“This isn’t a godslickin challenge!” Kate’s voice echoed through the camp.

After she had left, she and another knight had gone to practice fighting. From what I heard, Kate had been deeply disappointed.

-ting-

A pebble clattered off metal.

“Nice block, lady!” one of the drivers called out.

While I could not see any of what was happening, I could hear enough to form an idea of what was happening. People were throwing stones at Kate as she practiced with (I assumed) a blunt sword.

She had not been amused, judging by her tone of voice.

“Then we’ll need to make this more interesting,” a man’s voice said, partially strained and out of breath. Likely her training partner.

Kate growled.

“Think she can get ‘em all?” one of the drivers asked.

“Wanna up the ante?” another offered.

The observers treated the entire thing as entertainment and were laughing and catcalling. I could smell Kate’s ire from where we were. They likely were taking their lives into their own hands without realizing.

-ting-

-ting- -ting- -ti–

“Argh!” Kate bellowed.

I flinched from the volume.

Issen chuckled wetly, while Kissen slapped him upon his back to help break the phlegm loose.

“Is it always like this?” I asked.

“The child-warrior?” Larissen asked.

“Her, yes. Sir Kate?”

“Yes,” Larissen answered. “Her desire to improve is great. And her practice is often.”

“Sometimes she’s worse,” Lieutenant Muleater said, coming up from the outer side of the prison wagon.

I was startled, not realizing she was there until she spoke.

“But while she’s sparring, let’s chat.” She dragged a stool along and sat down near the bars. “I take it you’ve been enjoying your accommodations?” she asked.

I could not fathom if she was serious or if she was speaking in jest. My mouth hung open as I processed that. I most certainly was not enjoying them, but if I said that, then would that worsen my position? I lacked a read on Muleater. Fortunately, I did not need to answer in this case.

Issen snorted, breaking the silence. Muleater chuckled. The fact she was laughing left me thinking it had been a joke, but her laugh held an edge to it, and was somewhat off putting.

“You don’t sound like you’re at the peak of health, kun.” Muleater was speaking to Issen now. “Maybe you’re wishing my niece had a soft heart with you instead of the kid, yeah?”

The sick Kaiva shook his head, protesting, catching Muleater off guard.

“No, this one does not,”Issen said. “An old man or a young girl, which should be saved?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Muleater said. “But I didn’t come to talk philosophy. I wanted to find out more about the Red Queen and her crew. And if maybe you decided to spill a bit more about those questionable circumstances we found ya in...”

These people reminded me of a dog gnawing on a bone. They just would not let go. How many times would they try asking, and in how many different ways?

“...we might be able to get better accommodations for you if you helped us out a bit here.”

I had no doubt this time that the offer was genuine. Likely it was simply another interrogation tactic. Or possibly, she meant to sow dissent between myself and the Kaivan. Likely, this lieutenant thought I was foolish enough to take her at her word. If she wanted my cooperation, then she should have never had me put in a cage. But it was not as though I could say that, not so plainly.

However, that did not mean I could not make use of her bad-faith offer.

“W-what do you mean?” I asked in a purposefully weak voice.

Kissen gave me a pinch beyond Muleater’s sight. Likely, she wanted me to understand that humans could not be trusted. It was sweet of her to think she needed to warn me.

“Oh, what couldn’t be improved?” she laughed, slapping her thigh. “Better food for starters. Maybe more yard time. But it depends on how cooperative you are…” she trailed off meaningfully, putting the burden on me, as though I was the one that needed to prove I was worth treating with dignity.

“W-would the same apply for these three?” I asked, hoping to continue strengthening the empathy between me and my co-captives.

“Kitten,” Kissen hissed ever so lightly. The fact that Kissen was protesting meant my strategy was somewhat effective.

If Muleater heard Kissen, then she pretended not to hear, instead continuing the conversation with an irritating hum. If a hum could pose a question.

“Yeah, sure. If you want, that is,” Muleater said.

I nodded jerkily, “it is.”

“Generous of you. If I knew you were so obliging, maybe I wouldn’t have overreacted when we first met!” she said, continuing in that light-hearted tone, one that attempted levity, but only in the sort a hardened criminal would have. “But then again, you’ve got those markings, and aren’t those beauts. You know what that artwork does?” she asked.

I shook my head slightly.

“Heh, I didn't think you would. ‘Course, I can’t give ya any favors for that answer. So earlier you mentioned the Red Queen. Mind telling this gal how you bumped into that piece of work?”

I needed to give some answers, but it was getting tricky, keeping all of my previous answers straight. This was how interviewers caught liars. But fortunately, I had a plan besides relying on silence.

I gave another jerky nod, but not too eagerly. I was remembering something horrific. Then, after feigned hesitation, I answered verbally as well. “S-she s-shot-t me…”

“But how did you find her? I’m not gonna ask why she shot you, or had you shot. But how’d you come across her, is what I’m wanting here.”

Now, to come across as traumatized and repetitive. It was a fine line, but my act would be critical to avoiding additional suspicions.

“They–they shot me. I was running, but not fast enough. I hid in a canyon before running again.”

Muleater sighed and pinched her nose. “Fine, yes. Her people shot you. Can you describe the weapons they used, then, since you’re so held up on them?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Ye-yes… they were like guns, but with–”

She held up her hand to forestall me, and instantly I knew I had made a mistake. It did not take me long to figure out how.

“Gun?” she asked, barely stumbling over the word. “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the term. What do they look like?”

Of course. I had been too busy congratulating myself and I had to go and make that mistake. Mentioning something that might not even exist here. Using a foreign word.

I growled at myself, before realizing I was giving away a cue, one that Muleater’s sharp eyes took in. I calmed myself, at least on the exterior. I needed to recover.

“Putting a pin in that, what did these ‘guns’ do? What did they look like?”

That, at least, I could answer. And I should answer. Otherwise, it would come across as suspicious that I wanted to keep the term a secret. Because, why would someone be motivated to do that? So, I answered happily, playing off my previous faux pas as an error in translation.

“They pointed them at me and there was a flash of–of light–” I faked a slight sniffle, not enough to really be noticeable, but enough that subconsciously it might affect someone. Of course one of the Kaiva huffed. “It burned. In and out, it was numb at first, but then started to ache, then burn. It left a hole in my favorite jacket too…”

I watched Muleater’s face carefully. Her eyes flickered to the side, near one of the uncovered wagons. I could not be sure, but when I went to look for my jacket, I would check there.

“From the wounds we observed, we believe those were artificed weaponry. Incredibly prohibited artificed weaponry.” She frowned. “Was the Red Queen group your previous masters?”

“Wha–no!” I said, accidentally breaking tone and revealing far too much. Like the fact that I considered slavery absolutely reprehensible. Which, if I was reading my surroundings right, was a novel viewpoint around these parts. “I mean, no,” I corrected, but it was too late.

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “I want to believe you,” she said. “But this is not making a lot of sense. Why were they shooting at you then, if you weren’t escaping them? And not that I blame you–I get it–they sound like terrible owners. Illegal weapons and who knows what…”

Oh, she was good. I might have been taking her as a simpleton, but that was me underestimating her. I would avoid doing so in the future. But how should I recover this position? I could admit to breaking into the Red Queen’s base with an intention of theft, and the admission was tempting if the Red Queen Bandits truly were some sort of outlaw scourge, but there were a few issues. All of this story could be a ploy from Muleater to cause me to entrap myself by admitting to illegalities. Admitting to thievery lowered empathy points with law officers. And thievery against thieves might not actually be legal. Overall, it was just better to avoid any admissions of thievery.

So I lied.

“I stumbled across their base…” I said, already planning what had caused me to end up there in the first place, the gnolls. But to my surprise, she took the conversation in a different direction.

“You know where their base is?” she asked. I was pretty sure I had already answered that. Was she trying to catch me out in another lie? What had I answered last time?

“Maybe? D-do you have my map? … I remembered a few landmarks.”

“We’ll circle back around to that. There’s a reward for taking them in–especially if they’ve dipped their fingers in the weapons market. But before that, would you mind telling me how you came across them?”

“I–” I paused, and was sure to keep my face and eyes neutral, avoiding fidgeting or glancing one way or another “-was running from–”

“Running from?” she asked.

I originally had called them gnolls. I had heard humans call them hundeor. But what was the proper term, and what would avoid betraying my own sources of knowledge. I could not describe them without risking showing I know descriptors I should not. In the end, I defaulted to what the bandits had called them. “Hundeor?” I said. “They wanted to eat me? I think.”

“You ran across hundeor too?!” she crowed. “I guess you’ve got some luck, huh? How long you think you must have been wandering the wastes to run across all these hostiles?”

I shrugged and shook my head slightly. She was still digging for information, of course. She may have been hiding her tactics under friendly conversation, but I had no doubts that anything I said could and would be used against me. But I had to answer, otherwise I would gain additional suspicion and lose any rapport I had built.

“It… it was difficult,” I said, wetting my lips. “There was no food. No water… when I stumbled upon the bandit camp, I found a water barrel… but…” I trailed off, hoping that would allay any further questions until I could make my eventual escape.

“But?” Muleater asked. Unfortunate, but it had been a far fetched hope to begin with.

“It was not worth it,” I said, making a show of feeling my tender side where I had been shot. I did my best to school my expression as my hand passed over where my breast should have been, and as I was again accosted by the fact that I had been stripped naked, and that I had–fur–everywhere. A wave of disgust and self loathing filled me, but not a fraction of it pierced my face.

“I see… how long were you wandering the wastes?” she asked.

Most unfortunate. That was a question that would lead to more questions which would then reveal facts that I most definitely did not want to reveal. Such as how I awoke, and that I felt this world was not my own. In fact, I ought to stop claiming to be a human, even though I was. That would only raise suspicions, or cause people to think of me as a jokester, which would harm credibility. Regardless, I needed to redirect the conversation and hope it did not come back to my origins.

“I think…” I trailed off, breaking off my eye contact and looking downward, while curling up slightly around myself. With my differing body and anatomy, I was left unsure if I truly conveyed the emotion that I was faking.

“Yes? What is it?” Muleater asked, leaning in. “Whatever it was, you’ll be safe in my custody until we reach Bath.”

As if that was what I wanted to hear. But I had her now, and now it was time to redirect.

“There were other… things…” I said. “Creatures. I think they helped me, but also maybe… did other things? I’m having difficulty remembering. But the creatures, I can remember them.”

Muleater frowned. “Describe them.”

And so I did. While I had been feverish at the time, I had definitely lost my backpack to the creature, and even if it had traded me its possibly-drugged beverage in return, the trade had not been ideal. The creatures certainly had been odd. They had appeared made of moss and vines, with flowers ornamenting them. Despite the material, they had conveyed the image of danger.

“Wyrkwik,” Muleater hissed.

In an instant, her tone had completely changed. Her false joviality gone.

“You met them? In the wastes? That makes no sense. How could they have crossed over?” she muttered more to herself than anyone. “Someone must have smuggled them in… those bastards.” She punched the wall of the wagon, shaking the entire cage and cracking the thick plank of wood. That had been an unnaturally strong blow. And her hand appeared undamaged. “What were they doing?”

I shrugged helplessly.

“Is that how you survived out there?”

I grimaced. I did not want to admit that the wyrkwik traded me water and rations for my backpack. Who knew what superstitions existed, or if these people believed that the wyrkwik offered diseases. It would be better to avoid the risk altogether.

She grunted. “I need you to give me more than that.”

“They… they herded me?” I paused, both for impact, and because, looking back at it, I really was unsure what their purpose was. But it was undeniable that they had played a strong role in my arrival at the caravan. The question remained.

“Why?” Muleater asked, more to herself than anyone. “How close were they?”

I shrugged, “A day’s run,” I said, still unsure how distances were measured here, and unwilling to give anything up.

“Gods loving monsters!” she snarled in what I thought was a curse. “We’ll talk more later,” she finished, turning from me and striding off towards the caravan master, shouting, “We’re breaking camp earlier. I want to see some hustle!” she clapped her hands, kicking dirt at a driver who was still sleeping under his wagon, and bellowed: “Come on! Move it! Lazy sacks of slag!”

It was not long until the caravan drivers assembled, hitched their wagons to the bi-pedal mules, and broke camp.

Before we started moving, one of the drivers tossed a jute sack into the cage with us, which held our meals for the evening. We soon began moving, while Kissen opened the bag and sneered.

“These furless know nothing of cuisine.”

“More of their grains?” Larissen asked.

“No meat even,” Issen groaned. “Starvation will kill before this lung rot.”

“Still,” Kissen growled, handing a loaf of black bread to each of the males, and offering another to me. “These keep one’s strength… if barely.”

I held the ‘bread’ in my hands and barely considered eating it. It felt hard, it smelled as rank as dirty socks, and caused not a minor amount of repulsion. I recognized the bread as what the gnolls had kept in their pantry, which meant it had a long shelf-life. I could only hope that people in cities had better food than this. Because as it was, I refused. I handed it back to Kissen and shook my head.

“Kitten, I know this is foul. But this is all that will be given this day.”

“It looks rancid,” I said, switching to the language of these Kaiva with hardly a thought. Now that I knew what to look for, I realized that my ability to pick up languages was quite incredible, even extrapolating off to words I had yet to hear. The ability was miraculous enough it ought to have shown up on one of my glyphs as a Talent or Gift. But so far, I had not seen any obvious sign of my linguistic might. But I had noticed that my Blessing of Mind always increased drastically, accompanied by a terrible headache, when I encountered new languages. Perhaps the Blessing increased my mental prowess to the point I could just ‘learn’ languages like that? That would be incredible enough to be unbelievable. And yet, I saw no other possibility.

“It is rancid,” Kissen said. “But the alternative is starvation. And this Kitten already smells weak.”

I shook my head. Sure, I was hungry, but not that hungry.

“Kitten is a picky eater,” one of the males joked, putting emphasis on the nickname, demonstrating a level of insult which was likely meant to spur to me to eat. But that was hardly going to work.