The golemite stomped toward the far corner of the makeshift encampment. There wasn't far to go, and the creature stood at least ten feet tall, so it reached its destination in no more than seven steps. Then it plopped down abruptly, a cloud of dust billowing out around it. Three humans sat with the creature around a small fire of their own, and a large dog lay on the ground among them.

Marek helped Mags up and whispered in her ear, "He said that man saw me fight. Think that means..."

"That they know you're a monster like I do?" Mags’ smile faltered, and she elbowed him a moment later. “Oh, don’t be like that. It's fine, Bones. We're fine, okay? Quit looking at me like I'm going to leave you high and dry. Like it or not, you're stuck with me."

He sighed, and a bit of the tension he’d been holding onto eased. "Thanks for saying that. Anyway, I guess we should go say hi?"

Several of the caravanners watched them go, but the attention didn't last long. Before the pair reached the golemite and its friends, an elderly couple had taken their place by the bonfire.

Marek stopped a few feet from the group and waited to be addressed. The Basari man—Ashurai, Marek supposed—bowed his head. "Please, sit with us, and Niamh will heal the woman if she consents."

Mags looked around in confusion. Marek wasn't sure who this Niamh was, but he figured all would be revealed in due time. Nodding to Mags, he sat opposite the men. At a glance, Marek decided it was an odd bunch, not only for holding company with a golemite but because each was as odd as the last.

The Basari sat rigidly, the elaborate scales of his chest armor shining in the firelight. The clothes beneath the mail were dark in color, a deep gray or brown, and rather than the loose garb favored in Ardea, they wrapped tightly about his frame.

Marek supposed the man might have a handsome face—not that he was any expert—yet Ashurai’s expression was as hard and unreadable as a desert plain.

Beside him sat a cloaked man whose head bobbed side to side as if animated by unheard music. Every part of his body was clothed in bright reds, greens, and blues. No skin was visible, and were it not for a lack of breasts, Marek wouldn’t have known his sex. It was disconcerting, confronting a stranger so concealed. Even his face and hands were covered.

The third figure was that of an old man wearing faded brown robes. He held an elaborate walking stick in his lap, secured by thin fingers. He’d have passed as any other aged traveler were it not for a lingering smile on his tanned lips and the thin strip of cloth binding his eyes.

The golemite thrummed beside them. “Hmm, introductions are in order. I am called Gorb. Hamin wears the cloak and mask. Ashurai is the great warrior from Basar. Oh, and our panganid friend is Rushi.”

Mags smacked Marek across the chest so hard he nearly toppled over backwards. "Excuse me, what?" she blurted out. "Did you say panganid? That animal there is a panganid?"

Gorb vibrated the air with its uncanny laugh, and for half a second Ashurai, the man that had helped them, smiled. Just as quickly, the warrior grew solemn again. He nodded. "Yes, my Rushi is panganid. Many mistake her for a common dog, which is favorable. Her kind are revered by too many cultures for their scales and organs."

"That's horrible,” Mags said with a smirk. “Let me guess, some nonsense about gaining strength or reviving old men's pricks?"

Ashurai coughed and cast his dark eyes downward in obvious embarrassment. The old man seated beside him cackled in delight. "A heart of fire and a venomous tongue. Low-born empress indeed."

Mags frowned and checked her excitement. "What was that?"

Ashurai asked, "Do you wish to speak, wanderer?”

The old man batted the air before him. “Ah, but I gave up speaking years ago. Abominable waste of time."

Sighing, Ashurai met Mags' eyes again. "You have the right of it. Rushi is a treasure far surpassing the whims of men, so I keep her close.”

Marek watched his friend out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at the furry animal with desire, and he knew she'd soon want to pet the damn thing. Panganids were fierce creatures capable of felling a small bear, not to mention a human. Keep it together, Magpie, he wanted to say. We don't know these people. Hoping to maintain control of things, he directed the conversation toward a more favorable topic. "You mentioned a Niamh? I assume that’s this… wanderer’s name?”

Ashurai sat up a little straighter. “No. Unfortunately, the old one wished to keep his name to himself. Wanderer seems to serve just fine.”

“Fortune will find you in time, Ashurai,” the old man mumbled. “Patience and a pinch more flesh to sacrifice, and you’ll find it.”

Marek wasn’t sure what to say to that. The old man was quite obviously mad, and yet they treated him as if he’d been their companion for years. Brushing the mystery aside as irrelevant, he said, “Well I hate to be rude, but you mentioned a healing? My friend isn’t well. She suffered a head injury, and I’m concerned… May we meet this Niamh?”

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Gorb rumbled in response. "Our Niamh does not wish to be seen. She's shy around so many humans. Please forgive her. She prepares to give this one a blessing of root, stem, and leaf, however. Does the woman welcome this blessing heart and soul?”

"I'm sorry, what?" Mags asked groggily. “Can’t you just say it straight?”

Marek sighed. Everyone present had an interesting way of speaking. Gorb talked like a scholar that lived three hundred years ago, Mags had the mouth of a soldier, and Ashurai acted far too formal. Then there's the old guy. Drops a few bizarre phrases and now he's asleep again? Repressing his frustration, Marek explained, “He's asking if you agree to be healed."

Mags closed her eyes and nodded once. "Oh, okay. Gotcha. Gorb’s an it, Marek, but my answer is yes. I'd be a Rift-born bastard to say no, wouldn't I?"

While Ashurai averted his gaze once more, Gorb shook the ground and made the tongues of flame dance with his laughter. Then a pinprick of light burst over Mags' head. A shower of pale blue sparks fell over the woman, whose eyes had gone wide in shock. Mana rippled up and down her arms.

Then Mags wrapped her arms about her shoulders. "It tickles!" she exclaimed, cursed a few times, then giggled again.

Marek’s instincts urged him to leave these people there and then. Everything felt at once familiar and comfortable, almost like he and Mags had known these people in a previous lifetime. That worried him to no end. These are strangers, he told himself. We thank them for the blessing and then move on as soon as we can. Mags and I didn't come here to make friends.

"I'm so glad we've found a few friends," Mags said. "Thank you so much. I feel... ugh, myself again." When she turned to Marek, he saw the truth of her words. The color had returned to her cheeks; in fact, a flush of vitality covered her face and arms. “Better, in fact! Wait... Marek, I think we talked about this, but I feel like I just woke up from a weird dream. How is Cinnabar? Is she okay?"

"She's with the caravan's farrier. Don't worry—I had a chance to talk to him briefly before we ate. Cinnabar will be fine. She strained a muscle in her neck, and she's going to have a few scars like you, but nothing time can't fix."

Mags blew out a breath of relief before eying the strangers suspiciously. "Okay, my memory is a little off. I remember your names, but I still don't know why we're here. What's going on?"

Good, Marek thought, relieved he wasn’t the only one hesitant to trust. I’d rather her be rude than scatter-brained. Whoever or whatever healed Mags did a good job of it. Now, if we can only figure out how to get away without revealing too much.

For the first time, the man named Hamin spoke. His head tilted to one side, but otherwise, he didn’t move an inch when he said, "Ashurai has a gifted eye. He saw a man and a woman riding horses, a pack mule at their back. Then he saw the boar that tripped your wife and horse."

"We're not married!" Mags snapped. "Ew! Why does everyone keep saying that?”

"Your... friendly companion," Hamin corrected.

Ashurai leaned closer to the fire. Picking up where Hamin ended, he said, “You fired a bow outside the caravan, fought a greater kobold single-handed and came out on top, and that greatsword you wear is a mystery unto itself. Even my blind friend can see you hide a great deal from the world.” The warrior's eyes burrowed into Marek’s. After an awkward silence, he added, "May I ask what Class you have received?"

Shit, now I have to lie, and I'm terrible at it. Half-truth? Maybe that'll work.

Mags surprised him by piping up. "Pretty sure it’s rude to ask about those kinds of details. Sure is in Ardea. Are things different in Basar?"

Ashurai inclined his head. Indignance exuded from every pore on the man's face, but when he answered, he did so calmly. "You have spoken true. I beg forgiveness if I have offended."

"We're not offended; we just prefer to keep our business private," Marek said. "We came to Middlebrook for trade, and to purchase a few things for my uncle's farm. Then we'll be on our way again. Our Classes, abilities, and personal information are our own."

"There is wisdom in discretion," Ashurai said calmly. "I can respect that. What I cannot say is whether or not I was the only one to witness your... actions. You fight with little skill but move with the speed and power of a Tai Lan monk." The warrior's gaze softened then, and the tension eased. "Take care to hide such power, Marek. The next stranger to take an interest in you is unlikely to be so benign.”

The old man opened one eye and chuckled. “Secrets may help, and they may hinder. The wise cicada knows when to chatter and when to speak in silence. May your ears know the difference!”

“Wow,” Mags muttered beside him. “And there he goes again.”

Gorb shifted one leg, and its great eyes found Marek’s. “My friends will not pry. It is late, and soon the humans will sleep. Do you and your companion wish to stay with us? I have little need for rest, at least not in the many of mankind. I will gladly watch over you.”

Marek stood, deciding he’d heard quite enough from these strangers. “No, thank you,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist. “I’ve promised Una we’ll stay with her family tonight. Good luck on your own journey, and thank you so much for healing my friend.”

Mags waved awkwardly, eyes searching the air above the fire. “What he said. Thank you, Niamh, wherever you are. I feel so much better.”

“That reminds me,” Marek said. “If you don’t mind waiting a bit, I’d like to pay you for your kindness. The cost of a healer can be expensive.” He hoped he hadn’t overlooked the obvious. Perhaps these people were only offering a service, and here he was about to leave without paying. “Is two silver enough?”

Ashurai stood abruptly. The warrior placed a hand on the pommel of his sword and pursed his lips. “Now it seems you are the one walking the line of etiquette.”

The panganid roused, lifting her head and licking Ashurai’s hand with a long, red tongue. Black and yellow scales covered the creature’s chest and ran down the length of her spine. More grew on her cheeks, forehead, and neck. Every part of the panganid not armored sprouted a vivid orange and red fur. Ashurai stroked his pet’s brow and left the campfire, then headed off with the creature in tow, passing between the caravan guards and disappearing into the night.

“None have asked for payment,” Gorb said kindly. “Niamh delights in your offer. Her kind care little for coin, though. Should you find anything pretty in town, she’d gladly accept.”

“Very well. Like I said before, thank you, and good luck on your travels.” Marek left with Mags at his side. They walked immediately to find Una and the two cots that had been offered. “I’ll keep first watch.”

“No need,” Mags said. “I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.”

Marek nodded. His back and hips ached from the day’s actions, and his eyes burned. “Fine. Wake me at midnight, though. We both need rest. We leave for Middlebrook at first light.”