Seven hours later.

It was early morning. Charles sat in the driver’s box of his arborhearth. [Summon Arborhearth] was a plant ability from his Dark framework; a storage and transport ability in the shape of an organically ornate carriage, pulled by two bramble spawn.

The vehicle ambled down the road, its pitch-black wood paneling adorned with intricate leaf and vine carvings. The left side of the carriage featured several cabinets installed above a large chest, while an oval door granting access to the cabin sat on the right. Another chest and a spigot were located at the rear.

The carriage body was shaped like a round nut, with thick roots sprouting from the underside forming the frame. Four spoked wheels lifted the carriage off the ground, and the root frame extended forward, creating the carriage shaft that grew and fused into the bramble spawn.

Bramble spawn, plantlike creatures of darkness, resembled large quadrupeds with antlers and cloven hooves. Dark, thick, and thorny brambles knitted tightly together to form muscles that covered their frame. Fine coniferous needles sprouted from the brambles, replacing fur and forming a protective coat against the sun.

Their color-shifting eyes pulsed between black and evergreen, glowing at night. Branches replaced their antlers, blooming with shades of ruby, amber, and emerald—a stark contrast to their dark, muted bodies. These beautiful creatures of the night sustained themselves through umbrasynthesis, a process by which they gained energy from the absence of light.

Charles quite liked the creatures. They were hardworking, low-maintenance, and quiet. Bramble spawn weren’t native to Xel’oria, having come from a tidally locked planet whose name Charles could never remember. The universe held an uncountable number of planets, and remembering them when he’d never left his own seemed unnecessary.

At an early age, he decided there was a significant amount of essential information to remember: how to kill an arc beetle, when to use a backstitch, and where to source running water. Information such as birthdays, names of planets, and which fork to use for dessert was trivial. He wasted little thought on things that weren’t directly impactful to him.

His Summon Arborhearth ability doubled as both storage and transport, with the bramble spawn included with the summoning. He could summon it once a night, and they would last until dismissed or destroyed.

Charles enjoyed his uninterrupted quiet time, but he kept his mind occupied with thoughts of improved designs, materials, and stitches he wanted to try. If not, his thoughts might drift back to his past, spoiling his mood. Working with his hands and creating useful items gave him a sense of accomplishment.

This territory was intimately familiar to him. He had grown up and spent many decades at the nearby Ebonscale guild chapter, one of many adventuring guilds on Xel’oria and the closest form of civilization. Traveling this road always brought him a mix of melancholy and nostalgia. It would take him only a few hours to detour and visit his old guild.

He harrumphed at the thought. Growing up as a ward of the guild, he had long since wanted nothing more to do with them. It had taken him decades to earn enough to buy his way out. Fortunately, he was an elf with a lifespan measured in centuries, not decades.

The arborhearth rounded a bend, and Charles spotted a pants-less, round stranger scurrying off the road and into the bushes. Gently pulling back on the reins, he signaled the bramble spawn to slow down.

Charles frowned. ‘That’s unfortunate,’ he thought. Vermillion ivy was pervasive along this stretch of road, its oils leaving a nasty rash on most folk. Quickly parsing the situation, he wondered what would drive someone to dive into the toxic undergrowth. Charles slowly approached the stranger, who remained poorly hidden in the roadside bushes.

His mind worked through the possibilities. ’Ambush? No. Bandits would never set up so close to Ebonscale. Bounty hunter? No. Haven’t done anything in a while that would warrant a contract.

‘Lost traveler? Plausible, but why run and hide? If they don’t mean any harm, then they’re simply inept and might need assistance. Also, where are their pants?’ There were too many unknowns for a logical conclusion. Charles sighed; he would have to interact with them to find out more.

The arborhearth pulled off to the side of the road on the right, just past the stranger huddled in the bushes on the left. Treating them like a timid animal, Charles moved slowly, giving them space.

He hopped down from the driver’s box, landing lightly on his feet. Feigning an impromptu inspection of the chests and cabinets, he purposely kept his back toward the stranger. This was a tactic he often employed—pretending to be unaware.

[Proprioception] was the passive ability from his Melee framework; it gave him the ability to sense what was going on around him without relying on his sight. He closed his eyes and focused on observing the stranger with his other senses while he pretended to check straps and locks.

Proprioception revealed a poorly dressed and overweight individual. He also detected the shape of a small blade in the cloak, though he would have been more concerned if they had no way of defending themselves in the middle of a forest. However, the first two observations were at odds in his mind. Only three types of people got that overweight: royalty, off-world ambassadors, and astral merchants, and all of them could easily afford decent and complete outfits.

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‘Royalty, ambassador, or astral merchant. This person is most likely rich, obviously lost, and no danger to anyone but themselves. There might even be a reward for helping them,’ Charles thought, deciding it would be worth getting involved.

“You’re standing in vermillion ivy,” Charles said loudly, continuing his farce. “That’s going to leave a nasty rash…” He waited patiently for a response.

Unsteady words emerged from the bushes a moment later: “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand you. Please, I don’t want any trouble.”

The voice was masculine, something his ability hadn’t been able to decipher. Charles heard the apprehension and exhaustion in the man’s tone. It was baffling how anyone could lose a translation ring—they were such a prolific magic item that most people considered them mundane, hardly worth stealing. Double-checking, he used Proprioception and confirmed the man wasn’t wearing a ring.

Thinking of a translation ring, he used his mental connection to his storage ability to retrieve one. He kept a few in stock for the occasional coming-of-age ceremony, where their parents would present them with a ring just before starting their first year of school. They were inexpensive gifts, but it was difficult to get even basic supplies to the more remote villages he serviced.

The rings were a cornerstone of galactic society, providing universal communication. They magically translated spoken words so the wearer could understand, though the translation wasn’t always perfect—occasional errors could slip into the interpretation.

Charles opened a small cabinet, retrieved the translation ring that appeared, and turned toward the stranger. He held out the ring, signaling his intention, and slowly crossed the road, stopping just before the vermillion ivy.

He didn’t want to get the oil on his pants—it was a pain to wash off without getting it on your skin. Vermillion ivy was an insidious yet beautiful plant, causing blisters along with insatiable burning and itching, and this poor soul was crotch-deep in it. With his free hand, Charles motioned for him to come closer.

Close enough to make a visual assessment, Charles examined him from head to toe. The stranger was male, with an average smooth elven skin tone. Though he was very short for an elf, Charles stood only three-quarters of a head taller. He wore a hooded orange cloak, a typical staple among travelers, good for keeping dry when it rained. Hiding under the hood, the man concealed more of his facial features at the cost of his peripheral vision, which Charles found unnecessary, since it had stopped raining hours ago.

‘Is that a bed sheet?’ Charles wondered. At first, he didn’t recognize the filthy garment wrapped around the man’s torso and hips. And then there was his distinct lack of pants, revealing angry, reddening skin where the vermillion ivy was fast at work. Even his shoes were a poor choice, being a size too small.

Hesitantly, the man approached. Charles took pity on him as he awkwardly made his way out of the bushes, rough foliage catching and scratching tender places as he whimpered and gasped.

Once clear of the vegetation, Charles held out the ring for him to take. The man looked down at the translation ring as if he didn’t know what it was.

“I’ve got nothing to give you for it,” the man said.

Taking advantage of people in need was a trigger for Charles—he hated it. Orphaned as a yearling, Ebonscale had taken him in. As he grew up, the guild meticulously accounted for every bite of food, drop of drink, and piece of clothing or lodging. It was years before he was even old enough to train as a Crafter—his only way to work off the mounting debt. They had taken advantage of him simply because they could.

He didn’t believe it was right to withhold food, water, clothes, or respite from someone in need simply because they couldn’t afford it. It was one reason he became an adventurer, even if he was just a crafter. Purchasing his freedom and leaving the guild had cost him his Adventuring license, but he was content helping people as a simple traveling merchant.

He found it strange that most people wouldn’t accept help without offering something in exchange. As a compromise, he’d tell them he’d put it on their tab—not that he ever kept tabs. He had magical abilities, several ways to make gems, and a responsibility to help those less fortunate.

Charles clenched his teeth and sighed. If this was going to work, they’d need to communicate, and he needed this man to take the translation ring. So, he stepped forward and dropped it into the man’s hand.

“Thanks,” the man said, and then, to Charles’s disbelief, slid the communication device into a pocket inside his cloak.

Astonished by the man’s ignorance, Charles’s mind worked to process another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. He was good at puzzles and would eventually figure this one out, given enough time. He made logical corrections based on this latest information.

‘Didn’t demand help, suggesting a lack of entitlement. That rules out royalty. Didn’t offer reimbursement—not an astral merchant; they’re notorious for settling debts. Doesn’t recognize a translation ring. No way he’s an off-world ambassador. Maybe the patriarch of a secluded tribal village that only uses one spoken language?’ Charles guessed, after excluding all his previous possibilities.

‘By the Mother, who is this man?’ Not giving up, Charles took off his riding glove and held up his hand. He pointed to the translation ring he wore and then pantomimed taking it off and slipping it back on, gesturing for the man to do the same.

He seemed to understand. Taking out the ring, he slipped it on and held up his hand for Charles’s approval.

“Where are your pants?” Charles asked.

The man’s eyes went wide with awe and understanding. “Sacred excrement!” he exclaimed. “I can understand you!"

Charles thought that was a weird response. The man reached up and pushed back his hood, revealing his face. Charles deduced from his short, blunted ears that either he’d been wrong in assuming the man was an elf, or he was a victim of child mutilation. Every interaction with this man only led to more questions.

Motioning to the man’s bare, red, and scratched legs, Charles waited for an answer to his original question. The man looked down at his legs, then at the ring, and finally over to the bramble spawn—a classic sign of being wonderstruck. He absentmindedly bent over to scratch his leg.

“I—” the man halted. Charles waited patiently as the man collected his thoughts. “I don’t know where my pants are,” he said despondently. “I don’t even know where I am.”