“That was more than five minutes.”
Zolton pulled himself onto the pillar and simply bounced his eyebrows in response. He shook his hands through the air fruitlessly before opting to swiping them across his pants in an effort to rid himself of the stone dust. “Seems I wasn’t as good with this magic as I thought,” he spat apathetically.
Yazzalo’s demeanor was rather frigid. His arms remained crossed. “You should not oversell yourself… Odd considering you tend to do the opposite in an effort to lessen your workload. Both only do you harm, in the end. Do not be afraid to be honest about your skillset – it could very well save your life,” the master informed him. Nevertheless, Zolton briefly acknowledged his words with a brief and nonchalant gesture of the face and eyes.
A tiresome sigh left the Renegade's throat. “You wanted to discuss something. What was it?”
“Right…” Zolton retrieved the chest from Yazzalo's hut. His thumb popped open its keyless lock and he retrieved two soaked papers. “Damn it… I forgot about the damn water… the map is— shit…”
Yazzalo took the wet pieces of paper. “Relax,” he said. Carefully, he allowed each to rest on opposing palms, his eyes keeping a daunting seer. “Fac – tib – x? This is unfortunately illegible. The water has damaged it terribly, though I can at least tell it is latin. Something along the lines of ‘do it yourself?’ It could also be some other context regarding a singular subject. The map on the other hand is somewhat legible, but I would not follow it.``
Zolton grew skeptically intrigued. “Is it actually a White Eyes's ass?”
“What? No, hush. If anything, it's worse. It's an abysmal island of the morally depraved; infamously infested by the worst of mankind. No known powerful entities, but simply scum. Between body destroying alchemy and drugs, murder over the slightest poor interaction, and death-calling theft for even the smallest of paper, it is undoubtedly one of the worst places to be. I haven’t been there in many years, but one of many rumors regarding that place claim that clandestine fighting matches are held there.”
“They like seeing a good fight for entertainment,” Zolton said, “So what?”
“The ‘good fight’ often includes children. In of itself, I’d see no issue should an authoritative figure be supervising and it be simply for training in a safe environment. However, that is far from the case in that place. They have no problem putting a decade old boy against a man whose past consists of much bloodshed in the very arena… and abroad. For their grotesque idea of entertainment, and whatever flimsy pride such a ‘man’ has, he would treat the child the same as an adult opponent: murderous obliteration. It lacks not only shame and morals, but also one name. Instead, it goes by many. Some call it ‘That Place,’ or ‘...There.’ I call it ‘The Dreg.’ Where did you get this map?”
Zolton paused, choking on the consequences of his forgetfulness to breathe. “Oh… Well, I — a man gave it to me back in the Auxuth wood— Auxuth… The place was set on fire by a pair of terrorists on horseback. A few people ended up dying in the damage. Me and my Father managed to put out the flames, but not fast enough to prevent anyone from getting hurt. I suspect the guy who gave me this to be one of them.”
“And yet you held onto the map instead of tossing it to the sea?”
Zolton put his hands into the pockets of his pants, mildly tattered by the elements. He pulled out the empty gray pockets, revealing their voids. “The guy asked a favor of me, and I’m sure he’s aware a person wouldn’t be performing labor without some pay. I figured it would be a way to get some galleons to my name. I’m especially in need considering the total annihilation of my boat thanks to some sea.”
“You wouldn’t be in dire need of seacraft if you were practicing your swimming efficiency. You could simply repeat your actions from earlier and walk on platforms of Blackwater until you reach another island. Perhaps you can find a boat to hitch on. Rarely you’ll find one willing to go to that place, though.”
“Yeah, yeah, if I had the composition of a naval vessel like you, Goatbeard, I wouldn’t be stumped right now. As much as I hate to admit it, my magic as it is doesn’t have the strength to bring me far. I don’t want to take chances and end up being lost at sea.”
Pyrei stepped out from the tent. “Why are you entertaining this, Yazzalo?” she rhetorically inquired, bringing herself to a cross-armed slouch against its wooden supports. “Zolton, are you deaf? Do you just hope that a random ship finds you out at sea before you drown or are devoured?”
“Well, no… I’d figure it out.”
Pyrei rolled her eyes with a sigh. “So what you’re saying is that you wish to fulfill the request of a man, whom you suspect to be a murderous terrorist, who handed you a cryptic message and a map that leads to one of the most inhospitable places in the War Seas — all with the expectation that this ghoulish individual would be following some ‘good man’s code’ and pay you galleons for your troubles? Not only that, but you also are fully aware of your magic’s flimsy, fickle and horrid combat incapability – yet you wish to go to this place?”
“Well, I mean…” he cleared his throat, “Hmm – yeah. My casting may be weak but I can still throw fists.”
Pyrei shot a piercing gaze into his soul. “Zolton, no. You aren’t going. This is a blatantly vacuous idea with all signs pointing towards doom.”
“Pyrei is correct,” Yazzalo added, “However, you are a man with a mind not destroyed. Maybe one not yet able to grasp intuition to its full extent, but mature enough all the same. I will not block your path.”
With a sizzling anger present beneath every word, Pyrei spoke with her rage masterfully suppressed. “What? Yazzalo, no, you have to assure him how stupid of an idea this is!”
“Oh, yes, it is a very, very terrible idea, I’ve long agreed with that. But I’m not going to stand in the way of an adult wanting to make his own decisions.”
“Come on, Pyrei. What happened to ‘having full faith’ in Goatbeard and ‘his decisions,’ huh?”
Her disgruntled demeanor relaxed into one of nonchalance. “It seems to have been lost briefly,” she said, facing Yazzalo. “Similar to ‘not standing in the way of an adult’ making their own decisions. Yet this one was forbidden from doing just that not too long ago.”
“You’re injured, Pyrei,” Yazzalo assured. Luckily, the droplets of rain hid any sudden sweat spurring on his forehead. “I had to make sure that man wouldn’t go awry. Expectedly, he did. Though, oddly, towards him,” he concluded, thumbing towards Zolton.
Dumbfound shackled the mage of Light. “Why did he do that?”
“Zolton's physique seemed to spark traumatic memories. ‘Vire,’ he would scream. Bewilderingly, this ‘Vire’ according to him is someone he has already killed. Considering Venator’s insanity, I suppose I can’t take such a claim at face value. Nonetheless, he was triggered by the sight of him, I suspect by his Vastus-like height. He didn't explode in such a volatile manner when it was just I. Zolton here, a witchdoctor of the mind he apparently is, managed to talk Venator closer towards sanity. Now it's just a matter of educating him on healthy methods to free him from whatever dark world of which he resides… Anyway, we've already gone over this. Zolton, make your decision.”
In thought, his finger combed the hair sprouting from his chin.“Well – staying here ain't gonna get a thing done. Work has to be done… unless you can teach me how to use Renegade now?” he coaxed.
“Your body is still unfit. However, I can at least say I trust you enough to utilize it.”
“Oh come on!” The Vastus-blood exclaimed, “I already know it’s something to do with blood! It was already obvious you used the Renegade style to make that guy chill out. Just give me some advice to work with, I’m sure I can figure out the rest on my own.”
Arms still crossed, Yazzalo gave a denying shake of the head. “I’m well aware that you could figure out how to wield and control the Renegade Art by your lonesome in relatively quick time. That’s the problem.”
“What? How? Why would that be an issue?”
“Because, as I’ve said on numerous occasions, you are unfit to wield its power as of now. You could learn to bring it about, but your body hasn’t reached the level of durability to not be torn apart by it. You will end up dealing far more devastating damage to yourself than another. You are never in a rush to do most mundane tasks, Zolton. You’d rather wait and watch, not seeking to use more energy than you feel the need to. You are very lax, behaviorally and physically, but you are more intuitive than you think. Perhaps the latter is what allows you to utilize your mind more than you realize. With a mind so capable, I fear even handing you a stick. You could very well end up creating a village-ending inferno with it should you be bored enough.”
Zolton simply stared. Should I thank him or be offended? He mused.
The master continued, “While physique is important, your diet is far more pivotal for the Renegade to be usable. A different control of the mind is also necessary. I don’t instruct you to meditate as much as I do for Pyrei, but that is because you spend a lot of time doing nothing, thinking to yourself already. This is why I have you engaging in combat training more often; to build your strength and improve your blood flow.”
Improve my blood flow… he brewed in his head. “If you want me to be more physical, why not encourage me to go to this ‘Dreg’?”
“Because training is different from sending you into death’s mouth. Also, I’ve already told you to make your decision on whether you wish to stay or go. I am not going to impede you.”
Zolton stared into the gloomed sea beneath the gray sky with no sign of improving its mood. He then turned to Pyrei, who had a face stoic, yet her suppressed fury was apparent. Even then, he could see the anxiousness and pleading in her eyes. “I — I need to go. I feel this would be a good way for me to grow. Besides, I was raised in Auxuth when it was a rundown, criminal pit, too.”
Yazzalo gave a disapproving shut of the eyes. “Very well. I hope just as very recently, you return again safely. Whatever consequences come your way, I hope your chosen solutions are the best ones.”
Despite still being in her slouched resting position against the tent, Pyrei’s fist was clenched tightly. Her eyes were enraged and her foot tapped rapidly. Zolton gave an awkward, mildly uneased grin. “I’ll be fine, Pyrei… come on, I need to do this.”
“Why is that? For some galleons, you’re willing to risk dying over? You won’t be able to use them if you’re dead, Zolton. I know you aren’t stupid, Zolton! This is about something more than just money, Zolton – I know it is! What is it about? Why are you going there? What are you trying to do?!”
He froze and choked on his words. “Noth–nothing more than that. I just need the galleons, is all. Relax, Pyrei. Everything will be alright. This ain’t gonna be our last interaction, I promise. Just take it easy – you’re already hurt enough.”
“Just be okay. Don’t do anything even more dumb than this.”
With a concluding approving thumbs up, he spewed his magic to the sea. After the steam concluded, he walked off the platform, with the alarm of agitated water signifying his nautical arrival. Soon enough, the sound of his magic sizzling the sea grew too weak, and he was far gone. The gray world, ever-stretching. Rains receding, though clouds stoutheart in position. His nerves were active, but his demeanor was numb to them. Still, he questioned what he was afraid of.
Walking across the sea in this state – weak in magic, decent with my strength. If anything goes wrong, I’m taking the plunge. Swimming shouldn’t be a problem – at least if the distance is manageable, but I know that isn’t the only obstacle awaiting me. Sea monsters, both below the ocean surface and riding the boats that sit upon it. I know this is dumb – but it’ll help me. Better discipline, improved fortitude. Surely…. But this is assuming Avar doesn’t kill me right as we meet. I doubt he will, though. He had the chance to back in Auxuth if he wanted to. Why would he ask for my help, lure me – a stranger – to this island just to kill me there when there were none other than him and I in those woods? Unless – unless the horseman truly isn’t him. Besides this, I’m certain I can take him. If it was him, he does not seem like he’s that strong considering his hit and run tactic.
Then again, this could mean he’s agile. If he’s just ranging me the whole time, I’ll end up falling over without even landing a blow. I haven’t seen his magic – if he even is a spell caster. I also am assuming he simply cannot engage in hand-to-hand combat… and that someone else on this ‘Dreg’ won’t make me bleed out before I even find him. Yazzalo wasn’t light in his description of that place. Even Pyrei was uppity about it, and she’s usually cold and stoic about everything. I hope I’m not making a big mistake here. I can’t turn back now, though; I’ll look stupid. Just gotta suck it up and keep mov—
A large, dark tailfin lifted and crashed into the water. It casted a titanic shade, dwarfing the Vastus-blood with ease. But as quickly as it rose, it sank back into the sea. From a hump further up, a blast of water erupted into the air with a groan accompanying it. The whole thing finally returned to the depths, the silhouette merging with the darkness. “Well aren’t you lucky the damn whale ain’t flip ye over,” a guffawing voice called. Zolton's hand nearly breached through his skin as it clenched the protective, organic layers before his heart.
“Hey! Are ye ears clogged? What are you doing out here without a boat? You tryna die?”
Finally, Zolton’s senses returned to him from their temporary numbness. Alas, he gave eyes to the man yelling from above on a ketch. It was a scruffy sailor. His beard resembled a dirty, snowed bush. A quadcorn hat with some fish-dog amalgamation insignia imprinted on the front of it. He replied, “No… no, I’m not. I’m trying to get somewhere. I lost my boat to… events. No choice but to try getting there by foot.”
“Crossing the sea by foot? Well, don’t ye think that’s a big ol’ pile of dumb as shit? Just cause ye Magma’r magic can make temporary footland, don’t mean it’s a good idea, bucko.”
“Well, it’s not magma mag– Why are you out here? You don’t think a storm’s coming?”
“Ye ain’t think o’ dat before you started’a’steppin’, did’ya? Where you headin’ to, boy?”
“The Dreg.”
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The captain stared at him stupidly. Zolton watched him back, awaiting a response. Soon, the awkwardness made him ill. “Uhh– ‘That place?’ The, uhh… ‘There.’”
“What the hell ye yapping about?”
“The place with all the criminals and shit! The one no one likes and apparently no one could be bothered to be given a name! Apparently!”
The captain’s inept gawking turned into revulsion and bewilderment. “To the Shitheap?! Why the hell are ye tryna go there? Suicidal? I have a few guns on my boat, if ye need. You ain’t gotta go to a whole other island to do it.”
“What? Why would you even — no, I have business to tend to there. Can I catch a ride there?”
The captain pondered. He then turned back to the unseeable portion of his ship and yelled, “This fool’s tryna take steps on the Shitheap! Ye men willin’ to take a short detour?”
Some mumbling just louder than the ocean sizzled before concluding. The captain then turned back to him. “Ye, we can do that. It ain’t gon’ be free, though.”
Zolton dug into his pockets. The left one was empty, and the right only held two of the gold coins. This caused the sailor to burst into a boisterous laugh. “You really are off to kill ye self, huh! Left all ye belongings back home? I pity ye… Man, we’ll just give ye the ride without charge. C’mere.”
A thick rope was tossed over the ketch’s side. As Zolton pulled himself up, the crew seemed at a loss of breath. “Ahh, you’re one of the big ones!” The captain looked around. “Yar, get goin’! We ain’t meet blubber curfew yet! We gotta drop this suicidal kid off and get back to whalin’!”
The sails soon fell, and the ketch began moving through the sea. The gale tugged on the ship, but the ketch’s tenacity kept it moving, albeit slowly. After a trip consisting of eyes both curious and seemingly seeking blood, a small strip of land soon manifested in the gray mist. There was not much to speak of, nothing much at all besides a small mountain. It wasn’t until they moved closer was the full magnificence of this forbidden world revealed. With the distance shortened, the small mountain’s great path was clear. Its range ran up alongside the island’s leftmost perimeter, exponentially growing in height and width until the very center at the backmost section of the island, where an imperious mountain sat as gargantuan spectacle. The mountain range continued down the right of the island, forming an almost symmetrical valley as the left. Filling its center was an intimidating dark woodland of tall trees cloaking the island’s skin. Something about it felt mysterious, ominous, yet also enthralling. Coursing through them, were a few rivers spilling into the ocean at the island’s only opening. At last, at the sole area where the mountains’ arms did not gate off, an old dock overridden with vegetation.
The ketch began to slow a relatively far distance from ‘The Dreg.’ It finally drifted to a halt, lightly bumping with the water. “This is as close as we’re gettin’ to that place,” the captain said, “Figured you could make the rest of the walk there. Y’know, since ye was out in the middle of the ocean when we’s found ye.”
Zolton gave a frivolous, grateful flaunting gesture of the hand. With the support of his right arm, he leapt over the ketch’s edge onto a floating piece of hardened darkness. The sailors gawked openly as he created more and more on his way. They did not wait to see him take a step on the Dreg, however. Quickly they moved on, a mix of the crewman thoughtful, and the others snickering at his oncoming doom. Nevertheless, on he went: Casting, waiting, stepping, on repeat. At last, though he almost hoped the journey would have been longer, he arrived at this rather quiet place. The pier held no boats, only wooden docks brutally assaulted by neglect and oceanic erosion. Running grass and tree roots consumed the edges, bringing it a sort of viridescent appeal. On each far side of the docks were old, disheveled stairs of some pale yellow stone. “I hope those can support more weight than the dock appears to,” Zolton spoke beneath his breath.
He took to them, bringing his feet over steps that were mostly or even completely taken away by weathering. Much to his relief, he made it up and before the breathtaking expanse of evergreen trees stretching tall and far. The towering plants were as if an infinite army made statues by a gorgon with a curse of wood instead of stone. They held their positions, only weakly swaying from a good gust. But even with their imposing presence, their lord stood as an overseer titan above them all: their commanding mountain. With the sun setting directly behind it, the very peak of Dreg shined as if one with the gods. Its presence was heavy, as if it was sentient. It was watching with immovable devotion, refusing to blink or even breathe during its eternal concentration on its land. Hard, heavy, and frantic breathing came from the world. Zolton looked and searched, finding nothing, but the breaths persisted. His chest then fell into a pool of pain, and his ears were beating like drums. “What’s going on…”
It was not until he placed his hand on his heart did he realize: it was him whose breath ran uncontrolled. He relaxed his joints and squeezed his palms together, slowly returning to a stable body. What the hell was that? Was I panicking? Nothing even happened… why? Zolton worried. He looked up through the canopy of these towering trees. As his eyes looked through them, the mountain stared back at him. Shake— shake it off… Shake it off… It’s all good.
“I need to get going. I can’t stand here and sulk,” he spoke sternly to himself. Then, he buckled. His heart felt stabbed with a shard of ice. His eyes were bulging, and legs stuck. He looked around himself with complete and utter perplexion: He was in the midst of the forest. Not a clue how deep, no idea how far. All he did know was that trees and bush were all around him, going on for an eternity. “How,” he trembled, “I didn’t even walk in yet… How am I in here?”
He kneeled to a crouch with the support of one arm as breathing still proved difficult. The trees looked down on him, chuckling lightly as the wind brushed their leaves. Yet behind their snickering, the mountain stared, stoic and stern with no emotion besides a soul crushing gaze. But a bush rustled too close to the Katastrof youth, and he hurled a fist unintentionally infused with Blackwater. He struck something with beige-furred legs, and the thing began to wail. Hysteria finally abandoned him, and his eyes cleared. A deer was revealed before him. Its left leg at the front was snapped inward from the knee. The creature spasmed and screamed for some time, kicking up blood in its desperate attempt to crawl off. Eventually, its body wore out, and it slipped into silence, though its chest visibly inflated and deflated. All which his body could muster was watching the thing, now confused whether the pain in his heart was from panic or regret. A rush of frustration made him strike the ground with a single punch, and he stood.
“You surely don’t belong here.”
He swung around and launched another fist into something. It was hard, even making the Vastus descendant recoil. Though when he looked, the being was unmoved. “You don’t think you’re too soft to be wandering out here alone?” she questioned him.
Twas a woman a little heavyset and approaching the final stage of middle age. Brown moccasins enraptured her feet, briefly revealing her white ankles. From there, a large, full-body violet gown with lightly colored flower petal designs danced about it. It was held by the gown’s running shoulder straps, which was partially hidden by her decently lush hair, though it was fading from blonde. Her lips were a deep red, hopefully the result of lipstick, Zolton wondered. Alas, held within her hair just above her forehead, some white glasses that seemed too posh for something meant simply for improving vision. They were likely shades to dim the glare of the sun. “With a punch like that, it seems I was right…” the woman mocked beneath her breath. “What you doin’ out here?”
She didn’t even flinch from a hit to the face like that… And sheesh, she’s tall. Never thought I’d say that. “I’m sorry, are you okay? I didn’t mean to punch you like that!”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, sugar please. I’m not paying any mind to that. You get lost? I’ve never seen you around here before. You looking for a meal?”
“No, no, but I am looking for someone.”
She snickered. “These young men sure are fresh these days…”
“W–what?” his eyes widened, “Oh, no, not like that! I meant a guy!”
“Tragic.”
“No, I meant I have business with hi–”
She unleashed a bellowing, three-pronged cackle that grew stronger with each succession. “I’m just messing with ya, kid! What you need help wi–”
The deer began to scream again, shaking violently. However, a quick skull-crushing stomp from the imposing woman quickly silenced the thing. “Ruining such a quiet night with its selfishness… What do you need help with?”
Zolton stared at the brain matter splattered about beneath her shoe. He was lost in the mist of shock and grief for a moment, but felt forced to quickly collect himself. “I’m looking for a man named Avar. He gave a map with this place marked. He said to meet him here.”
Her light grin quickly regressed. The left side of her lip puckered, then the lips pursed. She eyed him silently, unmoving. “Yes. I can help you with that. Here, take this.” She reached into the collar of her gown and, in a liquid-smooth maneuver yet with shockingly quick speeds, pulled and pressed a silver gun just between Zolton’s eyes. It was extremely distinct from a flintlock or wheellock. Its design appeared more simple, but it was very heavy. Its monochrome, silver metal encasing covered the entire gun, and the weapon was generally far more condensed, lacking the many outer wheels, levers, and latches of the typical small guns of the War Seas. She bumped it against his head. “It ain’t often I find folk who don’t fall weak before Ares’s handsomeness. Wanna take a bite outta him?”
Zolton discovered himself dumbfounded. He looked at her with an elevated eyebrow and questioned, “You're as confident as my pops with his guns. Difference is he enhances his with Gravity magic. What makes you think I’m frail enough to die from this?”
She smirked. “I don’t have a clue about that. But you should know, young man: there is magic in all of us. Just because I can’t throw fire, rocks, or magma, doesn't mean my guns don’t grow with me. You saw how your flimsy punch earlier didn’t even make a woman like me flinch. And as you can see, Ares here is a big man compared to his cousins. Are you confident in surviving whatever I dish out?”
While he hesitated to admit it, his heart began to pick up pace. His stare was quite stern, yet ever so slightly shaking. The woman's gaze on the contrary, was poised with a slim, toothy grin. The wind blew across them, lightly lifting her hair as she remained as a trapped statue in position, awaiting the trespasser to activate her trigger. Alas, Zolton answered, “Do it then. Go on. Why wait so long?”
Her smile expanded, and her guffawing echoed through the woods. A bang of metal so great, the dark avians once spectating the ordeal had taken flight. His breathing was rampant as a storm, and his chest burning like fire. He opened his eyes, expecting to find the whites of clouds, or darkness of Tartarus. Instead he found himself still among the eternal evergreen, and his alleged executor chuckling to herself. The handle of her extraordinary firearm was detached and she bounced the exposed end of it on her palm. Some gunpowder fell from it. “If only I had a mirror for you to look in,” she laughed mockingly, “You looked like you had a log of dook hardened up your rear end! Surely made my day! Come along, cutie. You are too damn soft to be out here alone!”
He watched as she walked off, relishing in her work with celebratory cackling howls. Instinctively he followed her, but from a distance. “Don’t try to act big ballsy like that no more, young man! You’re lucky it was just me you ran into. I can be playful, but the others ain’t so much like me. Who you said you were looking for — Avar? He isn’t too far.
Oh, and since we’re bringing up names, I’m sure you got one too. If you want me to go first, the people call me Freeman — if they know me. Miss Freeman if they don’t know better, although sometimes I let them if they do know me because it has a nice ring to it, or Doctor Freeman if they’re respectful. Most of them are of the latter, if you were wondering. I’ll let you choose, though.”
He was still silent; lost in his head, reminiscing. ‘Don’t be afraid to be honest about your skill set.’ Sure, he was right but — being dead is preferable to being known as he who cowered from an old woman! Is her idea of a joke threatening someone with death? Are they all crazy like her? She said they aren’t forgiving like her – so are they worse? Come on, man! You already knew this place was going to be odd, don’t act surpris—
“Hellooo? Name? Any day now!” Miss Freeman shouted.
“Z— Strof. The name’s Strof.” It’s probably for the better that I don’t let my name be known around here.
“I haven’t heard that one before. It’s pretty neat. Gonna need you to keep up though. Just cause you got a good face on you doesn't mean I’m gonna slow myself for your sake. Those days are long gone!” she bellowed. Despite her age, imposing presence and the overwhelming abundance of bush and exposed tree roots in her path, Freeman skipped, zipped, and hopped through as if of the forest’s wildlife. She was only a tad lesser in height than Zolton, but out paced him with almost no competition. The expanse of blackened green went on, but it started to become something he found beautiful. It reminded him of his home’s redwood but instead of each individual tree being a titan, they were skinnier. No longer were they cursed soldiers made to function as a labyrinth, but instead simply a scene in nature. The mountain peering down from the heavens also became less of a tyrant. Its gaze now became a watchful eye, studying all that it owned. A river’s rushing sound broke through Zolton’s trance. Only then did his open eyes begin to see.
In Zolton’s case, they had escaped the wilds of the forest. Now, they found themselves in a decent clearing with a settlement. It was a small village with dark lumber logs being the makeup for most of the homes. Some many had chimneys with smoke actively coughing out their tops. A homestead sat at the very northeast corner of the village. He could make out some crops - carrots and cabbages - occupying a few plots. There was a greater variety in vegetation, but his vision proved too weak from such a distance. Strangely, he saw some four-legged creatures roaming among the people, though neither seemed to mind the other’s presence. “Y’all fine with them weird horses walking around? Why are they so small and pointy-eared?”
Miss Freeman’s steps began to decelerate. A ripple of dumbfoundedness made its way through the skin of her face and she responded, “Those horses are ‘small and pointy-eared’ because they’re donkeys. Have you never seen an ass before?”
“You mean like a person? Because I’ve run into a few of those. Notably one at Valtrice… that clown-colored bitch.”
“Haha! No, no! Well, you’ll certainly find a good deal of people with that disposition here, but the donkey! Where do you think the phrase ‘being an ass’ came from? Donkeys can be a real handful, really stubborn things. However, treat them right and you’ll give your livestock great defense against coyotes, wolves, and their mixed breed offspring. Just one jackass will turn a few dogs into ragdolls.”
“Why do you need them to do it? Can’t y’all just blast them away?”
“Do you want to be on watch for some thieving canines all day, all night with no time to ever sleep? Didn’t think so. Besides, don’t have the misconception that just because your girly hits don’t hurt me, that everyone here is blessed with combative strength. Very few of us have true strength enhanced by the gods’ pollution; any of them woodland predators could very easily kill a frail person. Might I add, don’t believe that none of them forest dogs haven’t been corrupted by the pollution of their magic, either. While it’s unlikely, I have seen them act strangely. White Eyes and that big ol’ anglerfish are easy to explain – the magic pollution has tainted our world’s seas and they’re always in that soup. However, it does rain, and rain is a cycle. What’s the biggest contributor to that cycle?”
Zolton processed her riddle. “The ocean…”
Freeman nodded. “Just ‘cause we’re up here doesn’t mean we’re safe from the corruption of magic energy. The polluted ocean mists up to the skies, turns into clouds that, while very much less so than those of the dark seas, still are polluted all the same. Those tainted clouds rain, flooding our lands and rivers with magic energy. We still have to eat and we still have to drink, do we not? Then we pay it no mind, and fulfill our biological needs, with a little something extra that makes a great change on us all. The only thing saving our eyes from its ultimate fruition is the grace of death, whether that be by time, animal, or man. A merciful kill: cutting our lives short, preventing us from seeing what we eventually transform into.”
“Oh,” Zolton exclaimed in ponder. “I – I never thought it thoroughly like that.”
They crossed a wide wooden bridge that sat across the river. It had several timber pillars upholding a long, saltbox roof running across the entire thing. It felt as if it was welcoming him. Upon entering the village however, he immediately fell cold. Not frigid, but out of place. Eyes turned to him with a nasty look in them. Even a pair of nearby donkeys’ ears perked up at the sight of him. They charged, screaming their “hee-haws” and forced their way between him and Miss Freeman. They bit, head butted, and kicked him. Freeman found the ordeal hilarious, watering out the eyes as her laughter proved dominant. Zolton stood, taking the assault without much flinching except for when they managed to make a little cut. “Alright, alright that’s enough,” she said. Freeman ran her hands across the donkeys’ manes with a warm humming in her throat. Eventually, the animals ceased their aggression and sniffed the vastus-kinned man before trotting off, though they moved cautiously with their eyes still locked to him, ready to return with fire at the slightest mis-movement. “Good on you for not fighting back. Made getting them to know you a lot easier.”
“You can communicate with these animals?”
“Basic gestures, nothing unreal. I’m not special, if that’s what you’re asking. They’re just doing what they know to do: protecting their territory, or at least they believe it’s theirs. Ours; shared between them and us. They protect our food supplies and territory, we feed them and give them a relatively safe place to be rather than roaming out in the treelands. You know, they ain’t native to here. Ever seen donkeys try to navigate a lush forest? It’s hilarious. Poor things aren’t built to traverse all these trees, roots and bushes. It’s been a few generations, way before I was born. The folk that first settled here had some of them donkeys on their boats, so us and those animals have been growing up through generations together for some time now. They’ve also been slowly getting bigger, at least some of them. Remember what I told you about the magic pollution?” she inquired, pointing to the sky-consuming mountain peak.
“Rumor has it that there are strange plants up there. We rarely get rain, but that mountain there has runoff. We’ve been guessing the snow up there has a large collection of magic pollution in it, and the plants feed off it directly. Inevitably, some of that tainted plant matter falls into the snow. Eventually, that snow trickles down to the relatively warm temperature down here compared to up there, so much so that it’s enough for the snow to melt. Thus it becomes water, joins together, starts weathering down a path enough to where it becomes a river. And, well, we can’t drink salt water without getting drastically sick, so we gotta make do. Animals drink it, we drink it, the plants down here drink it. No choice. The forest becomes unreasonably lush.
Wolves, deer, coyotes, moose, bears – they experience some changes, but rarely do any live long enough for it to be noted. Our donkeys, however, are special. They get to live longer and pass down genes since we give them safe places to be. Most notable is better hearing in some, improved eyesight in others. Slightly longer legs, or larger growth overall. A lucky foal is very rarely born with a good mix of all, though! Sometimes it’s just an aesthetic change like more hair, which helps with the coldness of Frostskógur. Not all good though – a few of them get sick much more easily. Oh, lords! I’ve been talking so much I hope I’m not boring you! Either way we’re at his place!”
He hadn’t realized it, but they long left the civilization of his newly discovered society. Now, they were back in the woods, with the village far away, buried beneath trees. “Since when did we even leave — what was it, Frostskógur? We were just there and started speaking — now we’re back in the woods… I’d swear you’re a witch with how these strange things occur,” Zolton joked. “You say the magic pollution made some animals grow. When we first encountered each other, I wondered if you had Vastus ancestors like me, but now I’m not sure. Are we similar in that sense or do you – do you think it’s the water? I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
Naturally, he turned to her in await of a response, but Freeman was gone; vanished. As if she became one with the woods, not a trace nor sign of her existence. Instead, a lone cabin. It was well kept for something in the midst of the woods, but held a strange aura. It had no grass around it, but instead dirt. The branches hanging over the cabin held leaves, yet none showered it nor took residence near its wooden base.
Instead, the deceased orange and brown leaves formed a peculiarly perfect perimeter in the shape of a circle around the cabin. Only from that point did the soil hold grass, the green growing out and away from the log cabin. Soon, the sound of stressed fibers being stretched echoed through the landscape, reverberating between evergreen bark. Zolton edged his eyes behind him at a turtle’s pace, finding the man in the gray long sleeves that led him here: Avar. He was perched on a large boulder with a longbow in his hands, a mighty arrow drawn. The hungry arrow rivaled the man’s height, having a nearly foot or so on him. His face was not contorted with rage, nor glee. Neither despair nor mania. Instead, he appeared lifeless, yet focused. He watched him, and slightly stressed the arrow and bow’s string further. His fingers rose to the liberation of the bow’s string — and with a crack of the wind, the arrow soared as a silver streak through the air. Alas, the imposing arrow struck, and the jarring of its metal crashing into a rough surface rippled. Birds and deer scurried; tree branches shook; leaves descended to the outstretches of the cabin; and the Vastus blood fell.