As I wrestle with the strips of fabric embedded into my dominatrix chair, although, frankly, since it binds me, it’s more of a sub chair. ANYWAY, I see that he’s quite flustered, which makes sense. I do currently look like a bird trapped in fishing line.

"It’s all right, whoever you are; I’m getting out just fine; I just need to, ah, there," I say while cutting at the fabric with a quick heat beam.

I scramble out of the chair, waving my arms this way and that until I am not terribly likely to accidentally float into a wall before looking at my guest.

He looks terrified? He’s trying to hide it, but the gifts of language make pretty much any form of communication a breeze for me. Noticing the terror bleed into confusion, I make a motion to soothe him.

“Uh, do you want some tea, sir?" I say before belatedly remembering that I don’t have any here.

“Or, uh, maybe some hot water, since that's uh all I have," I say with a sheepish voice, a gout of nervous laughter bursting out after I finish.

I see the strange man kneeling on the floor regain his bearing before asking, "Oh Great Spirit, I beseech you, for my tribe is in danger."

I squinted, pondering this strange request of his. Do their people just consider anyone of sufficient power to be a great spirit? If so, would I even be powerful enough for this? And why do they also call things great spirits like the Jwarahausa? Are they from the same time period?

I shake my head, focusing on the task at hand, before saying, "Uh, maybe, but why are you asking me? I am no being of great power, and I’ve certainly never rescued anyone."

The man's face, regaining a sense of calm like a swimmer entering a pool, says, "I am the shaman of the Daraha tribe, we who have been envoys of the astral for centuries, and we have a great pieces of knowledge, and items that would intrigue you, I am sure."

I laugh, saying, "What great spirit? I am no such thing, and I certainly haven’t seen any spirits, despite having lived in the astral expanse for a long while."

The apparent Shaman's, face calm but heart confused points at a bloom of peace before saying, "There are spirits, great and small, all around."

I laugh even louder than before, but before I can say anything, the shaman says, "How do you not see them? The very fabric of the astral means that anyone who enters can see all others, no matter their perspective."

"What are you talking about? Those are blooms, the bleedthrough of emotions from the mortal plane. No more sentient than a stone." I say, but even as I say it, my stomach churns.

For one of the clouds outright ran away from me; another pleaded for its life; another defended a body. And why?

No, No they can’t be sentient; they can’t be; otherwise, I would have understood their communications; I could read the fucking ant like an open book; why not the spirit?

I frantically look at the Shaman, and I see his face, that damnable thing slowly coalesces into a cursed form of gentle understanding.

"But you never learned did you, and everyone's perception can blind them," he says his voice damnably gentle.

I turn away the tears that are appearing in my eyes. Refusing to look at the herald of such doom.

But out of the corner of my eyes, I see him approach, a hand reaching out to my shoulder. And with a flash of light, everything switches.

—

I push a vine away from my sight, my bandaged feet pressing through soft earth. It might have been soothing, a reminder of home, but the stark, unending black of everything I see does not allow that.

All the trees, plants, and bushes look like grim shadows, an inversion of the munda. I blink, gathering my thoughts, before pressing on. My people shall be in great danger if I don’t request the help of the Great Spirit of Language.

But I do not see their Domain no matter where I search, and I need their expertise; no other spirit could bend their way into the scoundrels Domain. So it is with a calm gaze but tired eyes that I call upon a favor.

"Oh small spirit of the curdled ember, I call upon you so that you might guide my way through the astral forest," I say, my deep voice echoing out into the trees and farther beyond, stretching into a direction I cannot sense as I pull them here.

I put my finger up as a little figure of red light, which appears like a blade being unsheathed from nothing at all. Its wings fluttering as it lands on my finger. An adrogenous, tiny humanoid figure of pink and red light with little flames flickering in and out on its wings. The spirit in question is very easy to earn a favor from, even if it is very annoyin-

"OH HIYAH, YOU CALLED ME OVER, WHERE DID YOU WANT TO GO, SHAMAN BOY? I KNOW IF YOU’RE DOING ANYTHING IT’S GOING TO BE FUN! SO WHERE TO, WHERE TO!" The little spirit shrieks; its voice incredibly loud and piercing, like a war pick through the head.

I do not wince, for that would stop the game, but I do subtly start burning hope, shielding my ears from their tiny whispers. It is inefficient, but anything would be worth the price of not having to listen to them.

But I must get to my duties, so I say, "Oh small spirit of the curdled ember, I call upon you so that you may guide me to the Great Spirit of Langauge, they who have broken their shackles and risen again."

The little things approximations of eyes sparkle, bringing an uneasy thought to mind, for they only do something when I am about to make a truly amusing mistake. But I must press forward; doubt will only fail me here. But when they finish feeling smug, they deign to speak.

"YEAH, I KNOW WHERE THEY ARE. WE EXCHANGED BEFORE, A COUPLE OF TIMES ACTUALLY, SHE IS QUITE THE STRANGE CREATURE, I TELL YA!" the little spirit screams, gesturing a bit to my left before flying off in that direction.

Hmm, a "she". It’s quite rare for a spirit to hold any strong opinions about gender. But I see the little thing flying off. So with a sigh in my soul, but not on my breath, I follow after them, not in danger of losing their track due to the occasional squealing giggle and shrieking gesture of strange affection.

No matter how annoying they are one of the few spirits with an acceptable price, and strangely enough, despite their casual cruelty, they have a sense of well-worn fondness. Spirits might be strange, but they are beings like any other with their own likes, dislikes, hopes, and dreams.

And if you can leverage those, you can maneuver yourself behind a horde of favors and backdoor secrets, the way of my tribe. For if the grand beings who can shape the earth itself are people in the end, then they can be treated like what people truly are: pieces on the board.

It is better to float along the stream than stand in ignorance of it. After all, I think plodding through the dense astral forest it would have taken hours of time and precious emotions in order to find the Great Spirit without any assistance. And looking towards the fluttering wings of the pinkish-red spirit, I think that at least with them I only lose a bit of dignity and other things easily lost.

But before long, we arrive at a clearing in the astral forest, and I once again put up my finger. Their fluttering wings furiously beat as they daintily land on the small appendage. Before suddenly bursting into a twirling dance for reasons only known to themselves.

I ponder the value of cradling my face, and running away before simply asking, "So will you take the usual price?"

The little thing, almost in dismissal and impatience not really caring one way or another simply caught in habit, waves me over: "YEAH YEAH GET ON WITH IT"

Hmm, maybe they will be up for another favor soon. I should note this down. So I take out a notebook while almost casually sending over a mote of my irrational anger at my painting over. At the robbery of my name so that the tribe might have a slightly better negotiator. And I feel that leave me. An empty, ragged hole torn into that page of feelings, joining the many others I have taken.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

I consider the small spirit of curdled anger a good partner at a cheap price for a reason: they only ask for emotions I don’t want to see anyway. But as I send it over, they squeak with joy and eagerly devour it before disappearing, heading back to their Domain in that direction that humans should not see.

I sigh before waving goodbye; rituals should be followed so that they retain their Belief after all. Before walking to the edge of the creator of the meadow.

A perfect sphere of warm white intersecting with the floor beneath. Fortunate, it would have been hard to negotiate from a position of strength if I was slowly leaking out my brain while maintaining flight.

I step through, my certainty converting all it needs to as I appear in the midst of the great spirits home. And like always, it is a wondrous sight.

A storm of paper fitting for a spirit of language all arranged around the center. A fluttering chair of curled fabric, restraining yet gilding the strange sight in front of me. A woman created from silhouette, like a fire framed behind and through a person. Floating ethereally in the grips of the strange, ever-moving fabric.

But that strange and elegant image is quickly broken as she fumbles, twisting and careening in the grips of the fabric. And promptly tumbles forth trapped in the magical cloth saying "THANK FUCKING GOD! ANOTHER HUMAN BEING!"

I blink rapidly rather baffled by the idea that a being that looks like someone cut a hole into the fabric of the universe and let the dawn shine through could possibly be a human. But unwilling to simply dismiss it outright I carefully examine the circumstances. Perhaps she simply wants to see humans and isn't talking about herself, that makes sense worshipers are quite useful, and she used to have quite a lot of them. But before I can turn the idea over longer.

She says "It’s all right, whoever you are; I’m getting out just fine; I just need to, ah, there," tumbling out of her restraints with a slash of some strange magic.

And I stand aback surprised at such a powerful blow, appearing from nowhere, the Great Spirit of Language is supposed to be a creature of preparation, not surprise attacks. Before wincing taking in the greater sight for I understand that seeing such an embarrassing moment might be retaliated with extreme violence. Spirit kind is not lenient on those who see their smallest moments especially those who are accustomed to being quite big.

"Uh, do you want some tea, sir?" the strange spirit her light almost blinding me says.

I burn to scratch my head, but I stop myself, despite the fact that the idea that a spirit might have access to such things is quite surprising. Especially since there have been no sacrifices to her. Presumably being more careful after her last disastrous attempt at religion.

"Or, uh, maybe some hot water, since that's uh all I have," she says her nervousness apparent despite the lack of a face to examine.

Oh, that makes much more sense. She probably is just used to having sacrifices considering that she had a healthy cult not too long ago from her Perspective. Either way, I need to ingrtiate myself to her since she is essential towards regaining my people.

So I kneel on the floor a quite commonly beloved action by spirits before saying, "Oh Great Spirit, I beseech you, for my tribe is in danger."

And I receive nothing. The spirit just thinking about my response. I urge to shift, my knees digging into the soil of the astral forest, but I need not wait for too long as she says "Uh, maybe, but why are you asking me? I am no being of great power, and I’ve certainly never rescued anyone."

And I nearly spit out my last meal, not powerful? What type of hellishly poisonous creature must she be eating for her to be that delusional? I stand in the middle of a room that has the sharp scent of at least 3 artifacts! And one of them is her fucking chair! I don't even know what it does but it's steeped in enough magic to make one of the scholar's noses burst.

But wait, she interacted with many when she was with the Jwarahausa. She must know her power; this must be some type of strange negotiation technique. And well, I know how to deal with that; let me come out with the big guns. If she knows of my tribe, she will surely know our reach.

"I am the shaman of the Daraha tribe; we who have been envoys of the astral for centuries, and we have great pieces of knowledge and items that would intrigue you, I am sure," I say, sure that this would at the very least get her to approach the negotiation table.

But ridiculously, she laughs, saying, "What great spirit? I am no such thing, and I certainly haven’t seen any spirits, despite having lived in the astral expanse for a long while."

And again, I have been slapped in the face with a fish of ridiculousness. For what type of grandstanding nonsense is it to say that she is not a spirit? She's a literal beacon of magical light who lives in a domain and is the rightful holder of the title of Great Spirit of Language, she who has broken their shackles and risen again. And what foolish perspective leaves someone so blind that they can't even see the things right in front of their own eyes?

I point at the Domain of the Great Spirit of Peace, they who have forged lines, saying, "There are spirits, great and small, all around." with a confused expression on my face.

I see her try to create another excuse for her lacking perspective, unable to see the ground she stands on or, well, floats over. But before she can, I say with Certainty flooding my voice, "How do you not see them? The very fabric of the astral means that anyone who enters can see all others, no matter their perspective."

Even if someone were to be so dull as to only see a blank white space, those of other perspectives would poke through, for the only way to interact with another perspective, another world, is through others.

In frantic time, she says, "What are you talking about? Those are blooms, the bleedthrough of emotions from the mortal plane. No more sentient than a stone."

And I am once again stunned by the stupidy of such a massively powerful being. But I can see that they didn't mean their words. That their perspective is shifting ever so slightly. As they collapse into themselves, grieving some lost piece of self I walk over, reassuring her.

For despite her luminous, blinding appearance, she can feel despair and refuse to see the truth, so I take her shoulder and switch with her. Impressing onto her a simple fact Spirits are people like any other.

—

I wince, rubbing my head, feeling the idea force itself into my mind. The new concept placed over my mind like a fragile shell over my own opinions. It itches, but I stop myself from tearing it away because, as I look toward the astral, I see so many new things.

I see the glimmers of a floor, and past my own perspective, I see another view of the blooms that have been an everpresent sight. I see people in houses of their own making. I glimpse thousands of little seeds just waiting to grow into something more. I see a lounging mist of wanderlust flowing freely through their maze of a home; I see a smug smile ensconced at the top of a majestic purple mountain. And I see the millions of eyes pressing through the cracks of hope’s domain, refusing to not see everything around them.

But before I can examine my new sight further, I hear a groan from the floor. FUCK he’s still here! I grab a handle and approach him, the Shaman on the floor—or, or well, his version of the floor, considering he floats just a bit above mine.

Either way, he seems to be in a great deal of pain. But before I can help him up, he waves me away and rises on his own. Alarmingly with a great deal of blood leaking through his nose. But he had made his opinions clear, no matter how idiotic they are.

So I back away as he reassures me, "Don’t worry, it was my own mistake to attempt to share my perspective with a Great Spirit, of course, you would have one of your own larger than mine."

And with that, I am forced to turn back to the truth. He revealed his own truth, but a truth nonetheless. That everything around me was human, or well not human but sentient full beings. And that I ate one of them.

I begin to hurl; there is nothing to hurl, but the motion feels important nonetheless. And cry and scream as I accept the truth: I had all the pieces too, but never put them together for the simple reason that if it were true then I had murdered someone.

For when I escaped the cloud of Language, I did not walk away before I had devoured everything there was to eat. I have no idea of what is beyond this, but in the here and now, I have murdered someone. For no other reason than they annoyed me, not even allowing them to run because I didn’t know they could.

And as I cry on the floor, I see the shaman's hand approach again, although this time it does not arrive with a strange technique but rather with soothing intent. Although it isn’t as effective as he might think considering his hands are covered in nose blood. But I do appreciate it.

So after a bit mindful of my guest to at least continue the collapse later, I push off my floor and grab the throne’s many cloth pieces and pull myself back onto my throne, as composed as can be in my situation thanks to the domain of calm.

"All right, Shaman, who are you and why are you here? I know that you are a servant of your people here in their place, but I do not know for what." I say, gesturing along.

He goes from his former position to kneeling before my throne, a steady drip of blood staining the soil that I can barely see. As he says, "Oh Great Spirit, I am the speaker of my tribe, he who learns from and trades with the spirits. I am the Patient Bridge, and today I am here to bridge you and me."

I nodded, taking in the information I had already gleaned from the vision but finding the words valuable nonetheless.

He continues, "For my people have been taken by the Great Spirit of Mystery."

"Wait a minute, if they were taken here, how do they get back?" I say quietly excited to gain a clue for how to return home.

But he dashes my hope with his recalcitrant expression: "They are not here in flesh. Their souls were dragged out of their bodies, and once they are taken out of their domain, they shall fall through the astral forest and return home. They don’t know how to remain here like me"

I squint puzzling through the situation before saying, "So there’s just a shit ton of your people in comas. Yeah, I can see how that would pretty much be exactly as bad as being kidnapped."

But this does bring something else to mind, all this talk of Great Spirits and Shamans whose names are taken replaced by their title makes me think of the Jwarahausa tribe. Are we in the same general time period? If so, the book's hopes might come true, but that is for later.

"Oh, gods, that’s terrible, but, uh, why can’t you save them? Shamans generally hoard a lot of magical secrets amongst themselves." I say this thinking of the book and the fact that, frankly, anyone with that horde of knowledge could probably make some pretty hideously powerful enchantments.

The Shaman squirms before reluctantly saying, "There are two reasons. One is that I am much weaker than the Great Spirit; and two, I am a projection much like my people. I force my perspective onto the astral rather than blend into it, making my form fragile, easily banished or captured."

I nodded before being taken back, for simply put-

"What the fuck is perspective? We’ve apparently swapped ours, and it leads us to literally see completely different things, and it also makes you fragile somehow?" I say my voice demanding.

I see his face contort into confusion before being quickly wiped off. Then saying "Well if you wish to know I can tell you if you help me and my people"

Curses! That information would be ridiculously valuable for my research. Additionally, with his expertise and presence on the mortal plane, he can get me many items and important tidbits. So I sigh, resting my chin upon my hands, as I wheel the other hand around in impatience.

"Alright, you’ve got me interested, but let’s get done with this walk around and tell me about the situation, or at the very least, where to go," I say my goodwill and patience rapidly deteriorating.

I see him twitch, and a feeling of amusement spreads, both my own gifts of Language and my stint in his head, allowing me to guess his deep desire to either sigh or flip me off.

But before I can luxuriate in that familiar feeling of annoyance, he says, "For the direction, I shall have the small spirit of curdled anger guide you to their location, they meet up for occasional tea parties so they have the key to their house."

I am a bit taken aback and new to the idea that the little clouds I see everywhere apparently go have tea parties, and with what tea? Chamomile, English Breakfast, the trash tea that comes from replicators, are they true tea drinkers, namely black tea with a bit of honey, or are they worth nothing but spit like those who drink herbal concoctions? But I shake my head before I can get any further off track because I need to get some compensation for this.

"I still have no idea of the threats against me, and we haven’t yet spoken of payment," I say pointedly reminding the Shaman of the matter of payment.

Well, the spirit of mysteries is quite adept at teleporting its victims, and it has many servants that live in their home defending the spirit's interests. It refuses worship, unwilling to intake their spirits, but it does pay very well." He says almost blasé as he waxes over the fact that the fucker has a servant class.

"Wait what? Spirits can have worshipers, and there’s a price!" I say alarmed but intrigued.

But before I can get too excited, I see that dreadful, slowly becoming familiar expression of the Shaman picking out a piece of important information and stowing it away. I grit my teeth before letting go; if nothing else, if the servants, and mercenaries are there, and not projections like the kidnapees then I might get a clue for my escape.

I swallow my protests before saying, "Alright, frankly, a bunch of random people aren’t really that scary after nearly dying to that golem, so I agree to your task, but if I am to go, and from your mind, I know that I am the only option. I demand three things: one a packet of various seeds and some soil, two the information on Perspective, and three a method on how to reach the mortal plane"

I see the Shaman’s face peek out a bit of alarm before it is quickly swallowed. Him saying "Alright" extremely queasily.

I reassure him, saying that "I only wish to return home, and additionally, I know that it is possible considering that the First Shaman was able to walk back and forth from the astral expanse with the help of his bangle."

The shaman nods, accepting that surprising bit of information strangely easily although perhaps not that strangely considering he was in my head for a bit before saying, "I accept the terms," with a strange importance on the words like they were heavier than others.

Before he fades away as quickly as he appeared. Appearing like nothing more than a momentary mirage.

I yell at the nothingness, hoping to catch him on his way out: "Wait, uh, do you just wanna hang out or something? I have many books!" before sighing accepting my failure at making a friend.

Well, at the very least I got to finally talk to fucking someone, but I just wish there were less breakdowns and tense negotiations over the terms of me saving a whole bunch of people. Which frankly, I would have done it anyway, considering that I'm not going to leave people in the grasp of their kidnappers even if I only get paid a penny.

But before I can blast off—or even prepare—let’s research the Shaman and his tribe a bit. Because it seems that they are in the same time period as the Jwarahausa and that their records will be prudent.

So let’s figure out some more about these weird fuckers before I get further into this.