Takes all sorts to make a life out here in the sticks.

You hear stories about it from time to time, though I’d take ‘em with a grain of salt. Yea, it’s true there are fisherfolk cultists who sacrifice animals and people to the Proggie of the lake, pyromaniac bootleggers who accidentally set the forest on fire one time, and a family of four reckless alchemists with less than thirty fingers to them, but that don’t mean everyone out here is kooky as a clockwork squirrel in a pecan tree. Just look at Carter’s compound and Mueller’s Quay. The former is a closely knit group of asocial recluses dead set on remaining isolated and self sufficient despite living within a half-day’s ride of town. Strange sure, but townie life ain’t for everyone, and who wants to ride five hours on a bumpy wagon one-way just to pick up some basic necessities? As for the latter, that’s a Ranger outpost with a dock turned into a full-fledged community, one that specializes in providing the outpost with everything they need to function. Everything else? They buy or trade, and seeing how Mr. Mueller got plans to expand, I’m guessing business is booming.

Two very different but functional communities living outside of town with nothing weird about them at all. Might seem strange by townie standards, but that’s par for the course out here. Besides, while townies love to gossip about all the weirdos and troublemakers who don’t mesh well with town life, the vast majority of people you come across outside of towns are just average, everyday folks. It’s just that no one ever talks about those normies because there’s nothing interesting to talk about when it comes to a functional, hum-drum little village out in the sticks. Way more fun gossiping about the crazies and laughing at their hijinks so you can forget all about your own dreary boring existence for a little bit. Besides, having experienced firsthand how the rumour mill presents lies as facts for the sake of entertainment, I bet half the things I hear ain’t even true.

Well, the cultists, pyromaniacs, and finger-deficient alchemists are all real, as I’ve seen them all myself, but that’s beside the point. What I’m saying is that most folks living out here got their own reasons for doing so, and they ain’t all perverse or nefarious. Yea, Carter and his ilk may be nudists or involved in the slave trade, but the first is harmless and the second is an unsubstantiated suspicion based on the fact that they don’t want my help tracking down a missing pig or person. Hardly cause for alarm, nor should I be concerned about the eerily friendly folks of Mueller’s Quay who dress like they waging war against colour and good taste.

Course, this don’t mean the people out here are friendly either, or even all that safe to be around, like I suspect this next community on the list might be. Won’t be a home for hardened criminals, else Sherrif Patel would’ve made a request to the Rangers and cleared them out right quick, but his map’s got a caution sign warning me to tread lightly, and he ain’t a man who spook easy. As such, I make sure my Hearing Protection, Mage Armour, and Eagle Eye are all refreshed and ready to go as soon as I leave Mueller’s Quay. Keep my Mage Hands refreshed too, recasting every 10 minutes to refresh the duration instead of maintaining the Cantrip with Concentration, freeing up that mental real estate should I need it in a pinch. Got the Hands resting on my Doorknockers under my duster, and my bull’s head medallion recording as Old Tux brings us away from the lakeshore and deeper into the untamed forest towards our next destination.

Which tells me plenty about the people I’m about to meet. They’re living well off the beaten track, away from the waterways and the roads leading up into the mountains. Means these folks value their privacy and independence over their safety and convenience, a presumption reinforced by the fact that there ain’t no trail for me to follow. My destination is less than ten kilometres from Mueller’s Quay, so you’d think their neighbours would be coming and going often enough, seeing how the quickest way into New Hope would be to catch a boat ride at the quay. Guess they ain’t all that neighbourly then, and have no need for trade or transportation. Self-sufficient and good at it too, if they don’t gotta trade or go into town all that often. This far out in the woods, that means hunters or trappers, which means rifles or bows, and my money is on the former. Why? Because if they was bow hunters, there would be much reason for the Sherrif to be in contact with them, much less often enough to be wary of them. Not that bows are less dangerous per se, as you can do a lot of damage if you know what you’re doing, but rifles require permits which require documentation with the Sherrif’s office, and familiarity do breed contempt.

All guesswork, but that’s all part of how to survive. Gotta assess the threat before you face it, know what you up against even if you going in mostly blind.

To that end, I take an extra half-hour to circle around the settlement so I can approach from the north east, because I’m least likely to be spotted coming from that direction. Got settlements in all other directions, but northeast is the only direction that is uphill of the settlement, letting me get a good look at the place before making my presence clear. Ain’t nothing more than a sunlit collection of a dozen ramshackle log buildings scattered haphazardly about an overgrown clearing, a place these hunters stripped bare of trees and rocks over a decade ago to make room for their homes, but have since let nature take its course. Aside from the rough worn dirt trails going from house to house, the entire village is covered in all sorts of wild vegetation, maintained just well enough to give it a touch of civility and order. The pastel white grass is everywhere, most having grown tall enough to cover their windows and thick enough to hide a grown man, while the sides of their cabins are all covered in purple-branched loomshrubs. Lines of sandy yellow bush apple hedges encircle most of the cabins to form natural fences throughout the village, ones which naturally stop growing at about waist height and are wide enough to keep me from even trying to hop one. No trees in the village though, not once you move past the perimeter of forest growth, and its their absence which allows the foliage to thrive so well.

There’s a faint smell of rotten eggs in the air, masked with a tangy, pungent scent that I know too well. Yeast and vinegar almost, and a bit of extra sweetness too from fermenting bapples, which adds even more to the picture. These folks are moonshiners, making more than they need for personal consumption, else the woods wouldn’t stink of it from a half-klick out. All the more reason to tread carefully then, though far as I can tell, these folks ain’t all that vigilant or half as aware as they should be. No Alarm Wards, no tripwires, no sentry posts or patrols, just a bunch of men drinking and smoking out front of the biggest, most central house of the lot. All white and American as far as I can tell, with big hillbilly energy seeing how half of ‘em are wearing overalls and nothing else. Ain’t a one of them noticed me just yet, which I don’t love seeing how all they all strapped for bear with rifles, Blastguns, and pistols aplenty. Bad idea surprising drunk idiots with guns, especially around children, because it ain’t just my safety I gotta be concerned about.

And they got so very many children. The older ones are off working over in a potate field on the far side of the clearing, while the younger ones run wild and free all throughout the village. Feels like the folks least suited to parenthood tend to pop out a kid every year while the competent and capable adults limit themselves to one to three. Bodes poorly for the future of the Frontier when 75% of the children are raised by the dumbest 25% of adults, because there’s only so much natural selection can account for. Doesn’t always mean only the best and brightest survive to procreate. Sometimes, it’s just a numbers game, like how it is with bicorn bunnies. Ain’t never met a dumber animal than them horned, floppy eared rodents, as they’ll hop right up to a tuskwulf to take a look inside their mouths, but there ain’t a place this side of the Divide that don’t got them in spades.

That said, them bunnies ain’t walking around with Fireforge 22-10 bolt-action rifles and 870 pump action Blastguns. Cheap and mass-manufactured, but they’ll get the job done, as Fireforge is a solid American brand that’s been around for almost 200 years. Their blueprints ain’t nothing fancy or pretty, but they’ll put Bolts and Blasts downrange with enough precision and reliability to blame most missed shots on user error. And believe you me, these drunk fools can probably shoot straighter than most boots in Basic, seeing they rely heavily on their rifles to put food on the table. Them bapples and potates ain’t for eating, but for mashing to turn into cider and moonshine, which they can sell on the cheap because they skimp on their taxes.

Which means I really don’t want to spook these rednecks and get myself into a firefight, especially not on their home turf. Even if I had Fireball prepped and more flashbangs and grenades to work with, I’d still only give myself a slight edge over the seven men I can see, and that’s assuming there ain’t more men lingering about or women and kids who can shoot almost as well. To that end, I keep Old Tux from wandering into the village proper and put my arms out to the sides, same as I always do when approaching a place for the first time.

Would love to ready an offensive Spell too, but I need to cast Thaumaturgy to amplify my voice so I can be heard. “Howdy y’all,” I shout by way of greeting as I ride into plain view, and I stifle a wince as two of them drunks fall out of their chairs with rifles in hand. Either they wasn’t locked and loaded or they got lucky, because slam-fire malfunctions are part and parcel of the Fireforge brand, or at least it has been here on the Frontier. Has to do with quality control, and the factories putting out Fireforge Aetherarms have got little to none, or standards so low there might as well not exist. “Name’s Howie Zhu, here on behalf of the New Hope Sherrif’s Office.” That gets the rest of them all riled up and alert, so I quickly reassure them I ain’t here to audit or arrest them. “Got word of what’s been happening of late, with the birds fallin’ out of the sky and whatnot. Do I have permission to come in and speak with y’all?”

Without getting shot is the implication there, and it’s never a good sign when the other party needs to discuss it first. Or when women and children run for cover while their menfolk spread out in cover and draw a bead on my position. Ain’t no barrels pointed right at me, but there a few wandering dangerously close. Would be simple enough to back up into the trees, except that’d show me as a sheep, and while these hicks might not be full on feral wulves just yet, they still wild dogs at the very least. So I stand my ground and keep my cool, staying calm and unbothered as can be, meeting any and every gaze fixed upon me with a promise of steely retribution should they start something here and now.

Unless they nail their first shot of course, so here’s hoping they miss.

It’s a long five seconds before the man in charge emerges from the big house, barking orders I can’t hear to get his boys in line. A lean and lanky gent with a bushy grey beard and long, poofy hair to match, he got a face that looks like ten miles of bad road and a hunch in his back from years of sitting in sitting in cramped blinds. Though he’s wearing jean overalls like everyone else, he also got a plaid shirt on underneath and a straw hat that’s seen better days. Once he got his people sorted, including all the women and kids who look ready to put a Bolt through my head a moment’s notice, he waves me down and says, “C’mon down boy. Let’s hear what you got to say.”

His gravelly, smoke-damaged voice sounds out from close by, like he’s standing front and centre only a few paces away. Tells me that he ain’t using Thaumaturgy to amplify his voice, but Bardcraft to throw it. The first is Transmutation, taking a small sound and making it big, while the second is Enchantment, which allows him to deliver his message straight to my brain. Even if I was deaf, I’d be able to hear him speak, though folks that are born deaf tend to have difficult parsing the results of the Bardcraft Cantrip. It’s an interesting bit of Arcana that, the different ways Spells and Cantrips can do more or less the same thing, but it also gets my guard up because Enchanters are a tricksy bunch to deal with.

The hillbillies all keep their guns at the ready and watch me as I approach, like I’m here to steal their bapples and moonshine, or worse, collect their taxes. I make like Old Tux and cultivate an air of indifference about me as I make my way up to the big house. Dismounting with baby Cowie in my arms, I put him down and gesture for him to behave when I see him staring at the bush apple hedges, because the last thing I need is to be extorted for stealing their harvest.

“Tch.” Sucking his teeth, the big man in charge snorts and horks a lougie at my boots while leaning heavily on the uneven, overgrown banister of his creaky porch. Cowie don’t like that much, but I signal for him to stand down and stay small, because that means he’ll look grumpy and adorable as opposed to furious and terrifying. “Bad enough we got a Guju fuck for Sherrif,” the silver-haired hillybilly begins, and his buddies all chime in a chorus of indistinct agreements. “Now he hirin’ Qink brats too? He got somethin’ against employin’ honest, hard-working Americans?”

“Not at all,” I say, letting an edge slip through my smile. “You seen any about?” Letting my eyes drift over drunk, chain-smoking buddies, I let my amusement show. “Don’t suppose you have.”

“Ha!” The big man’s weathered face cracks as he lets loose with big bellyful of laughter. “Ain’t that the truth?” Sucking his teeth, he gives me a nod of begrudging respect and says, “Well, let’s have it then.”

So I lay out everything I know about the Mindspire in the space of a few minutes, and the tension in the air melts away as my audience stops worrying about the stranger in their midst and starts worrying about the Mindspire. Even though I know they won’t accept it, I make them the same offer I made the others. “If y’all wanna ride this out in town, your food and lodgings will be taken care of. Let me know if you need help getting down there. No boats, but I’m sure the Sherrif and Rangers can arrange something in a day or two.”

“Hmph. As if.” Thumping his chest with a fist, the silver haired hillbilly glares at me from behind his wild hair and bushy beard, his eyes opened wide and bulging. “This here is our land, and if you think we gonna give it up so some uppity Pajeet can come ‘reclaim’ it as his own, then you got another thing comin’.”

“I figured as much,” I say, drawing on my inner Aunty Ray as I add, “Between you and me, they makin’ a big fuss about nothin’. Group of capable folks like yourselves can ride this out easy. Do be careful with the young’uns though. Mindspire is mostly for Illusions and Enchantments, and they a suggestible bunch. Got anymore questions? If not, then I got places to be and people to warn, so I’ll be on my way.”

“What you doin’ this for?” he asks, looking me up and down like he studying some strange, exotic beast. “You ain’t no deputy, and I don’t figure you for a concerned resident here to help the neighbours.”

“Community service,” I reply without pride or shame. I leave it at that too, though I can tell the old hillbilly is hoping for more, expecting it even. Rather than buckle and fold, I maintain my silence and let the Mage Hands slide the Doorknockers out a half-inch, a movement the old fella catches. He smiles to see it, but his boys don’t notice, and fill in the silence of their own accord.

“Hear tell you took apart Vanguard National,” one says, burning with obvious desire to know if it’s true.

“Bullshit is what that is,” a second man chimes in, his tone full of scorn for me and the first speaker both. “Wasn’t no kid who brung down Ronald Fucking Jackson. Was the Rangers whodunnit.”

Most the other men chime in with a chorus of agreements, but the first man is a believer. “Kid was there though. Two Rangers went down, but he walked away with Ronald Jackson’s guns. Ain’t that right?”

“I took his guns, yea,” I say, but that’s all I give the peanut gallery. Still irks me to know people think Wayne went out a hero. Don’t mind so much for Conner, because he deserved better than he got, but he brought it on himself. “Lovely pair of Ranger Nagas. Didn’t look like he’d be needin’ ‘em.”

I don’t pay much mind to the talk, but the silver-haired hillbilly reads something from the exchange. Man wasn’t a believer before, but it looks like he’s one now, and I’ve no idea what it is that gave me away. “Word to the wise? Vanguard National might be out of the picture, but they had friends with fingers in a whole lot of pies, friends who’d like to know what really went down in Pleasant Dunes and have been asking around about you.”

Funny that. I don’t think the Sherrif even knew about Vanguard National, but the old man here is talking like he got firsthand experience. Then again, he probably does, since Independents would make great trading partners for all the booze and illegal drugs they likely grow out here. The Independents fake up a shipment of alcohol to sell, just empty bottles and barrels to show to customs, then come all the way out here to fill up at discounted price. Once that’s done, all that’s left to do is claim their buyer fell through, so they’re bringing everything home at a significant loss, avoiding taxes on their purchase and using the loss to offset actual taxes they have to pay for the legitimate goods they sell. A short trip once a year to the outskirts of Irongate ain’t much of a journey for capable woodsmen like these, and I know Ron had traders moving up and down the Blue Bulwark, seeing how I got myself into this mess because I done killed one of them. “Appreciate the warning, friend,” I say, holding my hand out for a shake. “Never caught your name.”

He don’t take my hand, just folds his arms and says, “Clayton.”

“Good to meet’cha Clayton.” Taking my hand back, I turn Old Tux away and add, “Might be back if there’s more news to share. Good news I hope, so sit tight and keep on keepin’ on.”

Clayton don’t answer, and I can feel the man’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Even though its risky, I can’t help but turn in my seat, and I catch a good two-thirds of them flinching to see it. “That cider y’all cookin’ for sale? Smells mighty fine, and I wouldn’t mind a cask to bring home to the family.”

Wouldn’t you believe it, Clayton cotton’s on to my game and smiles to see it. Knows I’m trying to establish a connection between us, even one as simple as selling a single cask of cider, because then I go from stranger to customer and our next talk goes smoother. He don’t mind it either, because even though he got a foul mouth and vile disposition, he don’t got all that much hate in him, else he wouldn’t have warned me about Vanguard National’s friends. Man’s just parroting what he done heard from others, losers who’ll blame their failures on anyone or anything besides themselves. Clayton don’t respect that anymore than I do, as he a self-made man who’s carved out a decent little life out here in the sticks, one that sits in a legal gray area no doubt, but has been lucrative all the same. If it wasn’t, this community of a dozen or so men and far too many kids wouldn’t be able to afford to have eight slackers sitting around in the middle of the day. Nah, chances are every one of these men earns more than Mr. Mueller down at the Quay, though they probably also spend it all on drink, drugs, guns, and whatever else they can get their hands on all the way out here.

“Creasy,” Clayton shouts, directing his voice back into the house. “Bring the boy a skin of cider. On the house,” he adds. “We only sell in bulk.” He don’t say nothing else until Creasy comes out with the cider, who turns out to be a well-worn matronly woman who’s got more fire in her belly than most of the men on the porch. The prices she quotes are exceptionally reasonable, until she adds in the fact that if I mean to declare them in town, the prices double. To make up for the taxes they’ll have to pay, and the hassle of declaring them most like. Yea, Clayton and his ilk ain’t full on Independents, just anti-government types who learned how to be self-sufficient out here on the Frontier and see no reason why they should pay a bunch of fat cats in fancy suits for help they don’t need. Which I get, but they benefit in ways they don’t appreciate, like the Blue Bulwark and my presence here warning them about the Mindspire, details they either overlook or take for granted.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

No one likes paying taxes, but ain’t no escaping them either. Only two things that are certain in life are death and taxes after all.

So I turn on the charm, take a small swig of cider, and praise it to the moon and back. Don’t even got to pretend, because it’s a fine drink, crisp, sweet, and bold as can be with solid, earthy base. Honestly, I’m mostly surprised it ain’t a hard cider, because Clayton and his ilk don’t look like the type to peddle drinks for kids, but I suppose looks can be deceiving. Probably started out as something for their own children, then ballooned into something more when they realized there was a market for it. A big one too, because if I ain’t mistaken, this is the same cider they serve at the saloon Tina and the boots visit so often, meaning Clayton and his boys are slumming it with their Fireforge Aetherarms. Could probably afford the best of the best with all the latest doodads and attachments, but don’t bother because they ain’t about that life. No, they simple, salt of the earth folk here, and they gonna stay that way regardless of how much they make.

Leaving on a friendlier note than I arrived on, I head out to the next community which is another two hours away. To hammer home the point about not judging a book by its cover, the neat and tidy self-proclaimed Protestant farming village with all its well-dressed men and demure women are far less friendly. Forget offering me a drink, they don’t even want to offer Old Tux any water, and while they don’t brandish their guns about while we talk, they keep a couple shooters with rifles at the ready in dark, secretive corners throughout the village just in case I start to get frisky. Don’t get so much as a peep of thanks once I’m done, only a deluge of questions they can’t possibly believe I can answer like how long this is gonna last, why haven’t the Rangers dealt with it already, or how does the Federal Government intend to make them whole from their losses. Gets them right steaming when I keep reiterating that they working on it, and doubly so when I grow tired of their pushy demands for answers and draw a line in the sand before mounting up to leave.

Given the choice, I’ll take racist, gun-toting hillbillies over scared and entitled townies out of their element every time. Forget that ‘concerned tax-paying citizen’ bullshit. That’s just code for some fool who don’t know how to think themselves and need constant reassurance to carry on in the face of adversity. Dollars to donuts, them Protestants will be in New Hope or Irongate by the end of the week complaining about how the Government didn’t get them there faster, and I shudder to think what they’ll have to say about the accommodations. Those are the sort of folks Aunty Ray has to deal with, and I’ve no earthly idea how she manages to stay so cheery and chipper in spite of it. One fifteen-minute meeting and I’m ready to slap the next fool who asks me a stupid question, which bodes poorly for the last stop on my list.

Luckily for them, I come across a familiar face about a half hour from my destination, a wizened and grubby woodsman who greets me with a smile while holding both hands out for me to see. Not because he’s scared and doesn’t want to get shot. No, he’s holding his hands up as a brag. “Check it out Howie!” the paunchy, older man shouts, grinning from ear to ear as he shows off his mangled hands which got four and three digits a piece, respectively. “I got more fingers than you now!”

Man’s got a cackle that’s infectious to hear, so I can’t help but smile and hit back with, “I still got more thumbs though.” Showing it off with the energy of a different extended finger, I dismount and clasp his bony forearm like I’m shaking his wrist. “Good to see you Gunnar. Didn’t know you lived out this way.”

“Yea, I try to keep it on the down-low,” he replies, running the three fingers he got on his right hand through his dark, tangled beard and coming out with twigs and leaves aplenty. “Keeps unhappy customers from tracking me down all that easily.”

“You try passing fool’s gold off as the real deal again?” I shake my head. “Figured you’d’ve learned your lesson by now.”

“That was one time,” Gunnar whines, even though he knows good and well it wasn’t. “And it was an honest mistake. I really thought I had the genuine article there.” Doubtful, seeing how he Alchemically enhanced his nugget to smooth its sharp edges and keep from flaking or crumbling under pressure. “Times are tough you know,” he adds, which is his self-justification for his scamming ways. “Materials are getting hard to come by and we’ve had to tighten our belts to get by.”

Gunnar means that literally too, and much as I sympathize, I also know his hardships are due to reckless spending more than anything else. Not because he likes to live large; the exact opposite in fact, as Gunnar got no airs about him at all. Man’s coat is made of patchwork leather he treated and stitched together himself, which is a real accomplishment considering he ain’t got no thumbs. Shows in his work it does, as evidenced by the simple tunic he got underneath which probably hasn’t been washed in days, if not weeks. Got him a rope for a belt to hold his trousers up, which are thick, woolen winter pants to protect him from the barbs and nettles of all the various plants he finds himself puttering about. Add in a hairline so far back he needs two mirrors to find it and you get the picture, but he don’t got no pretensions about his appearance. Just leaves his hair be and crops what little he has short, so I imagine the only reason he don’t shave it all off is because that’d take too much effort to maintain.

All in all though, Gunnar’s a decent enough fella so long as you don’t ever buy nothing from him. Which is a real shame seeing how he’s a damn fine alchemist, as is his wife Alice and both their kids, Harald and Astrid. Yea, that’s right. Gunnar here is the patriarch of the infamous family of reckless alchemists who got less than thirty fingers between the four of them. Alice lost five on her left hand, but still the rest of the appendage, while Harald lost the last three fingers on his right. Astrid still got all of hers, on account of how she’s the youngest and smartest, having learned from the mistakes of her parents and picked up my trick of splitting one Mage Hand into two to boot.

Which is a big reason why Gunnar greets me so warmly. Came to town one day to ask my daddy what it would cost to teach him my trick, and we didn’t charge him a penny. Mostly because it didn’t feel right selling something that could help him so much, but Gunnar never did pick up the trick. Neither did his wife and son, but the training tips and exercises helped them develop their skills with the Cantrip, while Astrid is the real talent among the bunch. Not only can she Conjure two Mage Hands, she’s able to a lot of finer work which I can’t replicate, not without a couple weeks of practice at least. Stuff like picking out single grains or feeling heat or textures with the Spell, and Lord knows how she works all her delicate glassware with her Mage Hands, what with how careful and precise you gotta be when doing Alchemy.

Not to say she’s better with the Cantrip than I am; doubt Astrid could aim a Blastgun properly on her first try either, which ain’t as easy as it looks.

“Sorry to hear about what happened,” Gunnar says, clapping me on the shoulder once were done with the niceties and heading back towards his village. “Nasty crowd, them Vanguard National types, and that Ronald Jackson was a real piece of work. He don’t mess around.” Glancing at my stump, Gunnar grins and adds, “Guess he learned the hard way that the Firstborn don’t mess around either, am I right?”

Tilting my head in neither acceptance nor denial, I purse my lips and give Gunnar a look to reassess what I know about him. “How come it seems like everyone knew about Vanguard National these days? Even the Marshal ain’t ever heard of them until I brought it up a few weeks back.”

Sheepishly scratching his bulbous nose, Gunnar coughs and says, “It’s because you don’t hang with the right crowds. Or the wrong ones, I suppose. Until recently, we all thought you was the strait-laced superstar on track to become the Ranger’s model recruit, so who in their right mind would talk to you about their… uh…”

“Extra-legal associations?”

“Sure.” Gunnar shrugs. “As for Vanguard National, they popped up on my radar about five years back, when they sent a man to see if I’d come work for them. Wanted me to make them a self-stable compound Impact Oil, among other things, and I told them to pound sand. Then I found out they recently took out three major players in the Coral Desert and went into hiding for a bit.” Seeing my lack of comprehension, he explains, “Pound sand is a P.G way of saying fuck off.”

“Thanks Gunnar,” I say, with all the sarcasm I can muster. Then, because I know he won’t explain unless I bring it up first, I ask, “What’s shelf-stable compound Impact Oil?”

“A pipe dream,” Gunnar replies, puffing up now that he has a chance to talk about what he loves. “A modern myth akin to the Philosopher’s Stone. A non-reactive explosive that won’t detonate without a secondary trigger, making it easier to transport and utilize. An Alchemical C-4 pretty much, which is a chemical explosive that you could light on fire and all it’d do was burn. Needs a shockwave from a blasting cap to make it explode, but ever since the Australian Sacrifice, people have been clamouring for an Alchemical alternative. Problem is, it’s impossible to make, but everyone things chemistry and Alchemy are more or less the same thing.”

“They aren’t?” I ask, mostly to pull his leg, and he knows it too.

After he’s done glaring like a sourpuss, he explains, “No, they aren’t. They’re similar, but the basic premise of Alchemy is to distill Spells and Spell-like effects into a physical compound that is typically imbibed.”

“So why’s Alchemical C-4 so impossible then? We got explosive Spells, like Elemental Orb, Shardburst, Fireball, and Bombard to name a few. Can’t you distill one of those down into a potion?”

“Of course I can,” Gunnar replies, looking offended I would even question it. “That’s not the problem though. The problem is the compound trigger. A finished potion is a complete product, with the Spell effect suspended within a physical matrix. How do we typically trigger that effect?”

“With contact,” I supply, playing along in spite of his patronizing tone.

“Exactly. For most, it’s specifically physical contact with a living organism, whether it be human, animal, or Aberration. There are edge case scenarios of course,” Gunnar hurries to add, before I can interrupt with a gotcha statement. “Like with Impact Oil, which explodes in the presence of a significant physical shock, but those are the exception, not the rule. The reason for this is because those potions, or Spells suspended in a physical matrix, require a target, and the only way to denote a target is through touch.”

“Makes sense.” And it does. It’s the same reason why some Spell Cores are finicky to work with, because targeting is an issue when you can’t just point and think. That’s why Fireball Spell Cores ain’t worth much at all despite the Spell being so iconic, because you gotta put in a lot of work to set the target. Like the Shatter Tubes we used under dark in Pleasant Dunes, which needed four prongs attached to wires connected to the Spell Core itself to denote the Area of Effect for the Shatter Spell. A very specific area at that, because if you put them prongs too far away from one another, then you might get a misfire wherein the Spell Core sees that it can’t put the Spell where you want it, so it just unloads it point blank instead.

“So the only way a compound explosive potion would work,” Gunnar continues, explaining it all out for me nice and slow, “Is if you had an incomplete potion divided into two parts, which when combined create a complete potion.”

“Okay,” I say, stretching the word out over a second or three. “So why not do that?”

“Because then it’d be chemistry, not Alchemy,” Gunnar snaps, getting all huffy and upset. “Alchemy isn’t just mixing two things together. You need to infuse the mixture with a portion of your Spirit at the same time to keep the Aether within from dissipating or reacting. Take the Spell Storing matrix you keep in your boots for example. You can put a Spell in there, but they won’t hold the Spell forever, right? You gotta refresh it every week or so, right?”

“Month.”

“Really?” Looking mighty impressed, Gunnar scratches his chin and says, “Trevor does some fine work then.”

“That he does.”

Waving his hand about to clear the air, Gunnar says, “You get the gist though, right? A stable Alchemical explosive is a paradox, because if it’s stable, it’s won’t explode, and if it explodes, it can’t be stable.”

“If you say so,” I reply with a shrug, mostly because I know it’ll grind his gears. Man gets all huffy as we head back to his village, and we chit chat until we arrive, whereupon I’m greeted with the typical type of place I’ve come to expect. Houses and farms strewn haphazardly about with no real planning or forethought put into it, the natural evolution of a vagabond campsite into the permanent residence it’s grown into. Ain’t nothing wrong with that per se, but I’d prefer my living space to be more defendable is all. They got themselves a big old palisade, which is where they take shelter whenever they got enough forewarning about a raid, and I’ll bet my bottom dollar that every house here has a fortified cellar dug out underneath with a sturdy steel door to double as a panic room. Otherwise, it’s just a normal, burgeoning village, albeit one larger than expected.

Got more houses here than back at Mueller’s Quay. More landmark buildings too, ones that shows they’re doing well for themselves. A towering windmill to power a wood saw. A tannery with racks and racks of leather drying. A smithery with multiple forges and whole teams of smiths hammering away. A water tower providing pressure to all the pipes no doubt flowing beneath the village streets. All this and more tells me these folks are not only working together to reclaim the lifestyle they gave up in the old world, they’re striving to do it while remaining self-sufficient. Every other community I’ve visited today relies on their proximity to New Hope in some way, even Clayton and his hunters. Whether it be clothes, guns, tools, or whatever, they all had something they can’t produce themselves and need to buy in New Hope, but not these folks here. They’re looking to build their own little New Hope here, a place that can produce everything they need to survive on their lonesome.

Which is a lot harder to accomplish than you might think. They got running water, powered lights, dyed clothes, artisanal furniture, and even a couple manicured lawns, which is like the ultimate sign of civilization. Means they got time enough to waste tending to a patch of land that don’t provide nothing of value besides space. That’s luxury right there, because even me and Aunty Ray gotta cheat by letting the wallies out every two weeks to keep our lawns presentable. Gunnar’s fellow villagers, their lawns got that even cut which tells me someone took a scythe to that grass, which is a whole other level of dedication I could never match. If you gonna put that much effort into maintaining a patch of land, why not grow something on it instead?

Putting my personal feelings on lawn maintenance aside, I take a moment to acknowledge that Gunnar’s people have accomplished something incredible here. I don’t say as much though, because I also know why they went so far when New Hope is only four hours away on horseback, and probably still less than a day even if you had to walk. One look at the people turning out to hear what I have to say, and you’d know it too. There’s a bald giant of man with mottled skin the colour and texture of ashy tree bark, a towering behemoth who’d dwarf even Marcus’ 7ft height and is about twice as thick to boot. Got two children, a boy and a girl I think, with pink skin, and I’m not talking healthy pink. I’m talking the shade Tina paints Chrissy’s nails sometimes, which she calls hot pink and is horrendous to behold, but Chrissy likes it so I pretend I do too. There’s a fella with dark chitinous lens’ where his eyes should be, giving him a bug-eyed sort of look, and another with grey skin, pointed ears, a jutting brow, and fangs poking out of his fat, almost swollen lips. One lady has striped skin, except upon closer inspection, I notice the stripes ain’t a colour, but indents in her flesh like gills on a fish, and I try not to look too closely because I don’t want to know if you can see the meat inside.

Bird feathers, oddly shaped pupils, droopy skin, scales, tusks, talons, and more. These are only a small subsection of extreme Innate Brands I see in the people of Gunnar’s village, including those of his wife and two children. Appearance wise, they’ve got it worse than most, but not because they’re ugly. The opposite in fact, as their ruby-red skin is smooth and flawless as marble stone, save for the luminescent golden glow of their veins showing through all across their slender frames. Fits well with their thick, black hair which does little to hid the curved ebony horns poking out the sides of their heads. Add in their golden eyes and the faintest hint of fangs in the place of incisors, and you’ve got three beautiful people who look very much like what some folks might call a demon or devil.

Appearances can be deceiving though, because there’s nothing but sadness and commiseration in miss Alice’s eyes as she makes her way over to me. “Oh Howie,” she says, taking up my right arm and gently tracing the air over the stump, like making sure my hand is really gone and not just invisible or something. “I heard and didn’t want to believe it. Does it still hurt?”

“Nah,” I reply, flashing a smile I know she don’t believe. “Don’t you worry. I’m alright. Well, all left now, but you know what I mean.”

“Humour is good,” she says, stroking my cheek this time, her golden eyes meeting mine with empathy and compassion a plenty. “It gets easier with time.” Easier. Not better. Because she ain’t one to lie. “And who knows,” she continues, her big, round eyes getting that faraway look one gets when they lost in their thoughts. “Maybe one day, we’ll even have a permanent solution to make you whole again.”

That’s been their goal after all, to create a shapeshifting potion with a permanent effect so the altered Innates living here in this community can be normal again and live among other normal people. Not saying they ain’t allowed in New Hope, or even encouraged to leave, but I imagine life can get real tiresome when everyone looks at you like you a member of a carnie freak show. Hence, Gunnar’s efforts to research a potion to do something unheard of, a goal he and his entire family have sacrificed so much wealth and so many fingers for.

While making little to no progress, far as I know. There’s a Polymorph Spell that allows you to shapeshift yourself or another target into something else, and that something else could easily be your unBranded self, but that’s Fourth Order Spell which requires Concentration and only lasts an hour. What’s more, any changes made by that Spell aren’t real. They’re physical, sure, but underneath it all, you still the same person, just rearranged a bit by shifting parts of yourself over to the Immaterium and crafting new ones out of Ectoplasm. Doesn’t do anything for those Innates who suffer from their changes, like say the bug-eyed fella who might have trouble seeing, or the tree-skin man who probably itches all the time. Maybe. I don’t really know what it’s like, because even though I live next door to three Innates, their Brands are not only minor cosmetic changes, they even make them look more elegant rather than… different from the rest.

What Gunnar and his family are trying to do is create something akin to a True Polymorph potion, which would do the same thing the Polymorph Spell would, only the changes would be real and permanent. Or a real Regeneration Spell, letting you grow back parts you lost like lizard. Course, those who passed basic Arcana will spot the problem, in that Magic ain’t great at directly affecting the physical world in a permanent fashion. Destruction is easy enough, but even then, most Spells need a specific Metamagic attached to it to do decent damage to structures. Permanently changing the shape of a person, or how their body naturally heals? I’d say that’s downright impossible, but it’s magic, so nothing is ever really impossible.

Just highly improbably and unlikely to happen in this lifetime.

Still, a person can dream, and Gunnar’s family dreams together. Serious and studious as always, Harald doesn’t look up from his book, which he’s using a glowing red Mage Hand to carry, one that erupts into harmless flames every now and then. Doesn’t so much as singe the book he’s reading, some boring and complicated dissertation on Alchemy, which is fortunate, but it does show how unstable the Spell is. Even a basic Cantrip like Mage Hand ain’t spared the aftereffects of his bloodline, one that focuses heavily on Evocation with Transmutation thrown into the mix. Quick and dirty plus temporary, widespread alterations. Doesn’t make for the most stable of Spells, especially when the bloodline comes with a natural penchant for Fire.

Hence why their Alchemy experiments explode so often. Gunnar don’t got that excuse though, as he a plain, normal human. He just reckless is all, and losing both thumbs and an index finger hasn’t changed him in the least.

That said, Astrid ain’t nothing like her daddy, or much like her mama and brother either. Walks right on up to me all bold as can be wearing a sneer on her pretty, pristine features. “Must suck to lose a hand,” she says, and her mama gasps beside her, but my smile don’t waver one bit. “I mean, losing a few fingers is bad enough, but a whole hand?”

“What can I say?” I reply with a shrug. “I asked if they could at least leave me a pinky to pick my nose with, but no dice.”

Her golden veins glow brighter as she stifles a laugh, which makes me want to teach her to play poker then clear out her bankroll. “Well, here,” she says, pulling out a notebook and casually tossing it over. I catch it, but don’t open and read it right away in case it’s something private, because you never know with girls Astrid’s age. Fifteen going on sixteen same as Josie and Noora, meaning she might as well be a whole difference race. Because of her age and gender of course, not how she looks, though I note that she’s also grown a fair bit too since I last saw her. Still short and slender as can be, but there’s no mistaking her for her twin brother anymore, not from any angle I can see.

“My notes on the Mage Hand Cantrip,” Astrid says, in response to my unspoken question. “You lent us all your mama’s notes, and I’ve been keeping track of my thoughts on the Cantrip since then. Nothing specific, just how it feels and what I think I could do to squeeze more out of it. Might be of some help if you’re improving the Spell.”

“How’d you know that’s what I was trying to do?”

“It’s obvious.” Astrid rolls her eyes with all the attitude a teenage girl can muster. “You’re not one to roll over and quit, and improving the Mage Hand Cantrip is the simplest option in front of you.” Smirking, she adds, “And you’re nothing if not simple.”

“That I am,” I say, grinning from ear to ear as I flip through her neat and precise notes. Girl’s a stand out Alchemist even if you ignore her age, and a careful, methodical one at that. A little prickly to be sure, with a hair-trigger of a temper and formidable selection of dangerous Spells to boot, but thoughtful underneath it all, else she wouldn’t have thought to bring this out without so much as a whisper of my plans. “Thanks Astrid. I’ll get this back to you soon as I can.” If I could take Photos one-handed, that’d be five minutes tops, but now I gotta get Aunty Ray to help.

“That’s a copy. Keep it.” Though it seems like Astrid has more to say, miss Alice cuts in to bring her daughter away as Gunnar gives me the go ahead to begin my speech. Makes it the fifth time I’ve given the same spiel today, but I give it my all because this is likely the settlement that will be affected the most by the Mindspire’s effects given their heightened Aetheric Sensitivity. What’s more, since so many of them are accomplished Spellslingers in their own right, they have a deeper understanding of magic than the other communities, so their questions are more detailed and on point. Their solutions are better too, like potions of Calm Emotion to suppress the effects of Spells like Madness and Glowing Coin, or even Bless and Heroism to help resist very specific conditions. There’s more stuff to take note of, and I write them down to bring back to New Hope, but no matter how much they brainstorm, they can’t come up with any comprehensive solution that’s easier and cheaper than staying on consecrated ground.

Except to no one’s surprise, the town full of Innates don’t got a church. Like I said, organized religion has a bad history with Innates and homosexuals. They’re working on it, but some of their constituents aren’t big on adapting to the times and would much rather go back to a simpler time when they segregated people by race, colour, and creed.

“You’re all welcome in town,” I remind them, doing my damnedest not to look at anyone in particular. “The churches are accepting of all and we got room for every last one of you.” No one outright scoffs at the idea, but I can tell they’re reluctant to go back due to past experiences. Can’t say I blame them either, and it’s not like I can guarantee they’ll be left to their own devices. Lord knows I get enough stares myself, being Qin and all, so I can only imagine how them townies would gawk at the likes of tree-skin man or miss Alice and her kids.

In the end, the people of Gunnar’s village don’t even considering heading into town, so I let ‘em know I’ll be back with more news when I have some. Knowing I got a fair bit of travel ahead, miss Alice hands me a sandwich for the road, and I thank her with all my heart, because I really don’t want to eat the last of my travel rations which I packed into Old Tux’s saddlebags. Though evening is coming upon us, I let the old horse set his pace since we’ve plenty of time to make it home before the gates close at ten, and I get to wondering if Carter and his ilk found their missing girl. I ain’t one to snoop though, so I go against my gut and avoid dropping in on the compound unnoticed, mostly because it’d take me a good hour out of my way.

A good thing too, because as luck would have it, my Detect Aberration Spell pings about an hour away from town, and at the same time my ears pick up the sounds of a scuffle. No gunshots, but lots of clanging, shouting grunting, barking, and croaking, meaning some fools are in a melee scrap with a bunch of ranakin and other Abby.

Can’t walk away. Wouldn’t be right, as it might be that the Catholics and Christians got it wrong, and it’s the Buddhists and Hindus who got it right with Karma and whatnot. Today, I risk my hide helping someone in a tight spot, and maybe tomorrow, someone rides in to help me. That’s how it is, ain’t it? So best bank up all the good Karma I can, because with the way things have been going for me lately, I’ll need all the help I can get.