Chapter 7 - Crevices and Convergence
Prairie grass crunched under Sylven’s boots as he adjusted the straps on Whisker’s harness. The foothills loomed ahead, their rugged slopes reflecting back the bright rays of the afternoon light. Sylven squinted against the sun, scanning for the best approach to the Cradle Caverns.
The routes he had plotted out seemed less certain now. The closer he came to kobold territory, the more he saw evidence of their presence: claw marks scratched on the rocks or pressed into the ground, discarded baskets, and shed scales. Interestingly though, there was not even one single chip of kobold eggshell to be seen anywhere.
He crouched behind a rocky outcropping and ran a hand over Whisker’s side. The pika was tense, his nose twitching rapidly as he sniffed the air. Sylven could feel his wariness through their bond—a tight thread of unease that mirrored his own nerves.
“You sense them, don’t you?” Sylven murmured, his own unease mirrored in the pika’s posture. Whisker flicked an ear at his rider, but his eyes, nose and whiskers were aimed at the hills ahead, catching scents and sounds Sylven couldn’t perceive. For a moment, he envied the creature’s instincts.
Sylven leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We’ll stay far enough back. I’m not taking any chances with you here. I need you rested and ready to run.”
The bond pulsed faintly with something Sylven interpreted as grudging agreement. He smiled, though his heart still pounded.
He tethered Whisker to a sturdy root under cover of a dense bush. “Stay hidden,” Sylven said softly. “I’ll be back before the moon rises.”
The pika settled into the shadows, his fur blending with the dry underbrush. Sylven set off alone, the familiar weight of his well-worn weapons and gear offset by the newness and fiddly straps of the rucksack he just got in Mossgrove. This must be how it feels to wear a mount harness, he pondered as he crossed the straps over his shoulders, ruefully looking back at Whisker stuck waiting at the hiding spot.
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In the dim glow of the Cradle Caverns, Vikka adjusted the contents of her basket, keeping the jumbled mess random enough that the other kobolds wouldn’t care or couldn’t tell what she really carried. The egg was a muddy, mossy lump unceremoniously shunted against the basket’s side, its telltale shell and shape further concealed beneath layers of leaves and fungi. Vikka had picked out the darkest detritus she could find to line the basket and make it look deeper and emptier than it really was.
She steadied herself before stepping back into the warmth of the main nesting chamber. In contrast to the one she was about to discard, the colony’s most treasured objects proudly gleamed in the fire and candlelight. The nest-mothers gingerly handled the vessels of the precious future hatchlings as if they were brittle as honey glass. Their shells were actually quite tough though, up until the point when they were just about to hatch.
Ryrik was keeping vigil by the corridor leading towards the cavern opening, her sharp eyes narrowing as Vikka approached. “And where do you think you’re going? Again?”
Vikka hesitated, then ducked her head in what she hoped was a convincing display of deference. “I was going to the eastern slopes, elder sister. Some of the nest mothers said we’re running low on firemoss for the new eggs and hatchlings.”
Ryrik folded her arms, her gaze flicking to the basket. “And what makes you think you’re the one for the job?”
“I…” Vikka faltered, her tail curling around her feet. “I thought it would be a chance to make myself useful. To prove I’m not… falling behind.”
“Still no egg, hm?” Ryrik’s sharp expression softened slightly, though her tone remained firm. “You know, the others have started calling you the ‘slowlayer’ of the clutch.’”
Vikka’s scales flushed. “I’ll catch up,” she insisted. “I just need a bit more time.”
“More time won’t make you fertile,” Ryrik said bluntly. “But…” the older kobold suddenly softened, “guilt won’t help, either.” Vikka remembered that Ryrik, although a fecund layer in her youth, had stopped being among those chosen to mate and fertilize her eggs for many cycles by now. The nest mothers must have reported some flaws in her earlier clutches to the queen.
“Sorry. After Skaith was singled out for having been the first to lay…” Vikka paused. “I began to worry that I would never gain favor after taking so long, or maybe not ever laying at all. So, I thought I’d need to find other ways to contribute more to the colony.”
“Fine. Go,” Ryrik sighed. “But if you’re not back by dark, you won’t just answer to me, but to all the other nest mothers who’ll be sure not to give you another moment’s peace again,” the older kobold smiled conspiratorially.
Vikka nodded and smiled back, her tail flicking in relief as she walked past Ryrik and into the corridor leading outside. The fresh air hit her scales as she emerged, her chest tight with both apprehension and determination.
One step out, she thought, gripping the basket tightly. One step further away.
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At the opposite end from where he last approached, Sylven scaled a narrow ridge leading up to the cavern entrances. His movements were slow and deliberate, hampered by the gusts of wind that swept across the foothills, threatening to blow him off course. When the blasts of air rushed into the rucksack on his back, it would puff up like a balloon and he had to hang on by driving his axe into the rocks, their sharp edges pressing hard against his palms as he gripped them for traction. Sylven cursed and wished he were light and skinny enough to have fit on a bird mount.
By keeping to crevices and shadows, he managed to avoid the kobolds’ attention as they scanned the terrain on their patrols. The guards didn’t venture too far out from the entrances and seemed to keep an eye out more for larger predators circling their regular gathering spots.
He paused near an outcropping, his gaze darting to a narrow crack in the stone near the caverns’ eastern side. It was barely wide enough to squeeze an egg through, but it was unguarded and would be hidden in shadow as the sun set.
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Sylven felt a flicker of hope. That’s my way in.
Then the first drop hit him.
It splashed against his shoulder with surprising force, making him flinch and soaking the fur of his vest. Another drop followed, then another, until the sky opened up and rain began to fall in earnest.
Sylven grimaced as the large, cold droplets pelted his exposed skin. At his size, each drop landed like a blow, the impacts upsetting his balance and making the rock beneath his hands slick and treacherous.
The ridge became a gauntlet of hazards. Streams of water cascaded down the slopes, turning the loose dirt into shifting rivulets of mud. Sylven’s feet skidded on the wet stone, forcing him to splay his limbs out and cling desperately to the ridge’s edge.
A deafening crack of thunder rolled through the foothills, followed by a flash of lightning that illuminated the entire landscape. Sylven froze, his breath catching as the light briefly exposed him. The kobold guards on patrol had stopped in their tracks, their heads lifting to the sky as they hissed and muttered amongst themselves.
Sylven’s hand tightened around his axe. He needed to move, needed to retreat before the storm turned the ridge into an impassable slide.
A particularly heavy drop hit the side of his face, battering him like a gloved punch. His strained limbs spasmed, and for a terrible moment, he was tempted to just let go.
“Focus,” he whispered to himself, forcing his free hand to find purchase on a chalky patch of lime. He hauled himself back up, his muscles trembling with effort.
The rain showed no mercy. It hammered against his back, drumming against his rucksack and soaking his clothes until they clung to him like a heavy second skin. Sylven gritted his teeth, his mind racing. Whisker. He’s too exposed where I left him. He can’t run fast enough in these conditions.
With no other choice, Sylven turned back. He abandoned the ridge and slid down the slope, his boots skidding on the slick rock. The storm blurred his vision, the rain smothering his face as he half-ran, half-fell back toward the pika’s hiding spot.
When he finally reached the bush where Whisker was tethered, relief flooded through him. The pika was crouched low, his fur beaded with rain but otherwise alright. His large brown eyes darted to Sylven as if to say, ‘You took long enough.’ Sylven let out a soft chuckle, brushing the rain off the pika’s head. ‘I’m back,’ he murmured, and through their bond, he felt a flicker of relief—tentative, but there.
Sylven knelt beside him, undoing the tether. “I won’t leave you here,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the storm. “We’ll find better shelter.”
Whisker huffed softly, his ears flicking as a particularly fat raindrop splattered on his head. Despite his unease, the pika didn’t resist as Sylven guided him through the rain to a denser, less permeable thicket further up the slopes, partly sheltered under an overhang. Sylen hung his vest and rucksack from some thorns poking out overhead as an additional shield from the elements.
The storm continued to rage, the wind howling as the two huddled beneath their makeshift shelter, Sylven resting against Whisker’s side.
The bond between them pulsed faintly, their shared discomfort making them feel more like a team of equals.
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The eastern slopes stretched out before Vikka, flashes of distant lightning cutting through the overcast horizon. She adjusted the basket on her shoulder, careful to keep its contents steady.
Her clawed feet dug into the ground as she navigated the path uphill. The instinctive pull of the nest faded with her every step, the wind and her rising spirits nudging her forward.
Vikka paused to catch her breath, her arm curling protectively around the basket. She glanced back toward the caverns, the entrances now barely visible as more clouds gathered to blot out the sun.
She shook off all the other thoughts that had been suffocating her, the whispers of her clutchmates, the expectations of the queen, the cycle of nesting and hatching, and focused on the climb. The slopes grew steeper as she pushed forward, her claws scraping against the loose rock. She needed to go farther—far enough that no one would find the egg and trace it back to her. Eggs weren’t meant to leave the caverns. Not even their shells.
The first drop of rain splashed against her snout, startling her. Vikka froze, her eyes darting to the sky. The clouds above had darkened, their edges bruised with the promise of a storm.
Another drop fell, then another, until the rain began in earnest. It came in fat and heavy, hitting her scales like dull little pebbles. The moss and fungi in her basket began to soak through, the rain loosening the carefully packed layers she’d used to hide the egg.
No, not now, she thought, her claws tightening around the basket. She picked up her pace, her tail whipping back and forth in an effort to wipe the rain off her back.
The ground beneath her feet grew muddier and slipperier, every step would have been a battle to stay upright if not for her tail augmenting her balance and her claws her grip.
The basket jostled against her chest, and she could feel the egg shifting inside. She bent, trying to shield it as best she could from the downpour. The mud she’d coated the egg with was dissolving, exposing patches of pale shell beneath.
Her chest tightened as panic threatened to take hold. She couldn’t leave it here—not like this. The rain would wash away her efforts to hide it, and anyone who found it would know.
Another crack of thunder rolled through the air, and Vikka’s tail lashed in frustration. She clawed at the ground, trying to scoop out more mud that she could reapply to the egg, but the rain just washed it off her hands.
“Vikka!”
Vikka’s head snapped up, her heart lurching as she spotted the worst possible kobold to catch her out like this.
Ryrik.
The elder kobold managed to make the ascent steadily despite the slick terrain. She held an arch of woven grass over her head, though it wasn’t too helpful in shielding her from the storm.
“You chose a fine time to be outside,” Ryrik said, her voice raised to be heard over the thunder rumbling. “This storm could last a while. Why haven’t you turned back?”
“I ‘m still looking for more firemoss,” Vikka said quickly, her claws tightening around the basket. “With the storms coming and the nights growing longer, we’re going to need lots more soon to help keep the nest warm enough for the new hatchlings.”
Ryrik’s gaze flicked to the basket, her tail swishing with faint irritation. “And you thought you’d find enough of it out in this weather by tonight?”
“I didn’t expect the thunderstorm,” Vikka admitted, lowering her eyes. “But I really don’t mind getting wet.”
Ryrik sighed, the edge of her irritation softening. “Show me what you’ve gathered. Let’s see if it’s worth all this trouble.”
Vikka’s breath caught. She tightened her grip on the basket, her mind racing for an excuse. “It’s not much just yet,” she snapped. “But I’ve packed the firemoss under layers of cavemoss to keep it dry,” Vikka’s words tumbled out in a rush. “If I pull it out now, the rain will soak through, and all of this will be wasted. I was going to try farther up the slope, but—”
Ryrik’s eyes narrowed. “If you get sick or injured that’ll be an even bigger disruption to the nest, you know. It’s hard enough making sure the weaker eggs, the smaller hatchlings, all have a chance to last the winter.” She glanced toward the horizon, where the lightning illuminated the jagged peaks of the Ember Foothills.
“I’ll head back soon. It’s not that bad, good thing the rain slips right off our scales. I can’t imagine how miserable it must be to be a furry animal out in this weather.” Vikka rambled, her voice even despite the panic clawing at her chest.
And as if the elements themselves were imparting their blessing, the rain chose to weaken to a light drizzle right at that moment. “See! It was just a quick little shower!” with her tail, Vikka flicked off the water sliding down her back a bit too enthusiastically, almost splashing Ryrik.
Ryrik studied her for a long moment, her own tail swishing in thought. Finally, she sighed. “Just don’t linger. If you get stuck up there and the storm worsens, don’t expect me to come looking for you again to help you down.”
With that, she turned and began making her way back to the entrance, her form quickly swallowed by the rain and shadows.
Vikka exhaled shakily, her grip on the basket tightening until her claws bit into the weave. She hunched over it protectively as she continued her ascent.
The rain still came down in erratic bursts, but she managed to keep the basket mostly dry, its weight pressing against her chest like a question she couldn’t answer. If this egg didn’t define her purpose, then what did?