, good magic, was all about telling a good story. A story to the world itself. And if the story was good enough, others would be forced to play along.
They'd written their narrative along that twisted rising path. Invoking old stories along with powerful enchantments. Lining its length in lovingly rendered mosaics depicting Agincourt, Thermopoly, Mesada, Malta and more. All places where a choked battlefield allowed a small force to stand against a large one, even if victory was not guaranteed. Especially because victory and defeat were in question.
Timothy started jogging up the sharply sloping ramp, bracketed by his bodyguards. A gong went off as the front of the column passed some invisible line, a series of clangs and pauses that gave a quick but accurate description of their party. Peaceful, Known, 39, Elites.
It wasn't a code that allowed for much in the way of detail, but it was enough for its purpose.
Timothy glanced at the first stone-faced tower, as he trotted passed. The massive spell-reinforced structure was built into the side of the mesa itself. Carved out of it rather than built on it. There was no door, the entrance was on the dogleg above them.
Entrances that remained closed and likely bared as they made the first turn and got a good look at the five bottommost towers. Closed, but not unmanned. He could feel the eyes and watchful intent radiating from those narrow windows.
He could also feel a dense web of detection magics sifting over and through him. Timothy gave them a few moments to get a good look, then slid through the obnoxious things and with a twist of his will to keep them from coming back.
He was a great proponent of strict defenses, but he wasn't letting them magically grope him indefinitely. This wasn't some old-world airport! If they hadn't been able to read him in the first couple of seconds, ten more wasn't going to help the incompetents.
Thankfully, they knew that as well as he did and the detecting webs slid back into the towers. At the top of the second dogleg saw the path expand from 10 feet wide to a fifty by fifty landing cut back into and under the cliff face. A guard shack cum barracks with an attached stable backed the landing and housed the first rapid response force though they weren't in evidence at the moment. There was a second building here, a rest stop with water and some basic food in case a long climb after a hard day required a rest. They didn't bother with it though, there was much better food and nonwater drinks above.
Another dogleg up, blessed be his weight reduction belt, and Timothy gave a nod to a set of guardians manning the cleansing stations. A waterfall that stretched from edge to edge of the stone pathway. It flowed down in a clean, clear impossibly thin sheet into a barely wider stone gutter. The water sheet was framed on each side by beautifully carved hardwood poles with a third as a cross tree above. Like someone crossed three totem poles with a Japanese torii.
Both the water and the poles pulsed with accumulated mana and meaning. A curtain of spells that did the same thing as Treeholms mist only much faster. Though Treeholm didn't need a pair of guardians to manually power the spells.
Timothy ran through the thin film without stopping. The water was wondrously cool against the overpowering muggy heat, though that cool didn't last for long. It was also just as intrusive as the detection fields, though over much earlier.
Timothy slowed to a stop as he topped the next ramp section and trotted onto the landing. It was the same size as the lower level ones, complete with the same barracks and stables, but in addition, there was a large wooden canopy in the center of it.
A canopy with a light movable counter with those most odious of beasts behind it.
Bureaucrats. Timothy hid a sigh as he approached the demonic figures, though from the sour looks on their faces perhaps he didn't hide it that well.
He spoke to the cretin for a few moments, then reluctantly stamped his seal on the log book. It was a link he hated to leave, but then it was also a link that would rot the book in a couple of days. Not his fault they hadn't twigged to that. Though how they could miss it when it happened repeatedly he couldn't say.
Bureaucrats. Hard to live with, but people got upset when you put up a bounty. Timothy took a deep breath and tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they weren't here just to be a nuisance. It wasn't that unreasonable for the Hold to want to know who came and went. It at least let them know when a team didn't make it home. Not that they could do anything about it, but that was a different issue.
Stepping before the guard to the side of the counter, Timothy pushed back his sleeves and removed the cowl from his cloak. Baring the backs of his hands, palms facing the ground, and his forehead. The guard swept a glowing heavily runed rock over all three before thanking Timothy and gesturing him onward.
That part was reasonable at least. Quick and pretty certain. Had to be. Guardians weren't slaves, they could and did vote with their feet. Bad holds, and miles of red tape qualified in Timothy's book had a way of becoming ghost towns. There was a shortage of skilled manpower everywhere and if you didn't value them then someone else would.
Stamp a book to make sure someone knew if you didn't make it. Ok. Take 20 minutes signing bull shit forms and jumping through silly pointless hoops? Maybe have a safety moment where you were told to watch for tripping hazards? Fuck you, I'll move to a different Hold where they aren't fucking idiots.
Still, just because it was brief didn't mean it was optional. If the three Origins who half ruled the settlement appeared they too would be checked.
Illusions were scary things.
The two wounded hunters couldn't show their hands from inside the carry sacks, even if they'd been conscious enough to do so. Timothy winced in sympathy as they were carefully, but still somewhat awkwardly extracted. Enough for the guard to get a scan in.
It wasn't done maliciously, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. At least they didn't have to stuff them back into the bags, two pairs of guards were already running from the barracks with stretchers. Then it was merely another six dog legs to the top.
Merely, he'd have trouble doing it at a brisk walk in the old-world. Now he was sprinting with ease.
Timothy passed over the lip of the ramp and into the final staging area, the square space was half-filled by a ready squad of mounted hog riders relaxing under an awning while a breeze gave some small relief from the ever-present heat. Timothy took a deep breath of the cooler air and turned to look out over Paradise.
Hundreds of small hills covered the mesa top in a riot of plant life. Seemingly every visible foot of ground, outside the stone staging area, was covered in gardens, fruit trees and crops of one type or another. Not in the neat rows of old-world farms, but in riots of carefully planned and intermixed chaos.
It usually started with some trees on top of each hill, not a forest, but at least a copse of four to eight assorted fruit or firewood. Intermixed with them would be some berry bushes or larger leafy plants like paco ferns or giant zucchini. Then perhaps a mix of smaller leafy vegetables like spinach, lamb's quarter and sorrel.
Smaller, was of course relative. The new world was like a condom advertisement. Everything was indeed bigger here. The spinach easily grew over three feet tall and was both hardier than its namesake and needed to stay a bit dryer. If only a bit. Then maybe a ring of gourds like butternut or calabash. Followed by root vegetables like carrots, turnips or radishes towards the base of the hill.
With regular morning and night rains, the hilltops were planted with drainage in mind. The organization of the plants was a part of that. Preventing erosion and absorbing a great deal of the water as it traveled down through the various crop belts and into a series of interconnected gullies that drained into holding ponds and small rivers. Even in the ponds and rivers, the land was used. Sugar cane and wild rice liked the swampy sides while cattails and American Lotus dotted the lake surface.
Even though it was grown to be picked, the greenery never really died around here. Even the seasons, what little there was of them so close to the equator, were barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for.
Just as well, the visual impact of all that vibrant life was stunning. The greens of the plants against the multi-colored cornucopia of fruits and vegetables was really something to see.
A fact and condition the Paradisians took great pride in. Taking pains to accent it where possible, though never at the expense of their all-important food crops. By tradition, nothing but nature could be visible from a distance. Even if it wasn't natural at all. You had to know the place to realize you were looking at a town and not just a garden. There were homes and businesses tucked away under those hills and sometimes the ground between them as well.
Almost like hobbits, Timothy mused, and not for the first time. Even if the houses came before the hills in this case. Sturdy stone homes piled over by earth and sod till only a hill remained. An impressive way to leverage earth spirits.
In the beginning, it had been about camouflage. Mostly against the various flying predators. And it still worked that way to a small degree, though the mesa itself was a bit obvious. It was more a cultural statement now, and a way to efficiently use the available space.
Still, it wasn't fully underground like Runehold. Those little houses and businesses had their windows and skylights. They just hid them behind the greenery. Carefully protected against water by clever stone channels and the ubiquitous house spirits. It kept the dugout-style homes cool during the frequently disgustingly hot days.
Timothy took a few moments just looking it over. Then he closed his eyes to breathe it in. The scents and sounds of safety. Or as much of it as could be found these days. At last, he opened his eyes and started moving forward. Looking at the inhabitants this time, instead of just the terrain.
And they were well worth the look! It was a hot and muddy climate here. Far too much so for formal clothing to take root. The Paradisians went the other way entirely. Just from where he stood he could spot two dozen workers moving about. Harvesting the ripe plants in rotation or carefully chivying the domesticated hogs to new pastures. And very few of them wore more than a brief, if highly colorful, kilts, loincloths or the occasional wrap about halters for females. And even that was optional.
He casually enjoyed the view as a knot of gardeners, liberally coated in mud, stripped down and dived into one of the mini lakes that served as water catchments. Laughing and joking as they frolicked, washing off the detritus of hard work even as they joked and laughed. It was an ever-present din of cheerful tones and laughter that made Paradise paradise.
It was warm, cheerful, optimistic... and totally unrepressed. Timothy shook his head at a particularly, hmm ... vibrant, ya, that would work. A particularly vibrant wrapped skirt in purple, yellow and covered in a mess of beads. Woven cloth was expensive, but in a complete reversal of human history, dyes were cheap and easy to come by. Leading to some truly eye-searing combinations.
It took some getting used to, but it was just another way they had of claiming a little something for themselves. A unique culture and dress and they weren't alone in striving to stand out.
Each hold seemed bound and determined to do the same. Timothy wasn't sure if it was deliberate or simply an individualistic response to the outside threats. Moving away from old-world nationalities and towards an identity of their own.
Of course, some went a different direction. Bloodhaven doubled down with a vision of England that hadn't existed in decades if it ever really had. With prim and proper attitudes, clothing and a terraced social organization. Aristocratic in an idealistic way.
Then there were the more alien affectations. Like Fishman Hold. It was a beautiful town, floating on giant lotus plants above the lake. Connected by floating rush mat bridges and canoes. Peaceful, free from worry and protected by a massive set of enchanted windchimes and wind-powered instruments. An ever-present whistling, chiming melody hung over the town, beautiful, relaxing and eerie all at the same time.
Or Baumhauss, the great tree-house spread across 4 forest giants. Real ones, not the midgets that surrounded Paradise or Runehold. Vine rope bridges connected the various bits and pieces together while tree-born arenas were left in a constant din of flesh on flesh or sticks and stones on the same. Stridently martial with an already forming social ladder based on duels of honor and a bastardized chivalric code.
Throw in the fetish for self-modification that left slit-pupilled eyes to see in the dark and climbing claws on nearly every awakened adult and it was something to see.
Each was different. But so far it was mostly good different. Like the flavors of food. It could have been something else. Like despotic hell holes, kleptocracies and dictatorships. There were a few that moved in that direction to a lesser degree. Bensenville, New Pyongyang and Marseille being on that particular list.
That wasn't entirely fair, Timothy reflected. Pyongyang might have a very top-down structure, but it might just be a cultural preference. With time and outside threats, they were starting to be a lot more neighborly. Still standoffish, but without an entire county's worth of propaganda to keep fear and hate alive they were showing themselves to be decent people.
The French weren't really a kleptocracy either, just arrogant bureaucrats who thought they could tax everything. Even shipping that no longer stopped in their hold. A few pointed warnings had fixed the issue and dropped the taxes enough to reconnect them to the trade network.
Bensenville on the other hand... Timothy sighed and let it go. He was trying to relax, not get more upset.
This was a happy place, despite the threats facing them. Paradisians were a gregarious lot, always waiting with a cheerful welcome and he forced his mind into the present to enjoy it. Both gardeners and guard teams made a point to stop and greet the newcomers, asking for news, trying to get a good deal on any spices or rare fruits even while they filled in the latest happenings that the team might have missed.
It was a madhouse of conversation, but the general goodwill involved kept it from feeling like an interrogation.
Which made Sven's following actions seem almost impious. Stepping to the side where a large black stone obelisk rose 20 feet in the air, he grabbed a wooden stick with a bulging end wrapped in fabric. He positioned himself next to a waiting drum which was nearly as large as he was. A 6-foot hoop of wood some 4 feet deep and covered in a thick piece of stretched boar hide. He set himself carefully, then pulling back he rotated his entire heavily muscled body into the blow.
Boooom!
It rumbled through the air and made it hard for Timothy to breathe as his chest rumbled with it. Then he did it again.
Boooom,
Boooom,
Boooom,
Boooom.
Then he solemnly replaced the drumstick and carefully stepped forward to face the obelisk. As he bowed his head, every member of their group and every native within sight bowed their heads as well.
When the drum was talking, no one interrupted. It was a call to lead the dead home and a call to the living to mourn them. There would be a memorial at sunset. Timothy glanced towards the west. A bit more than an hour, he judged.
Timothy sighed, nodding and knocking knuckles with his four personal bodyguards, thanking them for looking after him in a voice a bit rough from disuse. He took an extra moment to acknowledge the debt he owed. Defending him was something they'd been paid for. But carrying him while he dealt with a head wound was an extra step. They deserved a bonus for it.
He even took the guff they threw his way with grace and a lowered head. He really shouldn't have missed that razor leaf.
All was right with the world and the tension he hadn't really realized he was holding was slowly bleeding out. Less than what he'd felt at Treeholm, but still there. He rolled his head back and forth, rubbing at his overly tight shoulder muscles. They were not just inside the wire, but truly home and safe.
Sven spoke up over the chatter. “All right, drop your loot bags off at the Hunters Guild-” He gestured to a large hill to their right. The doors weren't visible from where they stood but they all knew it was there. Any hunter would.
Much like at Treeholm, they'd drop the marked bags off and let the guild Assessor evaluate them. They'd also offer to purchase the lot as a go-between. A convenient option, though you never got the best prices that way.
On the positive side, it was that assessed price that determined the tax. Tax and Char, they called it. One part in five for the hold, to pay for outer defenses and the guards who took time away from hunting to man them, then another half of that offered willingly, not charge, for the widows and orphans fund. Char meant charity, and it was tradition, not law. But a tradition stronger than law.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“-and I will declare this mission is officially complete! Can I get some volunteers to help these three to the hospital?” He glanced over the assembled group of hunters, hold guards and gardeners before pointing at a group of five guards who'd raised their hands. Nice of them. “Everyone make sure to thank Sargent Banhammer and his squad. Now, I need a pair each to stick with the Fathers till they get home, additional pay to come from those fathers of course!” He smiled at the chuckles and picked out two pairs from the dozen-odd volunteers.
“Excellent, now go get some dinner before you start partying hmm? I'll make the arrangements with the guild and if you come back after the memorial service your shares will be ready. Plus the bonus I promised you!” He had to pause for another ragged cheer. “Again, well done!”
A third cheer broke out of who knew how many throats, and Timothy's was one of them. There was a time for mourning, and he would observe it. But that time wasn't now. Now was about a successful venture. It was about pride and payday.
Finishing a few conversations and slapping a few backs exuberantly, Timothy untied the belt of his harvest sack and pulled the other strap over his shoulder, pausing just a moment to recover the Fuchsia fruit and immediately taking a bite. Taxes weren't so strict as to worry about a single fruit worth a tenth-stone coin. Especially if he ate it instead of selling it.
For that matter, the loot sacks probably contained more than 10 metal coins in harvested loot between them. Of course that wasn't all they held. Sven had used some of the funds gained at Treeholm to purchase butchered (and wrapped and stamped as such) mid Tier 2 meat. Somewhat common in the Thresholds, it was worth a great deal more in the Riverlands where it was not. Between transport costs and rotting it was always that way.
The prices fluctuated, but conservatively they'd make half again their investment. An exorbitantly high return, if you didn't think of the dangers involved or the other opportunities guardians as skilled as their party had.
He figured as much as 70 metal coins for the entire trip. Most from the rare mana-rich herbs they'd found at the new Threshold. The farther out, the more mana and the more valuable the materials. With the weight and space limitations, they'd only brought the very best back.
If they'd been able to roam instead of defending a single location they'd have tripled that.
Considering most beginner hunters might make a single metal coin in a year it sounded high. But he'd paid out 20 metal in fees to their guards. Another 20 for the single-use wards. Frankly, after the bonuses Timothy had lost money in the trade.
Something like 5 metal if his guesses on pricing were correct. Not a good deal, but acceptable considering the strategic considerations involved.
The guards would make out like bandits though. Bringing back most of a beginner's yearly wage in under 2 weeks of work. But they also nearly brought back body bags. Risks had to be met with rewards.
There was a staggeringly high wage gap between beginners and veterans. But oddly, it mostly worked itself out.
In Paradise, a cheap, non-squashmeal, meal was a single stone coin. A low Tier 2 meal from a Cook was around 20. A high Tier 2 meal and only if you had connections ran at least a metal coin.
But that one high Tier 2 meal would grant several months' worth of Body strengthening and perhaps a quarter of that in Aura. They'd need to wait a few weeks between such meals to purge the contamination, but the math was still pretty obvious.
That was true for most meats at your tier. Under your tier reduced the effect to about a tenth. Over your tier doubled it, but could quadruple the time needed to remove the contamination. Anything over 1 inter Tier higher was dangerous unless deliberately prepared by a Cook with that strength gap in mind. Which would cost a great deal more.
Throw in the realities of location and it becomes obvious. Meat at the Tier of the Threshold, mid for Treeholm, was two-thirds the cost and fairly plentiful. They would also make far more money. Paradise was a Tier 1 zone and the loot available was in line with that.
Those who had the ambition to progress, with a few exceptions for the connected, were forced to move farther out.
Oh, there were small problems with money sent home to families distorting the luxuries and low-level growth markets but it wasn't really something they could do much about.
Not that it was needed either. The necessities weren't really limited. Boar meat was plentiful, just from defending the holds. Vegetables grew so damn fast that as long as you laid out gardens and dealt with the equally voracious weeds they weren't hard to source. Storage wasn't easy until a few hobbyist farmers got their current picking methods going. The vinegar start was somewhat costly, but it was reusable.
And as for the low-level growth meats and herbs? Frankly, taking a slower route to power wasn't a bad thing. Already he'd seen a few over-doped hunters, children of the powerful, sputter out early. Unprepared for the work involved in progressing once Daddy could no longer afford to bankroll them.
Timothy pushed the familiar arguments aside. There were other, wiser minds considering these things. He listened in occasionally, but it wasn't his circus.
Shaking his head he walked over and down a path hidden behind an unexceptional berry bush to drop his bag off in the guild building, pausing a second to let his two guards do the same, before exiting the same way and walking slowly through the deepening evening.
Taking his time to ogle the gardens and gardeners even as he spent some time chatting and simply living out from under the weight of threat and stress. Even the uncomfortable reality represented by his two trailing shadows couldn't dampen his mood. He wandered for a bit, then his feet started down a familiar path almost without his urging.
He let them lead the way and it wasn't long before he was in front of a hill distinguished from its neighbors only by being slightly bigger and by being surrounded by a cloud of spicy scent.
There were no signs, but who needed one when you could just follow your nose?
This was his favorite little cooking nook, and he didn't know its name. It wasn't unusual. People were a bit skittish about names at the best of times, and telling that name to a wizard just wasn't done. Even one you were related to.
There were quite a few such places around too. It was strange to his old-world senses, but few homes here had kitchens.
That wasn't unique to Paradise. Between quick rotting food and the price of fuel, wood or mana, it was just easier to cook more communally.
Especially when you factor in the size of food. A quarter hog on the rotisserie could feed 500 people. Even a head of spinach was around 10 lbs. Far too much if you wanted some variety in your meals and it would rot in a few days after picking unless you pickled it. And pickled spinach wasn't something Timothy hoped to ever eat again.
So community members brought in their oversized vegetables and slabs of meat in rotation. Even a few coins every now and then. Half pay and half trade. Families with Guardians in them often paid with a mana donation for the hearth and preservation enchantments.
It was no surprise then that neighborhoods in Paradise fought over good cooks. Lowercase cooks that is. The ones who produced great-tasting foods from domestic foods and de-mana'd meats.
The alchemical variety (Cook with a capital c) capable of making that mana edible were another thing altogether. A much rarer and more expensive thing. And not something a neighborhood could afford to employ.
Still, a good cook who could turn even common ingredients into something special was a luxury in reach of even the working poor. Often the only one available.
He ducked down a sloped, stone-lined path. An invisible path, unless you knew exactly where to look.
A standard thing in Paradise, if you didn't know it was, then you probably didn't belong there. It sounded more standoffish than it was. The locals were more than happy to make friends and lead anyone to their favorite eating hole. The real trick was to see who could find it again on their own the next day. Standing odds for newcomers were one in four.
You had to work at rudeness to get left out in Paradise.
Hitting the bottom of the ramp he turned through the arched doorless entry into a comfortably cool, dimly lit round room. There were about 15 medium-sized tables spread about. Rectangular and circular intermixed, but sized for eight to ten each.
People were friendly here, and it was a rare thing for a family to eat alone.
The walls were lined with kitschy art of the homemade variety. The art projects of several dozen children intermixed with pieces of beaded, painted leather, dream-catchers with their dangling threads, fresco-like scenes carved directly into the walls and racks of individually painted clay plates and bowls made from dried calabash gourds.
Decorative, a bit gaudy, but with a down-home welcome to it that made it hard to play the art critic. They weren't trying to be ostentatious. This was a communal living room as much as dining.
And where it wasn't a child's work, it was mostly practical. The beaded leather pieces doubled as curtains. The dream-catchers were anchors for the mesa's defensive enchantments and the frescos hid the insect, fungus and rot wards.
After waving his guards to take a seat Timothy ducked around a thick central pillar and made his way to a counter that split the back of the room from the kitchen. He peaked inside and smiled widely.
“Hey Hey, Mamacita, can you spare a bit from the pot for a few malnourished and gastronomically deprived men?”
The cook turned, making a production of it that would make a b rate Dracula envious, and proceeded to glare at him. Like all the women of her extended family, Fabiana was decidedly on the large side. Not fat, although she'd admitted to being on the heavier side before the change, just large.
Statuesque if you were a fan. Healthy if you weren't. She had big bones, big muscles and curves that went on for days. Still, they fit the definitions of beauty from several hundred years ago much better than the modern trends.
Her black hair was cut fairly short but still puffed out from her head in a tangled halo that set off her bronze skin and wide symmetrical, facial features. All of it wrapped in an eye-searingly bright yellow wrap dress, generously covered in decorative native American bead-work. Timothy, despite zero understanding of fashion, was tempted to call a sari. He wondered if that made it a double Indian? The terrible joke faded from his consciousness as fast as it appeared, thankfully without making it out of his mouth.
She glared for a moment longer then it changed to a fairly vile grin. A grin he recognized enough from his sister-in-law to dread what was coming. “There is nothing little about me and when have I ever turned family away Your Runeship! Sista, come see! We'unz is blessed! The high muckity muck be slumen it with the commons!” The thick fake accident was revolting as intended, but no more so than the title. Even as he turned, pleasantly surprised, he wondered why he never seemed to remember not to poke this particular mama bear.
“Unc” A boy who had only recently passed his 3rd birthday waddled around the corner and stumble-ran towards him. Timothy deftly vaulted over the counter and swooped down to pick him up with a large grin. “Why hello little John, where did you come from?” He tossed him up in the air, spun him around a few times and at last placed the little man, giggling and cheerful, on his hip. Priorities were important. That taken care of he turned and smiled at Lissette.
“Evening sister-in-law, what a pleasant surprise.” And it was too. Both sisters could cook, (and two more who weren't present as well) but, though he wasn't fool enough to say it out loud, Lissette was by far the best. Besides being a real Cook, she also had a mean eye for blended flavors.
Elevating country cooking into an art form, if one fit only for those with a high tolerance for capsaicin. He liked to think the five-star chefs of the old-world would have hated her. No pointless curlicues just for looks, nor abnormally small portions here. No, this was peasant cooking at its very best, and he was more than happy to partake.
She shook her head in mock disgust. “Pleased to see me or pleased to see my cooking?” Timothy paused awkwardly for a brief moment, throwing a sidelong, hesitant glance at Fabiana, then figured screw it. “Yes!”
She snorted but a smile was threatening to break its way through. He always felt the old saying about the best way to a man's heart might be through his stomach didn't tell the full story. It ignored the other side of the coin. The way into a cooks (or Cooks) heart was by obviously enjoying their food.
Timothy glanced around, avoiding Fabiana's narrowed eyes, before asking “Where might little Calista be?”
Lissette sighed, “Sleeping, finally and don't you go waking her up.” Fabiana's eyes un-narrowed quickly at that, nodding along with a bit more oomph than might be strictly polite. Lissette pointedly ignored her as she flowed over towards the stove and deftly removed the lid from a soup pot large enough that he might be able to take a bath in it, before deftly scraping along the bottom and sides with a long-handled wooden spoon. She sniffed it briefly, tasted it then gave her watching sister a sideways glance before reaching up to a basket of crushed and crumbled dried peppers.
She ignored Fabiana's squawk of protest and deftly put a palm full in. The following quick argument that dodged through Spanish, French and English in a nearly indecipherable mess. Timothy carefully stayed out of the way. Not that it was hard to do when he had a nephew to spoil.
Spoiling that distracted him plenty long enough for the argument to end and Lissette to start ladling the contents of several pots into large lidded serving tureens. Timothy quickly stood up and snagged 3 large bowls, then glanced back at Lissette with an eyebrow raised. Glancing at her sister long enough to get a regretful but quick head shake, she raised 2 fingers. He nodded and grabbed the additional gourd bowls along with some wooden utensils from a shelf by the wall.
One of his guards was familiar enough with Paradise to stand and snag a handful of leaf napkins and a stone trivet from another shelf.
With barely a delay the circular table was set. A small lidded but audibly bubbling pot took pride of place on the trivet surrounded by a court of half a dozen other pots and baskets.
Sitting down Timothy deftly checked each of them, before scooping up a ladle full of mashed and seasoned squash and another of Curtido. The fermented and vinegary slaw was a favorite of his, even if some of the current ingredients were less than traditional. He topped the squash (rice was too dear for everyday meals) with a large scoop from the central pot. A thick pork and fish Gumbo from the look of it. And even the scent was making him sweat. He took a bit more of Curtido. The vinegar helped with the heat.
With a nod at Lissette and head pat for little John he dug in and disappeared into a different world. One of intense flavors and an ever-present heat. Only coming up who knows how much time later with half his plate cleared.
“Haaa, damn. I needed that.”
Lissette was staring at him with a slightly mocking smile. He ignored it, he knew her well enough to see the defense mechanism for what it was. A base attempt to hide the pride and pleasure she took from those who enjoyed her art.
Besides, she could hide it on her face, but her aura, decently controlled for a guardian of her stature, couldn't do the same. “That you did, and I'll pass the compliment back to my sister.” Like the kitchen itself, names weren't given, but relationships were safe. It was like a series of left and right directions. It only worked if you knew where you were starting from.
“Now spill. What news from out Valley?”
Timothy nodded, taking a bite of the vinegared cabbage to, at least slightly, reduce the simmering fire that was his mouth. He paused mid-bite and looked to either side at his bodyguards. Stickum, who knew enough to snag the napkins earlier, wasn't doing too badly. He was sweating but the large serving of half-finished starchy vegetables spoke of experience.
Paulo on the other hand... the poor man had both sweat, tears and some snot flowing freely. Timothy had to turn his laughter into a small coughing fit as he watched little John coach him along. Explaining in his terrible 3-year-old grammar that water no work. Squash! It was adorable frankly. The slightly pompous tone didn't change the fact that it was excellent advice.
A subtle glance revealed the rest of the room was similarly enthralled by the scene. There was another reason Paradisians were always willing to guide newcomers to dinner and Paulo was paying them back in the coin they preferred. Oh, they were all pretending not to watch but the smiles they wore were entirely too wide for a normal evening.
It wasn't malicious. They'd have helped him out if Little John hadn't. Eventually. Besides, once he got past the heat, no one complained about the flavor of Lissette's food.
Thankfully he wasn't fool enough to try to pull a tough man impersonation and pretend he could handle it. Fire eaters who challenged the local cooks could end up with blisters on their tongues. The native peppers were potent enough, but add in magic and the advantage in that battle was decidedly with the cooks. Timothy wondered suddenly if someone might eventually come up with a spell to even the odds.
Heh.
He let the idea slide away, he didn't have time to waste on something like that. He glanced around his own table in time to meet Lisette's eyes. They were crinkled up with humor though neither her voice nor smile betrayed anything. Timothy just shook his head and started describing the new Threshold and what they'd seen of wildlife and possible new resources while out there. He purposefully pitched his voice loud enough to be heard in the suddenly quiet room.
There were many coins to pay with and gossip was one of the preferred types in Paradise. It was as inevitable, and exuberant, as the morning rains. A small bonus to the other eaters considering they'd provided much of the ingredients and the resulting food would have to be stretched a bit farther to accommodate the three of them.
Few things stayed secret long here and that being the case he'd prefer the gossip at least started accurate. Besides, it was free advertisement. The new Threshold would need to be manned.
He managed to give an overview in less than 10 minutes, mostly because they really hadn't explored. It had been a straight shot out to establish the defenses, then a solid dragging fight from behind the temporary wards while they built it up then a straight shot back.
He was confident that they'd gotten a decent sampling of the local predators, but they'd seen hardly anything of the prey species. Nor did they have an in-depth survey of plant life, minerals or much of anything else.
Just as well, that left it like a treasure hunt for the new residents. The right to name new resources when they found them was a much sought-after honor. Not to mention the first pieces of any new resource were usually worth far more as research specimens.
“So what will it be named?” Lissette chimed in when she was sure he was finished.
Boooom!
The mourning drum rang clearly even here underground leading to a pause and a shared glance of sorrow. But no one said anything. Timothy held in a sigh and picked up where they left off, everything in its own time.
“Come now, you know better than that.” She might not, but it was far more likely she was asking on behalf of the listeners. “It's Noreast of Threshold Treeholm and will remain that way till it distinguishes itself or is given a baby name. Like Little John here.”
He grabbed and placed a sloppy kiss on the squirming youngster's cheek. "Sure his name has some religious and Robinhood connotations, but mostly it's white-bread.” He ignored the glare she shot him at that. “A placeholder until he does something unique enough to earn something more appropriate. The newly enshrined Cardea might name it something bland but eventually it will name itself.”
Somewhat placated by the thought of John earning a good nickname, she nodded and broke into a loose, and much quieter description of what she and to an extent Regi had been up to recently. Little things like Calista's insomnia and frequent fits over teething. None of it was anything Timothy would call important and yet, it was a treat to just lean back and listen.
At last, he let out a sigh and started to gather up his dirty bowl and utensils. Lissette glanced out the window at the tiny speck of light on the horizon and nodded in understanding. She kissed him on the cheek and picked up Little John, heading to the back while belting out a rapid spurt of Spanish mixed with French.
With a satisfied sigh, Timothy stood up, carrying his tableware back to the wall to the right of the kitchen where a large stone sink was filled with lukewarm water. A youngster, one of Fabiana's large brood, darted out of the kitchen with a smile and a nod to busk the table, no leftover food would be wasted.
He leaned over to yell, then thinking of his niece he turned it into a whisper, “Thanks to both of you! That was a spectacular meal. Give Cali a kiss for me, ya?”
Lissette paused at the inner doorway and looked back at him hesitantly. “The memorial starts soon, did you lose someone then? You didn't mention it so I assumed …?” She let the question trail off.
“No," He knocked on the counter softly, "we were fortunate. A few close calls, but nothing that can't be healed. No, it's not for my team, we rescued a trio of hunters on the way back. All that remained of an eight-man team.” Since they'd brought them in, it was just good manners to attend.
She nodded with a troubled expression. Timothy could relate. It was normal, but hardly noble to be happy that the death drum was sounding for someone you didn't know.
Timothy gave her a wave goodbye and dropped 15 stone coins in the jar by the door on the way out. A generous amount, but well worth it considering the skills involved and an easy way to help out his prideful extended family.
Timothy paused outside to take a deep breath of the clean, well-scented air. Glancing over his shoulder he asked. “Did you enjoy the meal?” Forcing an innocent mask onto his face while laughter threatened to slip out even so.
Stickum glanced sideways with a sly smile and piled on. “Yes, did you?”
Paulo was an elite, even if he wasn't a local one, and he didn't get to that level by being a fool. He caught on, but that just made the whole situation even funnier.
Still chuckling Timothy took some pity on the man. Explaining, “You're just the newest victim if it helps. It's something of a right of passage for all newcomers. Congratulations you're now half local!”
His complaints and their laughter followed them through the gardens until stepping forward they hit a border, and suddenly merriment was no longer welcome. It wasn't a spell as such, but a palpable massed intent. A somber, respectful silence lived here, and it would not be budged without a fight.
A fight that would be in extremely poor taste.
They were here to lay the dead to rest, and Timothy added his own will to the canopy in solidarity. Walking forward with the solemn grace the situation required. Gave a few nods of recognition to acquaintances and old friends on his way towards the Obelisk that towered over the small crowd.
Only the very tip of the stone still showed any sunlight. It wouldn't be long now.
Enough time for a few more attendees to straggle in, and then the last dot of light disappeared and the ceremony began. A short figure stepped forward, more boy than man though it wasn't obvious behind the all-encompassing gray robe he wore. It was embroidered on the back with a pair of large ravens and lined in a trim of solid black.
He stepped in front paused for a five count then began to speak. “We answer the call of the drum, in death as in life. Marching to its beat and returning at its call. Who will learn from the departed?”
“WE WILL” Timothy spoke and joined his voice to the crowds.
“Who will listen when they speak?”
“WE WILL” They spoke together.
“And who will speak for them when they cannot?”
“We will” the call came, though not the massed call from earlier. 11 shapes stepped forward from the crowd. Three heavily bandaged familiar shapes and eight he recognized, but didn't really know. They didn't look injured, though looks could be deceiving.
In what had to be a prearranged movement, the three bandaged figures took the lead.
“I am Hondo, and I speak for Kaile Bannon called Maggie. Kyle Ford called T-man. Antoine Anker called Drager. Nickolas De Luca called Jedi. Cilla Hautum called Bertha.” He spoke each name as if through a mouthful of crushed glass. Biting them out strongly, if only to refrain from weeping.
The raven-robed boy spoke again. “Have you recovered Huginn's take?”
“For Maggie and T-man.”
He nodded and gestured to the tall stone. Hondo walked over and picked up the waiting, glowing chisel. He pressed it into the pitch-black stone and its enchanted blade carved through. Not easily. This was not a task that should ever be easy. But it was smooth.
Timothy had held that chisel and made those cuts. Too many times. And while he prayed to a god he didn't believe in that he'd never have to do so again, he also knew better.
The chisel didn't run just on mana. It ran on memories and grief. To carve a name was to pour out all that you felt for them. Reliving painful memories. Mostly good, but few relationships had no bad.
He finished a single name, then passed the chisel, tears rolling down his cheeks. Then another name and the chisel was passed again. And again. Till all five names were ensconced on the side of the stone, taking their place beneath a solid mass of those who had gone before.
Taking a deep breath Hondo took up the chisel and braced a lanyard against one of the names, the crystal at its end glowing in black with threads of gold. The mortality of death and the immortality of memory. He raised the chisel and smashed the hilt down on the gem, crushing it in a single blow.
The shattered glowing dust had no chance to billow out but was instead sucked into the name beneath it. Like calling to like. Filling the carved channels of the name in glittering colored motes.
Then he did it again and two glowing names stood out against their three drab companions. A loss indeed, to lose not just them but also their last bequests.
His robe billowing and its ravens glowing, the boy walked forward and briefly touched the glowing names. Freezing as their stories spoke to him. Then with a sigh, he stepped aside and gestured.
A line formed smoothly, each person stepping past long enough to touch the names for a moment, then stepping past.
Then it was Timothy's turn. The memory hit him like a plunge into ice water.
It was jagged, Harsh. A man's gaze shot sideways as he froze. No, not a man. T-man. His eyes fixed on a mess of red-fringed vines. A Cat's Claw patch. Valuable. Excitement beat common sense. As an observer, and knowing that a tragedy was coming, Timothy easily spotted the signs the man missed. Weasel signs. The usual warning shriek never came but he still didn't see what he should have. He took a step towards the vines and the ground collapsed and now the shrieking started, though not as a warning. It was too late for that. Straight to blood rage. The only mercy was that his death was swift.
Timothy sighed and dropped his hand an inch to touch the second name.
Maggie. With the ground caving in and weasels exploding out in a grey-furred flood she watched, frozen in fear and shock. Bertha didn't freeze. He knew her in that moment, though they'd never spoken, her faults and her virtues. A woman who willingly took on such a name was no delicate flower. She was large, tough, rough around the edges and proud of it. For all that she had a heart of gold hidden beneath. Today it shone through. Already bleeding and splashed by the remains of T-man, with Drager being waved under screaming beside her, she didn't hesitate. She didn't flee.
She ran, but forward not backward. Through the swarm screaming out a warcry and triggering every enchantment and spell she had on her. Certain death from magical burnout, though it didn't matter anyway. The pulse of mana spiked so sharply that it drew every beast towards her. A treat beyond resisting. Dragging the swarm away even as her body practically melted under the burst of uncontrolled mana.
The snarling bloody wreck of a woman kept moving forward another dozen feet, like a bird with a broken wing the swarming weasels followed. One tore out Maggie's throat on the way after her, and the vision quickly faded in a spurt of arterial red. But the three who were still here should not have been with a swarm that size appearing under their feet.
Her name was on the wall because she hadn't paid attention. Timothy couldn't pretend otherwise. But he took a moment to bow his head to Bertha. When the chips fell, this woman knew what was important. And she'd died damn well.
Timothy stood aside then, watching the rest of the line file through. Then Raven Robe took center stage again. The minuscule ambient light shone briefly beneath his cowl to reveal a sharp face still graced with some baby fat. It was topped by a bushy pair of blonde eyebrows that danced and moved with every word he spoke. “Death is glorious, it is shameful, it is momentous, and it is insipid. But it is never meaningless. We learn from the departed, good, bad and indifferent, we are blessed by the lessons they leave behind. For in both shame and honor and all that lies between, there are lessons to be learned. And we will learn them. I give thanks to the fallen.”
“WE ARE GRATEFUL.”
“Huginn has shared what he will and we commit them now to Muninn's care.”
Last thoughts becoming memories. Timothy bowed his head. He wasn't religious, not in the new or the old. But there was a certain comfort in rejecting any death as meaningless. So much of life seemed to shift on the levers of unseen luck. It was a blessing to see it from a different angle.
The service was over, but the morning period was not. In the coming days, all those who knew the deceased would come touch the names. They would contribute their own memories to the fallen. It wasn't just their death that they should be remembered for, but also their life. And hopefully, they'd get a bit of closure.
As the larger group stood forward to repeat the small ceremony, Timothy thought back to another time. Another ceremony, though one considerably less polished.