Den'il knew the village like the back of her hand; having been raised in its walls, it came as second nature to slip between people on her way to the Drey.

The Drey was both a meeting hall where the Elders met, and one of the only cave systems on the southern face of the island. In grievous events, it provided unparalleled protection, and was the first place that had been settled when feet first landed on Moltev'ji millennia prior. The village was built around it due to this, putting it at the heart of life and movement that made up the thriving community.

While a few people gave a finger wave of greeting, most seemed to sense her urgency. No one stopped her as she fluttered past.

The Drey was a respected ground, so even in her haste, Den'il paused at its entryway. A gargantuan wooden door covered the previously wide open mouth of the cave. It was beautifully carved, the depiction of three animals facing away from one another a common sight in their culture. In the center, a bear looking upwards, to the left, a profile of a goat, and to the right, a profile of a hare.

The amount of magic that went into securing this space was not lost on any member of their society. Upon reaching the door, her hand rested on a worn divot in the wood between the three animals. Her pinky rested closer to the hare, brushing its carved long ear. Though she was personally unable to speak, she was more than confident her prayers were being conveyed properly. Unlike the confessions she'd heard from some of her peers, her intended respect and reverence had never felt unheard, meaning she must be doing something right.

After several moments of stillness, she pressed on the divot, the goliath door opening with little resistance. The second there was enough space to squeeze through, Den'il wormed her way in, speed picking back up.

The unlit torches along the walls burst to life upon detecting movement. It was a very old spell, probably originally used to alert of intruders, but nowadays was just convenient. It illuminated a long corridor, the walls seemingly glazed with crystalline from mineralization. The torch light danced lowly against it, shooting off dull but beautiful refractions. All the stalactites had been harvested from the space long ago, being used in weapon making and jewelry due to the durability of the material. The stalagmites had too been cut down, sliced into thin tiles that littered a path that went deeper into the caves.

"Oh- Den'il!"

The only thing that could have stopped her urgency was her goal coming to meet her, and as with the rest of the day, luck was on her side. Stopping and turning on heel, the sight of her older sister was a familiar and thankful one.

Den'il's sister, Amarah, was an Elder. They were a mere two years apart in age, yet Amarah's face was full of deep wrinkles, her hair also white but far thinner and cropped short. If one were to meet them as a pair, it would seem instead that she was perhaps Den'il's grandmother, or great aunt. With a slightly hunched back, she used an adorned bone cane, the click of it out of time with her gentle footfalls. "I thought you were on patrol," she said with a bit of amusement in her voice, ignorant to her younger sister's fervor. "What are you doing here?"

Having been raised together, very few understood exactly what Den'il was saying as easily as Amarah. So when Den'il tapped her temples before spinning the tips of her forefingers around each other, the message was clear: It happened again.

Amarah's kind expression flickered, her crow's feet worsening momentarily as her own excitement waned. "Show me."

-

Vega was somewhat used to being treated like a spectacle; while it may have lessened over the years, the eyes of the public boring holes into the back of one's skull was hard to forget. Yet, it was an interesting insight as to how far things had come for him. With Samson waking behind him, he realized exactly how much less his presence was questioned after eight years, with people stopping in the middle of what they were doing just to watch the newcomer pass.

Their pace was steady, but slow. Samson was doing his best to seem calm and collected, but it was hard to ignore the strain in his breath from the journey to the village. Vega turned to look at a fishmonger who had paused mid-fillet, giving Samson a chance to catch up. The local held an all too familiar guarded weariness in his stance, his knife stock-still in the fish as they passed.

People were acting just as they had when Vega had arrived, which was unsurprising.

"... The village is beautiful." That was surprising. Vega looked over at Samson, who barely acknowledged all of the glares they were receiving. Instead, he was looking around with an open sort of amazement.

Sanbieta was, after all, the largest village on the island. The figure that it cut was like a jewel on the coastline, and it's populace booming. It held multiple thousands of people, with homes stretching far from the metropolis and into the woods and beach land surrounding it. The buildings they passed were made from some sort of clay, a rich red-brown with sliced stone added as mosaic work for decoration. The roofing looked like plant fronds, but layered incredibly tightly and close together.

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Any trees that he saw along the streets and paths in the village were thin, looking long dead and very twiggy. It lent a quick clue to the lack of lumber in most of the buildings. Samson had a moment wondering what season they were in before they turned left, their new view facing the ocean as the road slopped downhill.

There was a gigantic port downhill in the distance, though no boats were actually docked. The beach stretched in either direction out near the dock, though the lip of the beach dropped sharply into deep water near the dock itself. The village was almost entirely up on the more rugged and taller terrain, making the feature look small from how high up they were in comparison to it. To venture to the port would take far more energy than he had, and Samson was currently more than fine with not being near any water. The contrasting colors of the buildings around him against the ocean were stark and stunning, and the size of it all felt incredible.

They were walking the streetways amongst young, old and everything in between. Many people wore threads of vivid color, though none seemed as armored or layered as Vega and Den'il were. More than one child was plucked back inside as they passed, with Vega parting any foot traffic just by leading.

Samson was taller than most everyone, and seemed very bulky in comparison. While there did seem to be a variation in heights and weights, most folks around them had similar skin tone to Den'il, all with hair of brown or white.

It further highlighted exactly how out of place he was.

"My first assessment was 'intense'," Vega recalled, "The beauty took a while to strike me-"

"Vega."

The shorter man stiffened, shoulders squaring more. Samson looked ahead to where the speaker was, and could see an old woman walking towards them, side by side with Den'il. The similarities in them highlighted that they must be related.

"Amarah," Vega greeted in return, hand lifting to touch his chin while his head dipped. A respectful gesture, it appeared. Though Amarah waved him off, eyes locked on Samson as she hobbled closer.

She was draped in many layers of deep blue, with hints of periwinkle peeking out as her cloak and skirt swished around the base of her cane. A piece of silver metal adorned her lower lip in the center, with many more throughout both of her ears. She wore many thin silver bands around each wrist as well, the tinkling noise of cheery metal giving Samsons flashbacks to that morning.

While she wore an expression of barely concealed frustration, she still gave a tight smile, the four continuing their approach of one another.

Within a handful of strides, Samson and Vega reached the women, the Elder looking at the newcomer critically. Villagers around them did little to hide their curiosity and discomfort, watching the situation and causing a generalized hush in the area. "And who is this?" Amarah asked, the question loaded.

After a beat of silence, Samson realized that it was directed at him. "My name is Samson," he said, flinching as his right arm tried to fidget his missing fingers. He instead fiddled with his left hand, fingernails plucking against the skin around his thumbnail. It didn't quell the anxiety he was feeling, but he knew better than look away.

While Amarah's shoulders seemed to slump in resignation, that same glee from before was obvious on Den'il, the dissimilitude between the two women obvious. "And you remember that name?" Amarah asked critically, "Do you remember anything else?"

"Uh-" Finally glancing around, Samson noticed exactly how many dozens of eyes were trained on him. Feeling their weight, it made his mouth go dry. It had only been incrementally soothing to find out that he wouldn't be maimed or banished, because is memory was still missing, and so was his arm. While there could be space to hold hope, the dread he'd been feeling since waking up was far more powerful and overtook his chest. They couldn't help Vega, how can they help me?

"Ch-" Clearing his throat, he tried again, working through his anxiety to keep eye contact with Amarah. "Chimes?"

A gentle murmur broke out around them from the civilians who had shamelessly paused to view the spectacle. While Amarah's expression didn't worsen, it did not improve either. She looked at Samson's arm, up at his face, and then over at Vega.

"Hm." Her grunt was not a pleased one, a weathered hand coming up to rub at her cheek.

No one moved. Samson felt the urge to shuffle his feet, or look between Vega and Amarah to gauge their expressions. Instead, he stayed still before he winced again, the berries barely beginning to lose their hold on suppressing his pain.

This seemed to snap Amarah out of her reverie, looking at Samson again and waving him forward with a frail hand. "Come. Let us see what we can do about your arm."

As if on cue, the world around them bustled back to life, people scurrying to return to their tasks or strolling while Samson's brain struggled with the last statement. Could they give him his arm back? Or just heal the injury? An ever so gentle hand on his back made him jump as Vega tried to get him moving with the touch. "This way," Vega instructed, while Den'il and Amarah turned around and began leading the way.

Conversation between the two men stayed dormant as they walked, pace even slower to stay a respectable distance behind the women. Samson could see Den'il's hands moving in an abundance of different actions, while Amarah seemed to be nodding and speaking in response, tone too hushed to pick up.

Without the distraction of conversation, Samson's anxiety was returning more and more. They were going to help his arm, which was a good thing. Yet after what Vega had told him, the uncertainty of his past, present and future was overwhelming. It made him begin to glance over at Vega, taking him in more.

Each movement the smaller man made seemed to be a confident one. His cloak appeared tailored to fit him, like his armor had, and he looked as healthy as anyone else they had passed. Were those the right markers for a good life? Fed, clothed, and in good health?

How would I know? The defeatist mental note made his expression sour. What good of a gauge was he? They seemed like good markers, but from how Vega had described his life earlier, it sounded isolating.

Alive, healthy, but lonely. Was it better than where he came from? Would he ever see where he came from again?

The four trekked on, none of his questions being asked aloud.