Nice.

That’s the kinda day it is, if you look past the Mindspire’s effects. Weather’s downright pleasant with the ruby red sun shining brightly overhead and a cool spring breeze coming off the lake, keeping the temperature comfortable whether you go with or without a jacket. The morning fog has come and gone to reveal the calm and tranquil waters, while it’s clear, golden skies as far as the eye can see, treating me to the rare and never before seen spectacle of an empty, unoccupied lake. As I stare out over the waters, I am transfixed by the natural beauty before me. No ships, no sails, no foghorns, or shouts, just pristine, untravelled waters and shimmering white lights, all so still and perfect its like I’m looking at a photo rather than the real thing.

This is a big part of why I love to travel, seeing new sights even if they’re of familiar places. Meeting new people? I could do without, because all it does is complicate things. Can’t just enjoy this nice, peaceful ride along the lakeshore. No, I gotta go over everything I saw and heard over at Carter’s compound, because I got a tendency to see the worst in folks. Let’s be real. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for why he wouldn’t want my help looking for a missing girl. You know, besides the obvious conclusion to draw from all this, that they’re human traffickers who’ve lost some cargo and don’t want no nosey kid poking around their horrible operation.

I got no proof. Barely even any suspicion really, because Carter and his ilk have never given off any human trafficking vibes before today. Plus, if that is what they are, then they sure picked a terrible place to open up for business. Ain’t a whole lot of foot traffic round these parts, or all that many people in general, not compared to some of the bigger cities out west and to the south. The compound’s also out of the way and lacks easy access to popular smuggling routes. Sure, the lake’s right there, but if you wanna go west, you gotta go past Riverrun, a high-traffic waterway where your boat can and probably will be inspected. The compound is also closer to town than they are to the Highway, meaning any wagon veering off the road might well be noticed by other vehicles or Ranger patrols, which you never want when dealing with illicit goods. I know for a fact that smugglers prefer to get off the Highway about fifty klicks north of New Hope, round about the bend where me, Errol, and Sarah Jay set camp on our first night out, giving them good access to the mines at Mount Rimepeak and all the surrounding communities.

Now none of this is to say people don’t disappear around these parts, but when they do, human trafficking is hardly the first concern that comes to mind. The truth is usually much simpler and sadder to boot, because it ain’t just beasts, bandits, and Abby to watch out for here on the Frontier. Sometimes all it takes is a bad sense of direction and a couple hours of exposure during a rainstorm to do you in. Other times, it’s a muddy incline where someone slips and breaks their leg, or a chitter rat burrow your horse steps into and throws you off its back. Rarely do we get to choose how we go out, but if there ever were a choice, I’d wanna go down in a gun fight. A Bolt clean through the heart to take me out in the blink of an eye, while leaving enough of my face and body to be buried. Beats sitting around for hours and dying of hypothermia or getting stuck in the mud for days and done in by dehydration, but won’t be many gun fights for me moving forward.

Might be why my mind jumped straight to the worst-case scenario with Carter and his people. Because I wanted it to be something awful, something illegal, something ugly I can go in and clean up with gun in hand. Or die trying I suppose, because even though they don’t carry any Aetherarms, they were holding those bows and staves like they knew how to use them. They’ve made it seventeen years on the Frontier, and they ain’t hiding in town, so I should give them the benefit of a doubt and assume they know their business well enough. Overall? With what little I know, I’d give myself 50/50 odds on coming out alive if I tangle with Carter and his people, and I know good and well what my daddy would’ve said about that. Any fair fight is a fool’s fight, but I’ll take anything I can get, any chance to relive the life lost to me when big Franky chopped off my hand.

And there’s the crux of the issue here, the real reason why I’m spoiling for a fight. Been trying to stay optimistic, but the more I learn about the problems in front of me, the harder it is to see a way past them. Harped on enough about improving the Mage Hand Cantrip, a task even Immortal Monarchs would find daunting, but even making a proper prosthetic ain’t half as easy as I thought. I’m not talking about no skitterbot neither. I wanted to make something simple, some sorta clamp to hold a handgrip or foregrip so I can keep a rifle steady and help control recoil, but even that is more involved than I expected. A simple enough concept sure, but with a thousand minor details to account for and too many downsides to make it worth my while.

Because no matter what, I’d have to relearn how to shoot lefty, which is time I’d rather use to study magic or Artificing instead. If I can Conjure or craft myself a replacement for my hand, then I can just pick up where I left off, which is so much better than relearning everything from scratch. And if I can’t, then there’s no point in relearning anyways, because why would I need to shoot a rifle if I’m just gonna be Joe Schmoe with a regular day job? And that’s assuming I survive my business with whoever ordered the hit on my daddy, an appointment I can only put off for so long. I got a year, maybe two tops to get back in tip-top condition, and if I can’t do it by then, then I might as well flip that coin and be done with it.

More of a roll of the dice really, because even with both hands to me, I’d put my odds at far worse than 50/50.

The shimmering lights over the lake grow brighter and shinier, and I find myself transfixed by the view, staring out over those open waters even as a voice in the back of mind utters a warning. I should be watching for Abby, wild beasts, outlaws, and other dangers, but it’s such a beautiful and poignant sight to behold, one which dredges up all sorts of thoughts and emotions I done pushed deep down into my gut. Out there is everything I once aspired to, and everything that will be denied to me forever more unless I get my hand sorted. Which I don’t think I can do. Forget the gunfights and Abby hunts. This is life now, working long hours every day at a job I could do half asleep, demanding work that don’t demand nothing of me outside of physical effort. I’m a townie in all but name, and I’ll live out my days, months, and years doing the same damn thing just to put food on the table and clothes on my back. Days like today will be the highlights from here on out, when something goes wrong and they can’t spare a real Ranger for a somewhat dangerous job. That’s when they’ll call on Howie Zhu, the best option you got when the going gets tough, but not tough enough for anyone important to take notice.

Oh how far the mighty have fallen. I wanted to be the Firstborn of an entire generation, the best there is, the best there was, and the best there’d ever be. Even if I earn my bronze triangle now, ain’t no one gonna give two shits, because it’s not like my efforts will matter much at all without any military licenses. Can lie all I want about Third Order Spells proving useful in everyday life, but those instances will be few and far between. Don’t get no floods around these parts, because the lake is huge and deep, and ain’t no one gonna wanna eat nothing scooped out of a granary that’s been stink-bombed to hell and back. As for Fly? Where the hell am I gonna go with that? Out to the bar and back I suppose, where I’ll probably get a citation soon as my feet are on the ground because you ain’t supposed to Fly while drunk.

All of which means my glory days are behind me. Imagine that, peaking at seventeen and change, a sad, sorry state of affairs if there ever was one. There gonna come a day when I turn sixty-five, look back on the last forty plus years, and find I got nothing to show for it, because the only times I ever mattered was when I thought of myself as the Firstborn of this here Frontier.

What’s the point of going on like this? I crawled, walked, and ran with the goal of one day soaring up into the skies, to heights unseen by most so I could stand at the forefront of an entire generation. Now? Now all I can do is crawl along on my belly and think back to better times. No, ain’t much of a point at all really. Should’ve stayed in the smoke a little bit longer back in Ron’s loft apartment, let the low oxygen levels knock me out and go down in a literal blaze of glory. Now that there was an end I coulda been happy with, the Firstborn’s first and final stand against Vanguard National.

Missed my chance there, I did. Might as well put an end to it all here then. Find me a nice, high spot with a view and let the waters take me, dive into the shallows headfirst and hope the impact is enough to see me off. Would be easy enough with the Levitate Spell to bring me up to the top of a tree, a nice silverleaf beech overlooking the water preferably, since I’ve always been partial to their smell. A sweet, woody, caramel scent that translates well to the incense that’s so popular round these parts, one so good you almost want to take a bite out of them trees every time you see one.

There’s one right there. Growing right by the lakeside, with the trademark sparking leaves that gives the tree its name and branches stretching out over the water. Next thing I know, I got my hand resting up against the bark and Cowie struggling ever so gently in a polite but insistent effort to get free of my too-tight embrace. Glancing back to meet my eyes, Old Tux seems utterly unaffected as he lets out a quiet whicker of protest asking what this is all about, because the old piebald got more sense than Deputy Juan. Don’t much like standing so close to the water’s edge, and don’t rightly understand why I’ve brought him here, but he did it all the same even though he knows he’s putting his life at risk.

No. I’m putting his life at risk, and for what?

Snapping out of my thoughts with a sharp gasp, I heel Old Tux and have him bring us away from the shore and tree both. As we put it all behind us, I can’t help but stare at the silverleaf and the lake beyond it while patting Cowie who calms down right quick. Gone are the shimmering lights I seen out over the lake, and I question if they were ever even there in the first place. A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck as I uncap my waterskin and wait to stop panting so I can take a sip and do something to change the situation. Feels like I just woke from a nightmare without having gotten so much as a single wink of sleep. Got no earthly idea what all that was about, or where any of it came from and how to avoid it happening again. Was the Mindspire to be sure, but it felt so real, so genuine, so natural that I can’t help but second guess if that’s really how I feel.

Wasn’t sadness driving me to romanticize my own death, nor was it anger or self-loathing. No, it was pure, unbridled desire that had me dreaming of taking the plunge, a yearning for glory and an appetite for death that I didn’t know I had in me. Contrary to what the rumours might say, I ain’t a man in love with bloodshed. Nor do I go out of my way to seek it out, not in the way an addict or psychopath would. No, I’ll kill without blinking, and accept my own end whenever the time comes, but that don’t mean I go looking for reasons to kill. Shooting Abby is a job, one in which I’ll learn the skills to do what needs to be done to avenge my daddy’s death. As for bounty hunting, that just seemed like the next obvious step in my career path, a job wherein I get paid for doing what I do best. Same as any other job really, and as for my stance on the subject of dead or alive, I default to dead because that’s just good sense. Takes a whole lot of extra effort to bring an outlaw in alive, and if the Sheriff’s office don’t care either way, then why bother with the hassle? It’s the same reason I don’t care to bring bandits in alive, because the juice ain’t worth the squeeze. It’s not because I’m using bounty hunting as an excuse to go killing. It’s because I’m here for a paycheck, and shooting outlaws with a big price on their heads is just good business.

So why was I ready to climb that tree and dive down to my death? Wasn’t resigned to it, but eager for it, like death was the best option moving forward rather than the end of the road as it is. Fool thing that, because even if there is a Heaven, suicide is a cardinal sin which’ll get you turned away from the pearly gates. To make matters worse, I can’t even blame it on the Magic, because no matter how much a Proggie finagles its Spells, there ain’t no way to compel a man or animal to harm themselves directly. Don’t matter if it’s a First Order Command, a Fifth Order Dominate, a Ninth Order Enslave, or any Spell in between, there ain’t no magic that can make a target harm themselves. Can drive them batty with Madness, turn them Paranoid enough to suspect friends and allies, or Modify Memory and make them think their loved ones are their enemies, but what happens after isn’t under the Spellcaster’s control. That’s up to the target, and your mileage may vary, because while a hardened killer might not think twice about killing everyone who worked with them on a job, your average Joe with a cushy job might just grumble and drink a few more beers later on that night.

Means it wasn’t a Spell which got me ready to walk the plank. Or at least, it wasn’t entirely the Spell that made me want to meet my maker, because between the sparkle over the water and the intense rush of desire for death, I think I figured out what happened. There’s a Second Order Spell called Glowing Coin, which contrary to the name, don’t got much of anything at all to do with coins and everything with desire. Makes anyone who looks at the target of the Spell see what they desire most, which is usually gold or wealth or something else material like that. That desire than grows so overwhelming most can’t help but be drawn towards it, a Spell which is more of a distraction than a lure or compulsion.

Guess things change when a Proggie casts the Spell with help from a Mindspire, and though I cannot see across to the other side or the docks in New Hope and Riverrun both, I get the feeling that there’s a bit of a mess taking place all up and down these shores. Won’t know what anyone else saw or did until I get back home to ask, but I’m not entirely sure I want to know. What I wanted was glory and recognition, and when I realized I couldn’t have it, what I yearned for was death. The first bit was the Spell, the second all me, and now I gotta deal with the fact that I’m so wrong in the head just because I lost a single hand. Weak is what that is, disgraceful and deplorable to be so out of sorts despite having so much going for me. There are plenty of folks out there who got it so much worse, and they’re still keeping on day in and day out. What am I so concerned about? Boo-fucking-hoo, I gotta live a normal life like everyone else, and that’s all it takes to make me want to end things once and for all?

Ain’t like my life is even all that terrible. Even after ‘loaning’ Sarah Jay the money from the Mage Armour Spell Core, I still got plenty of cash in my bank account thanks to the Proggie hunt. Would’ve been flush even without, since I keep most of my funds in precious materials like Aberrtin and crystal Aether, and guns keep their resale value pretty well if you don’t mind accepting barter. Not to mention how I only got a slap on the wrist after what went down in Pleasant Dunes, which could’ve ended so much worse if someone wanted to press the issue about Wayne, Conner, or that merchant I done killed and talked about on recording. Then there’s the family I got, one that ain’t mine by blood, but are kin all the same, a mother in Aunty Ray and sisters in Tina and Chrissy. Made a bunch of new friends too, and reconnected with old ones, not to mention how I got a couple prospects in my love life with Noora and maybe even Josie. Can’t forget how I’ll always have Cowie of course, who ain’t go no idea about what went down and is looking to me for reassurance, with his head raised and clear grey eyes opened all wide and innocent, only to close them in comfort when I kiss his nose and stroke his chin.

Yea, I got it pretty good, better than most I’d say, and even then, I can’t let go of what I done already lost and was ready to give all up for nothing. Seems Uncle Teddy was right once again. If this is all it takes to stop me from being the Firstborn, and it seems it is, then I never had it in me to make it at all. Don’t matter what sort of Spell I come up with or prosthetic I build, I, Howie Zhu, was never gonna be the Firstborn my daddy wanted me to be, which makes me a failure in so many different ways.

A tough pill to swallow, and one made more bitter by the constant droning in the back of my head that’s driving me to despair. Or anger, to wash away the sadness in a fiery conflagration of rage, but there ain’t nothing to direct that anger at but myself. Only brings me deeper to new depths of despair, a vicious downward spiral I cannot afford to indulge. Means I got no choice but to man up and rise above, because the alternative is too unthinkable to even consider. I ain’t just talking about ending it all like I almost did; I’m talking about wallowing in my own pity like a sorry sad-sack and has been, because ain’t nothing more disgraceful than a man stuck living in the past. Seen it all too often to want that for myself, old worlders who drown themselves in drink and drugs while waxing on about the good old days, when they had planes, trains, and automobiles to get them to their cushy jobs in big office buildings, and stores with shelves packed with anything you could ever want or imagine. Paint’s a lovely picture it does, and there ain’t nothing wrong with yearning for what you done lost, not unless it keeps you from looking at the here and now and working towards improving tomorrow so you can eventually bring a bit of the old world out here to the Frontier.

I won’t let myself be like that, a man haunted by his own past. Even if the future I envision ain’t as bright as the one I wanted for myself, it ain’t nowhere near as bleak as no future at all.

So lost in my thoughts and focused on resisting the constant call of the Mindspire dragging me down into despair, it takes a good half hour of riding to notice I done dropped my Detect Abby Spell. The realization has got me feeling right sheepish, but judging by the map, I can’t be too far from my next destination, so I decide to stick it out and wait until I reach the next community to use another Ritual instead of casting it outright. Lord knows I’ll need every little bit of help I can get, so I shouldn’t go wasting effort on a Spell that likely won’t give me much warning should Abby come barrelling out of the water again, or at least nothing more than what I’d get by keeping my eyes and ears open. The trees grow much thicker out here, and if there’s a trail through these woods that’s easier to walk, me and Old Tux didn’t find it. Still, this here horsie was my daddy’s partner, and he knows a thing or two about travelling over rough ground, weaving in and around trees and thickets and up and down the uneven ground to bring us unerringly north alongside the lake.

Does it quick and quiet too, which is how I spot the fool before he even know we there. A rotund boy of fifteen or sixteen it looks like, with tousled brown hair and a daft look on his plump, freckled face as he stands in dripping wet clothes at the edge of lake. Got a big branch in hand, on he picked up off the ground and is using to prop himself up so he can lean out and peer down along the shore. Seems he thinks it’ll keep him from falling in again, though it wouldn’t surprise me if he fell in the first time because he trusted the stick too much and it shifted underneath him. Foolish is what that is, but that’s hardly surprising considering he’s out here all on his own without so much as a knife while hanging by the lakeshore where Abby linger.

So as not to startle the idiot and send him into the lake again, I put two fingers to my lips and let loose with a soft bird call, a quiet little warble that cuts through the forest’s silence. True to my concerns, the boy almost falls headfirst into the water out of sheer surprise, only to straighten up, turn around, and nearly step back into the lake because he done already forgot where he standing. “You’re the Firstborn,” he says, much too loudly for a man standing at the precipice like he is, and I grimace as I wave him over before he get himself killed. Credit where it’s due, he cottons on to his mistake right quick and scurries over while his cheeks turn red as a tangpear, almost as red as Danny. “What are you doing here?”

The kid voices the question in a breathy, awe-struck sort of fashion, rather than the pushy demanding tone I’m more used to hearing, and I wait until he’s standing front and centre before I respond. “Could ask you the same thing,” I say, leaning down to offer him my left hand for a shake. “Guess you know I’m Howie Zhu, but you got me at a disadvantage.”

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“I’m Kevin,” the kid says, sticking out the wrong hand to shake mine even though I was out there first. Corrects himself a beat later while the red spreads from his cheeks to his ears, and does a fair show of fumbling the stick from one hand to the next. No gunfighter this one, as he barely coordinated enough to be a farm boy, so I hope he got a proper trade to fall back on. Probably does, as he wearing a fitted collared tan shirt that don’t look second or third hand, meaning he either got a parent who knows how to tailor clothes themselves or is rich enough to afford to pay someone else for it. Funny enough, the latter is more common than the former, which don’t make a lick of sense at all, seeing how clothes is one of the first things them settlers would’ve needed to make after stepping through the gate.

As for Kevin, he’s not only well dressed in a soggy, somewhat fashionable outfit, he also got that thick, heavy-set look about him, all big, soft, and flabby. Eats well and doesn’t work all that hard, though he got a rough layer of callouses even on his left hand, meaning he works with both but don’t need much coordination to do it. Don’t narrow down the options much, as metal, wood, and leather work would all fit the bill, as would a dozen other possible professions off the top of my head.

“Well Kevin,” I say, getting back to his earlier question, “I’m here on behalf of the New Hope Sherrif’s Office to spread word of what’s been happening of late.” Pointing at the surprisingly large stone quay which I can just make out through the trees, I say, “According to the map, that’s the community of Mueller’s Quay right there, which is where I assume you from?” The kid nods, so I ask, “You mind bringing me in, so I can avoid stepping on anyone’s toes and goin’ where I shouldn’t go?”

The kid glances back at the lake, and don’t look none too thrilled about being put to task, but I ain’t about to let him skate. He needs to learn you get what you put in, because he’s old enough to be putting a full day’s work in, but would much rather idle his time away out in the woods. Even soaking wet, he don’t want to go home, which tells me everything I need to know about his work ethic. That’s why I don’t wait for an answer, just heel Old Tux to get him moving and force the kid to run to catch up. “It’s faster this way,” he says, cutting in front to lead me more inland, and I gotta work right quick to keep Old Tux from giving the boy a chomp, because he don’t suffer fools lightly.

Neither do I, so soon as I got my horse soothed and in good humour, I ask, “So Kevin, you often go swimming all alone while fully clothed?”

“Um… no?”

Don’t see why he’s so confused. I didn’t even use a double negative there. “Well, might be you want to stick with a buddy for the next little while, and stay away from the lakeshore while you at it.” Giving the kid a look, I ask, “You didn’t hear? A Deputy got eaten by Abby not three weeks past just a little south of here.”

“…Heard you was the one who directed them Abby there.” Kevin says it with a whisper, and looks mighty scared as he does it.

“Then all the more reason to stay away from the water now that I’m here.”

From red to pasty white, the boy’s skin takes on a shade of alabaster so pale you can see his veins underneath. Can’t be healthy for him, and he don’t got nothing to say, so I leave him be before his heart gives out. Can’t help but notice he glances back at the lake no less than a half-dozen times the next minute, and keeps doing it as we continue onwards into town. Probably got snared by the Mindspire’s Glowing Coin Spell, though at least he managed to keep himself from diving right in. No idea why he was looking south though, as I seen the glimmer out over the centre of the lake, but who knows. Maybe the Spell affects everyone different, and soon enough, my curiosity gets the better of me. “So what’d you see, Kevin?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“Out on the lake. What’d you see that’s got you so unwillin’ to walk away? You know what happened right? The Proggie done cast a widespread Spell that reflects your innermost desires. Me, I’m guessing you seein’… scantily clad girlies swimming out in the waters, I bet. Or were they not wearin’ much of anything at all?”

“No! Nothing. I mean, I didn’t see anything.” Kid’s ears go even brighter than before and tell me I’m right, so at least he’s got good blood flow.

“You play cards?” Kevin shakes his head, and I cackle to see it. “Good,” I say, glancing back just to make sure there ain’t actually anything to see, because I wouldn’t say no to a gaggle of scantily clad ladies myself. “You sit down at a card table, and those ears of yours’ll cost you your whole bankroll and then some.”

Kid don’t got much of a poker face either, and I tell him as much, suggesting he stick to blackjack and betting ponies. The first one ain’t a bad game, but the second is a roll of the dice as far as I can tell. Even Chrissy can’t figure out which horse in the line up is gonna win and she can damn near talk to them. Problem is every horse is one of two ways, either assured of their own victory or just along for the ride, and neither attitude says a damn thing about how fast they be. A shame really, because the whole reason I brung Chrissy out to the race track was to see if she could pick out the winners. Didn’t work out, but I didn’t lose nothing but a day’s time since there wasn’t any bookie who’d take my bets, and Chrissy still had lots of fun talking to the horsies as they trotted by. Would’ve been good, clean fun too if them horses didn’t grow so enamoured of Chrissy that half of them stopped running the race to greet her as they moseyed on by. That cost me dearly with Aunty Ray it did, because she knew exactly what I was planning to do even though I was only fifteen at the time.

See, those are some good times that ain’t got nothing to do with being the Firstborn, and there’s nothing in the cards that says I won’t have more of those waiting up ahead. Ain’t no reason to be so down and out over my plight, so buck up, bear down, and get through this funk, because there ain’t nothing else to be done.

Takes about ten minutes for Kevin to bring us to the edge of town, and soon as we arrive, we’re inundated with greetings from people who don’t seem like they got much going on.

“That a new friend you got there, Kevin? Come on over and introduce him to the family.”

“Hello friend! Here to visit or need a place to stay?”

“Welcome to Mueller’s Quay, friend. Couldn’t have picked a better time to drop in!”

It’s a nightmare come true, as every person we come across feels the need to mosey on over and say something with a big smile. Unnerving is what that is, especially after the harrowing introspective episode I experienced out in the forest, but even then, all the good cheer and excessive enthusiasm is jarring to say the least. Not to mention how everyone is dressed in tan shirts, brown leather boots, and plain khaki pants. Men, women, and children alike mind you, without so much as a splash of colour to be found, though I suppose dye is a luxury out here.

Try as I might to hurry things along, Kevin can’t read the room and insists on introducing me to everyone and adding a little tidbit too. Donna bakes the best sour-dough bread, Mervyn grows the biggest caddishes, Becca once caught a fish the size of a full-grown man. The list goes on, and playing nice don’t come easy, so I do what I can to push on through and keep us heading deeper into the settlement. We pick ourselves up a long trail of somewhat overfed stragglers who follow along to see what’s what, all of them friendly, cordial, and pleasantly plump as can be. Which is the oddest thing of all, even stranger than the cold welcome I got from Carter, because even if these people are friendly and trusting as can be, they gotta be feeling something from the Mindspire right?

Ain’t a single question about it though, and not because they don’t notice. No, they’re all a little nervous, with that skittish sort of energy to them, but they all too timid to come out and ask about it. Saves me the trouble of telling them to wait until everyone present, but that don’t mean they stay quiet. No, they wanna know my name, if I’ve eaten, and if I know so and so from town or if I’ve been around these parts before. Not a word about the silent forest or the lack of traffic out on the lake, just idle small talk to fill the silence as we move along the single cobbled path they got in this here village and they all pretend like its just another regular day.

It’s a quaint and quiet little place, not small, but far from packed with people, which may explain why they all seem so starved for social interaction. Got about thirty to forty houses far as I can tell, with a little central gathering area right around the main stone quay. The big house is our destination, a right sizable two-storey brick house that would look right at home in New Hope, making it a lavish piece of architecture out here in the sticks. Got a workshop right next to it, which is where the man in charge spends his days making crates and barrels as far as I can tell.

Kevin ain’t none too shy about barging right in neither, just opens up the front door and shouts, “Da! Firstborn’s here. Says he’s got word from the Sherrif in New Hope about what’s happening out on the lake.”

Ha. Son of the dock owner who does woodwork on the side. Can I read people, or can I read ‘em?

“Oh? Where’d you put him?” A gruff, gravelly tenor sounds out in reply, and I can picture the man fairly well before even seeing him.

“He’s sitting up on his horse right here behind me.”

“Boy!” The disappointment is palpable from that one word alone, and I almost wince in sympathy when I see Kevin do the same in the doorway. “I taught you better than that. Firstborn rode here all the way from New Hope, and you leave him standing outside? Bring him to the bar, get some water and feed for his horse, and have Luisa fix him something to eat. On my tab mind you. Don’t you let him pay for nothing.”

There’s really no need, but turning down food is frowned up when visiting new communities. Shows a lack of trust it does, so I call out a word of thanks as Kevin hustles me out and away towards the docks while the looky loos all get pressganged into gathering everyone up. Mueller’s Quay is a fair shake bigger than Carter’s unnamed community, and not just because it’s built all spread out. They got the one cobbled road running parallel to the lake, separating the shore from the houses on the other side, all built in a neat little row. Got no walls or stockades to block Abby or nothing, only plenty of open ground to shoot across should they come a knocking. Not the best defense, but I suppose it works well enough for them else they’d have done something about it. The houses are sparsely scattered, solid brick bungalows with reinforced glass windows and heavy doors set in iron or steel hinges. Hardly as durable as the buildings on the main thoroughfare, but not too far off neither, and I suspect the fees collected from the massive stone docks is the reason why this community of some hundred odd souls can afford the extra expense.

Then again, they got a lot of cattle and hoggidillas of the non-magical variety, far more than what they need to feed themselves. Almost all the land east of their houses is earmarked for ranching, with big old beasties grazing away and getting nice and fat for the slaughter. Kevin is more than happy to speak on the subject, tell me all about the village and what they up to. Ain’t just ranching that makes them rich. These here docks are the number one spot for the quarries and mines up by Mount Rime. Even though Irongate is physically closer to the mines, they got a nice, double wide trail from the mountain that leads right to docks, making it much easier to send stone and metal ore to Riverrun and New Hope rather than anywhere else. That’s why the Rangers built these docks, and Mr. Mueller is in charge of maintaining them, meaning he collects the dock fees and uses the profits to improve the community as a whole. That’s how they can afford roads, running water, private docks, and so many more amenities of life that Carter’s folk are missing out on. Suppose that’s why they’re all so happy and friendly, with big, bright smiles all around, though it’s a bit too much for me.

Luisa’s got a big smile too, as you’d expect from a plump, matronly woman like herself, one dressed in the same drab tans and browns as everyone else. “Aye, Kevin,” she says, sounding mighty concerned with just the hint of a South American accent which I can’t place. “You all wet and cold. Hurry home and change before you catch sick.” Turning to me, she clucks her tongue and says, “You have no meat on your bones. Come. Sit. I feed.”

This is before Kevin has a chance to say anything, and he runs off to change like Sergeant Begaye gave the order himself. Doesn’t take Luisa more than ten minutes to whip up a mighty fine paisa platter, with a bowl of stewed beans, a side of crispy chicharrón, a smattering of fried veggies, and cheesy arepas all laid out on a bed of bristle grains, which taste a lot better than they sound once they’re properly husked. Like rice, my daddy would say, and we spent many an afternoon shelling the dried, prickly husks so we could cook up a couple big bowls to scarf down with our meat and veggies. Course, with all those extra steps in between farm and food bowl, it ain’t a popular crop, and I say as much to Luisa when I call her an angel for sharing some with me.

Can never go wrong, complimenting a chef for their work, and wonderful woman that she is, Luisa beams to hear it. “Good that you like,” she says, bringing me a cold mug of some white, frothy milk-like drink. Tastes of oats and spices and has a rich and creamy kick, and that first sip is just divine.

“What is this and how do I make it?” I ask, and she laughs to hear it.

“Avena Colombiana,” she says, and I’m not sure if that’s the name of the drink or just a phrase or something. “If you want more, then you must come again.”

“I’ll be here so often, you’ll be sick of seeing me soon enough.”

“What a charmer.” Swatting me fondly on the head, she leaves me to eat my meal in peace, which is about the best thing she could’ve done. With rich, fatty food this delicious, it’s no wonder everyone in this village is slightly overweight, though I will say that you gotta work hard at not working to get out of shape round here. Farm work is simple, but it ain’t easy, so you burn a lot of fat during harvest season. I suppose the dock fees and ranch animals keep these people flush enough to avoid working hard, which begs the question why they don’t buy themselves some more colourful clothes. Or barrettes, hairpins, bracelets or other accessories, as the most I’ve seen are simple gold or silver bands for wedding rings.

Concerns aside, I’m feeling much better by the time I’m done with my meal, and I praise Luisa a few more times before heading out to greet the waiting crowd. The wonderful woman kept them from coming in to bother me too, so if she ain’t married, then these fools are all missing out. I don’t see no stragglers still making their way over, and Mr. Mueller is ready and waiting at the front of the crowd with Kevin. Man’s a bit soft in the features and thick in the waist, but he seems friendly enough as he gives me a nod and gestures to say that the floor is mine. Putting a little extra oomph in my voice with a Thaumaturgy Cantrip, I introduce myself with a big smile and all the charm I can muster while covering all the information what needs covering. Takes a few minutes to get through it all, but don’t no one interrupt even once, so I go ahead and add my speculation regarding the Glowing Coin Spell out over the lake. “Might want to pair up to keep an eye on each other,” I say, “And anyone standing guard alone at night might want to tie themselves off to something sturdy.”

Giving Kevin a look, I notice he’s changed into clothes that look exactly the same, right down to the colour and cut. Same goes for the rest of the crowd, though there are a few variations in styles of shirts. Super weird, but I suppose they got the one tailor who makes all their clothes and might well be colourblind. Me, I feel downright colourful in my white pinstripe collared button-up and blue wrangler jeans, but I ain’t about to bring it up. “Also, keep an eye on your children especially,” I say, pushing the envelope just a bit to see how they react, because they got a whole lot of kids with them, all dressed the same and lined up in perfect order, which is about as creepy as creepy gets. “Enchantment Spells typically can’t harm you directly, but there have been cases in which a target was Enchanted to death because they didn’t know the dangers involved. Can’t compel you to drink poison, but they can compel a child to drink something they don’t know is poisonous. Know what I mean?”

Ain’t a scowl or frown to be seen, nor the faintest hint of a furrowed brow. The crowd just keeps smiling and nodding along, like everything I say is perfectly pleasant and not at all telling them their business.

That’s about all I got to say, and much as I hate to do it, part of the job is taking questions. Strangely enough, they don’t all come clamouring at once as soon as I open the floor up to them, and instead all turn to look at Mr. Mueller. “Got any timeframe on when shipping will resume?” he asks, gesturing at a bunch of buildings over by the docks. “We got wagons coming by every week, and those warehouses can’t hold much.”

“Not a clue,” I say, as gentle and honest as can be. “I know it’s a top priority, getting boats back out there, but it could be a hot minute. Remember, the Proggie that built this Mindspire has stayed hidden for eighteen years, the one we couldn’t uproot within 25 kilometres of the lake. Won’t be easy finding it, but we got our best Rangers on the job and our best minds working up solutions to help tide us over in the meantime. Soon as we got something worth sharing, someone will be back with the news. Until then, you all welcome to take shelter in New Hope.”

“No,” Mr. Mueller replies, shaking his head with a grimace. “We won’t run. This is our home. We’ll weather this storm and come out stronger for it.”

“Adapt and thrive.” The whole crowd responds as one, which is unexpected to say the least. A mantra of sorts I suppose, and it makes sense, though I dunno how much adapting these folks have done out here. Unless it was adapting to the colour scheme I suppose, one to help them better blend in with the pale white grass and trees.

“Okay then,” I say, because I don’t know what an appropriate response might be. “So… hate to eat and run, but daylight’s burning and I got places to be. If there’s no more questions, then I’ll be on my way.”

Again, the crowd looks to Mr. Mueller, who disperses the crowd with a few words of encouragement before waving me over with a smile. “Thank you for bringing word to us Howie,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder as I approach. “If only my boy had half your sense.” Pausing to look me up and down, Mr. Mueller’s jowls quiver as he grins and shakes his head. “You don’t sound much like him, but you the spitting image of your father back in those early days.”

My eyes light up to hear it, and I ask, “You knew him?”

Mr. Mueller nods with a far off look in his eyes. “Ming found us close by before there was a quay or a house to live in. Rode in on that very horse you got there if I’m not mistaken, firing the pistol you got on your hip at the mudkippers attacking our camp. Cleared them all out like a one-man army, then helped tend our wounded and cooked up all those corpses and gave us the proceeds. Brought us back to New Hope, me and my wife with baby Kevin back there, which was when we met you. Held you in my arms I did, when you were barely this big.” Grinning from ear to ear, he pats me on the back and answers my unspoken question. “We didn’t stay in town long. The Marshal, well he was still a Captain back then, and though I don’t look it, I was once Army, so he sent me out with four Rangers and two dozen men to come build that dock down there. Your father was one of them, and he worked day and night to get the job done in just over a week, and it’s a testament to his guidance and ability that the dock still stands today, more than fifteen years after we laid the first stone.”

“Well I’ll be,” I say, marvelling at the docks once more. “Small world.”

“That it is.” Switching tracks without warning, Mr. Mueller clears his throat and asks, “I hear you’re helping Carter’s people put in a dock by their compound?”

“Much smaller than this one,” I say, reading his concern as worry about competition. “And further from Mount Rime to boot. Won’t be no companies loading and offloading there anytime soon.”

“Well, when you’re finished with your work there,” Mr. Mueller says, holding out his left hand for a shake, “You come see me with whatever papers Sherrif Patel needs signed. Don’t matter how many hours you need finished, we got more than enough work for you here. Paid work too, once your stint of community service is done, and whatever else a man might need. This here is a quiet place, but safe and friendly as can be, so you’re always welcome here.”

Man don’t make no mention of Deputy Juan, don’t ask how I got myself into this mess or if any of the rumours are true. Just offers me a job and a place in his community if I want it, just like that. Don’t know nothing about me other than who my daddy was, and that there is enough for him. “Thank you sir,” I say, shaking his hand with genuine gratitude. “I might do just that.”

“No thanks needed and I hope you do,” Mr. Mueller says. Looking me in the eyes, he hesitates, chokes back a sigh, then glances around to make sure we alone. “I’m gonna ask you something personal.” Nodding at the stump of my hand, which I got tucked away in a pocket, he asks, “It still hurt?”

“…Yea.” That’s why I got it hidden away. To keep myself from waving it about, as I do love to talk with my hands. Or I did.

Mr. Mueller nods and says, “I know how it is.” Lifting his left leg up out of his shoe, he shows me his prosthetic wooden foot. “Aches the most when it’s about to rain. Front half got chewed up in the same fight I met your daddy, and Doctor Harding had to lop the rest of the foot off after it got infected on our way back to town. There I was, a father of boy in a world that most certainly wasn’t handicap accessible. How was I supposed to look after my family with only one foot left to me? Can’t fight, can’t farm, can’t haul, can’t build, sail, or pull nets. Those were all the paying jobs there were back then, so I spent countless nights worrying that my family would starve or have to live off the charity of strangers because I wasn’t able to support them.”

Heaving a sigh as he looks around at the village he helped build, Mr. Mueller’s grim expression eases into one of simple satisfaction. “Your daddy though, he saw my struggles and he came to me one night. Didn’t speak much English then, but he made his point well enough. He told me I could mope and die, or adapt and thrive. Cling to the past and become a shell of a man, or look to the future and make something of myself. Said, and I’m paraphrasing here, that it don’t matter what I can’t do. What matters is what I do, what I’ve done, and what I will do, and that there is a lesson that’s stuck with me ever since.” Grinning from ear to ear now, he finishes taking in the village around him and says, “All worked out in the end, now didn’t it? Took some doing, but I got there, and I didn’t do it by myself. Your father was one of the men who helped me through it, got me this job and showed me the way forward, so if I can help you Howie, then please, let me.”

There’s a knowing look in his eye as he says it, an understanding that’s got me laughing. “That obvious huh?” Thought I was hiding my feelings better than that, but it’s always strangers who see things most clearly.

“Only to those who’ve been through that same struggle,” Mr. Mueller says, patting me on the shoulder as he slips his prosthetic foot back into his shoe. “And there are more of us than you’d think, many in this community here. All hope is not lost, so do not despair. Adapt and thrive, friend. That’s what we do. Adapt and thrive. Focus on the first, and the second will come in time.”

Got no words to express my gratitude. Everyone been acting like I’ll pick myself back up no problem and its only a matter of time before I’m good as whole, but Mr. Mueller is the first to face the darkness with me. That means a lot, and doubly so when he sharing words of wisdom from my daddy. Don’t know how to express myself, but Mr. Mueller gets it. Doesn’t say anything, just smiles, nods, and pats me on the back to send me on my way. As I ride off from the quay, I take a look at another one the marks my daddy left behind, one I didn’t even know about until now.

It’s incredible really, and not just because of the sheer size of the quay or the quality of work which still holds up more than decade later. Even now, some fifteen years later, I still find myself getting outdone by my daddy, learning lessons he taught me all over again. These docks here helped Mr. Mueller make a life for himself, support his family and become the leader of his community in spite of his disability. Wasn’t what he thought he’d be doing with his life, but he overcame the obstacles before him and came out a winner, so why can’t I do the same?

My daddy grieved over my mama right up until the day he died, but I didn’t ever hear him utter one word of complaint. Adapt and thrive, words he lived by, because he didn’t have any other choice. I don’t either, not really. Forget what I can’t do, and focus on what I can. Forget about the Firstborn. That’s done and gone. What can Howie Zhu do? Ain’t about cheering up, looking at the bright side, making the most of what I got, or reclaiming what I lost. It’s about doing whatever it is you need to do so you can survive, because that’s the only way to weather through the storm and see sunny skies ahead. That’s how life has always been out here on the Frontier. It’ll chew you up and spit you out, but it’ll only keep you down if you let it, something I knew well enough, but needed reminding of all the same.

Simple is as simple does, same as most things are really. That don’t make it easy though, because anything worth having never is.