Ryzhan

I was not so acquainted with hospitals that I could say I always disliked all of them - I'd only been in a few -, but the chamber I entered resembled the ones I knew, and did little to ender itself to me.

Until the first time, I'd never been in a place of healing bigger than my first home. Most islands had a village doctor's hut, most ships the doctor's cabin and maybe some nearby rooms taken over and filled with medicines out of necessity. But hospitals were houses of healing where recovery was industrialised as much as smithing was in those cultures that sought to emulate the Free Fleet.

In my experience, hospitals were barren places, whose walls were bleached, off-white or bare more often than not; which smelled of harsh, faintly acrid substances meant to cleanse the body once imbibed or injected. Thankfully, my magic had allowed me to, by remembering my healthy days, avoid having to go to a healer too often. When I'd needed to, because of some poison or injury beyond means both mundane and those of my magic to overcome, the healer had been either a mage themselves, or someone similarly endowed with otherworldly powers.

I was glad I'd never needed to go a hospital. My brief visits, out of curiosity, had taught me why some people said "clinical" when they meant cold or aloof. People wasting away in rows of beds, or chained to them because of an illness of the mind...it made me grimace to think of it.

Part of it must have been my inherent dislike towards weakness, letting people have power over me and rummage through my body, but I honestly thought I simply disliked being poked, prodded or fed concoctions.

The room Aina's doppelganger and I arrived in did not smell as badly as the hospitals I remembered, and its walls were a white clean enough to be cheerful rather than unsettling, but I did not like them any more than I liked them. The difference was that I'd have to endure it for longer, because I was here to put on a show, not look around like a mouse out of its lair, then scurry away.

Aina lingered at the edge of my vision like a wraith, only seeming solid when I turned my head slightly, to truly look at her. I tried to pay no mind to what that implied. Thinking I was going mad or hallucinating was only going to make me paranoid and ill-tempered, the two states I've never needed help to achieve.

I glanced around, musing that Serene Rest's power must've warped this room. There were far more beds and people inside than the room I'd glimpsed while walking down the corridor should've been able to hold: the doors had been wide enough I'd seen what had looked like the whole chamber. But this? This was bigger than the bloody building as a whole, maybe even the island as I'd seen it.

It made sense, I suppose. If the building had been as large on the outside as it was on the inside, it would've made a much bigger target for potential invaders than the inconspicuous structure I'd walked into. Not to mention the Rest would've had to be bigger too, which would've caused the same issue.

It was just my luck that no invader had ever stumbled upon this place with enough power to sink it under the waves. If anyone had come here seeking the place's destruction, they'd likely been rendered docile and unthinking. Maybe some of the poor bastards around me had come here as would-be righteous destroyers. The thought of such an undignified end made my blood boil.

While I was weighing the chances of getting heckled and using it as an excuse to put the ensnared wretches out of their miser, the false Aina moved forward as if floating, delicately elbowing me. I gave her a glare I'd have never dared send my childhood friend, but she just looked back with mild reproach.

'Introduce yourself, Ryz,' she whispered, indicating my soon-to-be audience with a jerk of her narrow chin. 'They're curious.'

If I'd had more time, I'd have told her to bugger off and remember I wasn't her Ryz, but I wanted to get out of here as fast as possible, not dawdle. Leaning on my cane like an idle lordling, I nodded as if I liked was I was seeing, lips drawn together as I hummed thoughtfully.

I did not, in fact, like what I was seeing. But, not to repeat myself...

Once, I'd gotten a grimoire at a bargain, the spell book being far cheaper than it should've been because something had removed its magic. As such, the rituals and incantations described in it swam in your mind when you tried to use them, though not when you tried to recall them. That had been no issue, however, because I'd bought the book just to read it, not to increase my arcane prowess.

It had costed an arm and a leg, which had once belonged to a man who'd tried to kill me (for it had been a lich's book of death, and such things mattered) after I'd "stolen" the innkeeper he'd allegedly set his sights on. That barely worked when it came to objects you could pay for, much less hotheaded, clearly not interested women.

In any case, despite the tongue lashing he received from her for his petulance, and the thrashing he got from me when he tried to take a swing at the lady, he was undeterred. The rat bastard came for me in the night, when I lay, half-asleep, under the pleasantly plump woman. The dagger coming for my neck had woken me up as quickly as a bucket of ice water, and I'd pushed Tylha off me, before clumsily fighting that snake Pfharek off for a few heartbeats, finally managing to push him out of the window. I'd never been happier to rent a room on a building's third storey, but that made it up for all the walks up and down the stair (the privy had been on the ground floor).

Sadly, during our struggle, Pfharek's knife had found and opened Tylha's throat. She barely managed to gurgle that it wasn't my fault and that she didn't blame me before the light left her eyes. I must admit that, between that and the questioning I got minutes later, resulting in me trying to prove I wasn't a murderous, sadistic deviant (Pfharek, who'd been lying in the bushes, had been helpful as evidence. The jealous dog had managed not to groan in pain after his fall, though the kicks I gave him, after the inn's staff and I made our way down, did the trick. I could almost admire the tenacity), I avoided women for a while.

That diversion aside; the lich's grimoire, while empty of power, still contained detailed, lifelike (ahem) sketches of the creatures born from the undead mage's imagination. The undead warlock, Victorious Honest (Frank, depending on translation) Stone had been a skilled if not humble necromancer, with a specialisation in stitching together the remains of people he dug up.

The creatures portrayed in the spell book were what Serene Rest's inhabitants reminded me of, though there were no stiches or sutures visible on their bodies. However, their ashen complexions could've fooled me into thinking them lifeless. Between their grey skin and the splash of pink on their cheeks, they looked like some monster's attempt at recreating humans out of memory, which, come to think of it, was not that far from the truth.

My skin started crawling as soon as the people (?) began walking towards me. It wasn't that they were grotesque, or even menacing, except in the vaguest sense. But there was just enough of humanity in them for the differences to be more jarring than, say, a Seaworm bursting out of nowhere. I've heard it called the strange gorge effect, apparently because a traveller had once met an unsettlingly humanlike, terrifying creature while passing through a dale.

A man, if man he was, approached me, and I saw his pale skin was not unbroken, but rather, seemingly wrapped over his flesh, like a collection of bandages or leather straps. Strangely, his eyes, set where some of the "wrappings" met, did not appear out of place. Indeed, the sockets did not appear deeper than mine, despite looking like they should've reached deep into the "seams": dark lines I might have missed with my magic sharpening my sight, and even then, I could not tell what was under the being's hide, if there was anything.

And here I was used to getting under people's skin during first meetings. Perhaps I would use this in the show, during the breaks. A little comedy between the stretches of drama does not hurt.

'If only my life understood!', I imagined myself crying with passion after a monologue, voice slowly rising as I spoke. They didn't need to know me, in any meaningful sense. Some things, you just understood, even from men you'd never met, even from other species.

The creature that looked like a bandaged man, wearing a pair of grey trousers, a dark blue shirt, soft-looking and loose, that ended between his shoulders and elbows, stopped just of of arm's reach, right when I began hesitantly raising my hand to shake his. I managed to disguise the aborted movement by pulling up my belt as if it were loose.

Aina spoke into my mind, tone slightly chiding. Go on, my friend. They don't know if you like being touched - not everyone does.

Hmph, I thought back, not liking how she'd invaded my mind without permission or warning. But he must've seen me reaching for his hand, surely.

Not everyone shakes hands.

I supposed not. Clearing my throat, I tried to smile as affably as I could. I was pleasantly surprised to discover I'd regained my ability to fake moods, which was reassuring, after all the outbursts recently forced out of me.

'Greetings!' I tossed my cane up, with it twirling a little in the air, and caught it by the haft when it feel, before leaning it over my shoulder. I'd always appreciated the actors who made an effort to be flamboyant and enthusiastic outside of shows. It made the performances feel more genuine, I felt There was something saddening about going to talk to the town jester in the back of the sage and meeting a dour, irate man. 'I would've come sooner, but ah, your land simply could not get enough of me.'

He smiled toothlessly - I caught a few white glimmers in the shadows of his mouth, though they could've been anything, if his insides were as strange as his outside -, just a little upwards quirk of his lips' corners, like I'd seen from those performers who covered their faces in flour and acted like mutes, and took a small, quick breath, the sort you might in the morning, when you're not quite awake, and which left you choking on air.

Not that a man as poised as me had ever suffered such, Vhaarn forbid.

'You are the actor,' he said in a pleasant but hushed voice. Not quite a whisper, but like the voice of those old folk, weary of life, who sound tired, almost pleading, even when enthusiastic. 'The mage.'

Pointedly not asking how he knew (from the island?), I instead forced a cocksure grin, teeth gleaming. 'I see my reputation precedes me! Much like this lovely lady proceeds me!' Somehow not choking on that claptrap, I flicked my wrist at Aina's doppelganger, who accepted the empty words with a demure giggle, all but putting a hand over her mouth.

I gave her a sharp glance. I could not stand her, true, but perhaps she would make a good assistant? In at least a third of the theatres I'd frequented, it had been practically tradition for otherwise lone performers to have younger (-looking), prettier assistants of the opposite gender.

'You are the one who remembers,' the man said knowingly, his lipless mouth barely wavering. I did not like the sly, cunning note that had entered his tone. People who talked like they knew more than you, often encountered during card games, were rarely a pleasant sort, and often mischievous. 'Does it not hurt, to remember? Is that why you put on the smile?'

I laughed, voice high-pitched, like that of the typical contemptuous, amused aristocrat, and leaned forward, slipping an arm around the being's shoulders like we were old friends. Bowing forward slightly, I said softly, 'It often does. But if you think I need to bury what has been under a smirk, you know me not at all.'

Straightening, I held up a hand centimetres from his face. 'Got your nose,! I said brightly, as I would have to a child still young enough to like the game. A look around showed the rest of the room's occupants, while paying attention to me, given their postures and unblinking gazes, were not really reacting in any way. So, with an air of haughtiness, I said, 'You can laugh, you know. I'm not shy.'

A collection of reedy voices rose in polite amusement as the grey folks circled me. I smiled at each in turn, briefly - there seemed to be hundreds here, and I only had so much patience -, then, completing the slow pirouette, confirmed my initial impression hadn't been wrong.

There were only humans here.

Or, at least, only humanlike beings. I did not see scales, feathers, beaks, tendrils or the any of the other uncanny features that might be found in Midworld's other species. After sending this thought to Aina, I asked, Why is that? Are only humans welcome here?

A bigoted island wouldn't even be the strangest place I'd been too...or maybe we just tasted better. For all I knew, Serene Rest's other "guests" could've been in a different chamber, not that I'd seen or sensed entrances to any on the way to this one.

Everyone is welcome here, the construct replied, sounding surprised at the question, then added, everyone weary, who wants nothing more from Midworld after their journeys.

That would explain why the locals acted so lifeless, if not their appearance. I would have to ask about that, and more besides, later.

For example: the grey people's chuckles hadn't sounded like they were indulging an unamusing person. While that was not bad by any means (fake laughter can be more annoying than heckling and booing), it made me wonder why they sounded like they were afraid or unable to raise their voices. It wasn't as if their throats hurt, but more like they were in the presence of something sleeping and dangerous, which they were afraid to disturb.

The dark thought that came in response to that would have to be voiced later, alongside my other questions. Not because I was afraid of the grey folk (I could've probably floored them by spitting, and they did not radiate power or indeed, anything else), or of the island I'd already defied, but because there was something innocent in their tranquility, which I did not want to disturb.

Checking my senses suggested my mind was not being addled. Until I learned just how much theirs were, I would try to keep quiet.

Raising my cane to chest-level, I began twirling it in slow circles. Green and yellow sparks soon followed, called into existence by a memory of fireworks above an island on the horizon; I began spinning it faster and adding more sparks, until I looked like I was holding a sceptre topped with a wheel of flame.

Despite knowing how lazy it made me, I smiled and thanked Vhaarn, as I did whenever I had a reason to appreciate how convenient it was to be able to make your own props and effects, instead of having to beg, borrow and steal. Actors less fortunate than me were always up for some scrounging, and often down for whatever it took to get them what they needed, however insulting the conditions of the bargain.

'I say, it seems I am spoiled for choice!' I declared in a rich voice indicating the grey people with my free hand. 'For in such a gathering of minds, there is bound to be a mingling of tastes. What would you like to say?' After letting them whisper amidst themselves for a few moments, I asked, 'Shall you put it to a vote?' Please, say yes and let me nag that woman. 'I can bring the past to life, mine and those of others. I can take the skills I've seen and apply them as a lesser entertainer would face powders!'

Boasting was not something I often did - it drew attention, and for a long time, I had suffered from an awful allergy to attention -, but it seemed to embolden them, their confidence growing as if feeding on mine, like vines on a tree. 'I wonder, what would move you today? I have known tragedy and horror, battle and intrigue, and so might you...'

I went off for a while, as if I were a server at one of those inns with so many options you feel faintly annoyed once offered the full menu. Like the predictably unenthusiastic patrons in those cases, my audience's response was subdued and boiled down to "A comedy! Make us laugh!"

Thankfully, for beings who looked so listless, they were quick to decide. Maybe they put all the energy idiots used to chatter into rapidly making decisions. Now that was a droll thought...

* * *

While the Rested, as Aina insisted I call them, assembled the stage - the island did not ban work, though it did its best to discourage any activity, since it could disturb the local harmony -, I found myself sitting on a low couch in a side room that I swore had appeared out of nowhere, cane in my hands. I did not like clutching a weapon all the time like some frightened savage, but Aina liked it even less, so I had no choice, really.

The humanlike creature, apparently still doggedly trying to seduce me, wore what I wasn't sure I would've called a dress. The diaphanous thing stopped mid-thigh and would've tightly hugged the chest of even a less endowed woman. Not that the fabric itself left much to the imagination. I'd seen more opaque glass and more modest working women.

In any other context, I might not have minded, but wearing my friend's face, and everything else, did not endear her to me. When she noticed me noticing her, she crossed her legs with a smirk, and I looked away, cheeks reddening as I scowled. Aina was probably the only woman I wouldn't have minded making a fool out of me, but this was not her, any more than a drawing would've been.

'You know,' I said casually, looking past her and through the small, round window showing a vista of pretty purple woods, likely leading to a beach, 'hen we were little, Aina had her hair done in this way I found quite endearing.' I shrugged. 'Since you are willing to resemble her for the sake of my nostalgia...'

A few moments later, I was able to look at her again, and trying not to smirk at the short bob cut. Not even my childhood friend could look anything but severe with that haircut.

I, of course, kept my eyes off the rest of her, to avoid blunders. I could not say I hadn't wondered what Aina looked like now, all grown up, but I'd find some time alone later and take care of that.

Going through my memories of my short-lived stint as a sewer cleaner - you would be surprised how many people dump corpses down there in cities with graveyards - helped me keep a cool head. Few men could muster much enthusiasm while drenched and reeking.

'Ask your questions, Yldii,' Aina's doppelganger said, perched on a couch opposite mine. She'd wanted to sit next to me at the start, but after a crass joke about that being the only way to get close to me, she'd changed her mind with a huff. I'd turned enough women away without trying to know what it took when I actually wanted them to leave me alone.

Once again, I had succeeded. I thought this was the first time she'd used my family name, which suggested that either my continued company was getting on her nerves, or she'd caught on that there was some joke going on with the bob cut. Either worked.

Deciding to rile her up a bit - nothing on the mind games she'd played on me earlier, really - I rested my chin atop a fist, the elbow of said arm on a knee. 'How did you live before meeting a charmer as handsome as me?'

Her smile was achingly beautiful, even as she rolled her eyes at my exaggeratedly arrogant tone. At the moment, they were like chips of ice, rather than the sky-blue orbs Aina should've had. I supposed she only cared so much about accuracy. 'I did not "live" before you came to Serene Rest. It created me to speak to you.'

'You're not the first woman to recognise me as her life's purpose.' I wiggled my eyebrows with a smug sneer, and she almost sneered back, before catching herself. Her smile looked forced now, though. Deciding I'd needled her enough, I said, 'That aside, I must say, I was quite surprised to find those stolen by the island leaving like this.'

'Peacefully?' Aina asked placidly. 'I told you. You convinced yourself I was lying, because the truth did not appeal to you.'

'Actually, I meant in a building. I imagined them buried alive, with this place's tendrils digging them into them.'

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'The island provides,' she said with quiet certainty. 'Whatever one needs to find peace, it will give.'

'About that.' I tapped my cane with a couple fingers, unable to find a rhythm. Place must've been meddling with my focus. 'What did, does, your master do to keep them so subdued? They are practically cadavers, and I don't just mean in terms of looks.'

The false Aina brought her hands together, just the fingertips touching. 'Are you familiar with the concept of lobotomy?'

The Free Fleet's mindless slaves marched through my mind's eye, only scarcely more lively than the wretches in the other part of the building. Had she missed that while digging around in my head? 'I've some experience.'

'Then you are aware it is often used by healers, for the good of the ill?'

I was not, to any serious degree. I mean...I understood that it could be beneficial, in the loosest sense: the Fleet's lobotomites knew no pain or fear, no doubt or hesitation. In battle, they could not panic or rout, any more than they could rise up in times of peace. They were the perfect servants, for they would have to be remade, by means of great power, in order to be free of their chains.

Maybe one day, once I learned what people they had been...

But I did not see how that related to what Aina was talking about. Rummaging in a human's brain to remove fear, pain, anger or sadness would surely leave them as lackwits, unless one was working with the power to warp reality, rather than merely tools to cut and mangle.

'Are you saying the patients have brain damage?'

'Patients?' Aina echoed, nonplussed.

I waved a hand. 'Old story. The walls, the rows of beds - they just reminded me of a hospital.'

'Ah!' Her smile returned. 'Yes, you could say Serene Rest is a house of - unending - healing. A place where one becomes better and better the more they stay, as their woes are wiped away.'

The atrocious, hopefully unintentional rhyme aside, that sounded like a nightmare to me. Having to spend forever in a house of healing would've been bad enough without it being on an island that made a point of raping minds.

But, even if I thought so, there was little point in voicing it. Most likely, Aina would pick it up from my surface thoughts if she hadn't already, and it wasn't like I was going to change her mind by arguing. Pit, I probably couldn't, literally, if she even had something like a mind to change.

'About them,' I began, tapping my knee. 'They all seem so...'

'Content?' she offered when I trailed off, unsure how to put it politely.

'I was going to say placid, but let's say I agree. This contentment,' I continued, heedless of her frown. Already rendered inhuman by her empty, unblinking eyes, the grimace almost made her outright ugly, for all her similarities to my friend. I knew telling women to smile more was dangerous in the best circumstances, however, so I kept my mouth shut. 'Is it...natural?' I held up a hand to make her pause when she opened her mouth, predicting she'd try to sell me some snake oil about how of course it was natural to be like that, how could anyone else react on Serene Rest? 'By which I mean, do they feel that way themselves? Truly? Or is it induced?'

'The island takes away their woes,' Aina said bitingly. 'Once that is gone, people come to love peace on their own.' Much the way cripples came to appreciate leisure, maybe.

'Indeed? Do they never think of their pasts, get homesick?' For some childish reason, I pointed my cane at her as I asked the next question, as if it were an accusing finger. I'd seen this move in a painting once, I thought, "Judge Reveals The Unjust" or something of the sort. 'Do they even remember them? Can they feel anything but "peace" anymore?'

Once again thinking of hospitals, I reflected that I wouldn't have enjoyed being forced to be peaceful. I wouldn't have enjoyed being forced to be anything, obviously, but having lamb-like thoughts forced into my head like becalming herbs down my throat felt oddly insulting, more so than being forced to be angry, for example.

That was the lout in me speaking, most likely. Of course he found more solace in the thought of being a knuckle-dragger than a vegetable.

'Why does it matter if they cannot?'

'That is not what I as-'

'Ryzhan,' she cut me off, voice oddly intense, though she hadn't raised it. Though her eyes did not change appearance, being mirror-like, pale blue orbs, I felt them focusing on me, somehow. 'Do you honestly think it is worse to be made "placid", as you said, than to face Midworld and all the chaos of the spirit it causes in folks' hearts?'

Dear Vhaarn, the pomposity! Was the lump of rock we were sitting on really bored enough to make its puppet talk like this?

'Of bloody course it's worse,' I grunted, looking down, not deigning to meet her eyes after such a ridiculous question. Next, she was going to ask me if my god was real, or some other nonsense. 'Those worn down by the world can at least end themselves, should they wish so. This island's people likely cannot even think about anything unless prompted.'

'From where I am standing, the only true difference seems that, while both situations are inescapable, one is actually beneficial.'

Not an untrue notion, but nor was it one anyone sane would entertain.

'This island is a predator,' I said bluntly. 'It might not literally eat its prey, but it hollows them out as surely as any spider, and far more cruelly, too. At least when those kill you, your corpse doesn't remain to shamble along - speaking of that,' I said before she could interject, doubtlessly to contradict me. 'They, or so it seemed to me, appeared oddly hesitant. As if walking around a sleeping danger, afraid to rouse it. Could they have a reason for that, do you think?'

Aina huffed at my overly-innocent tone and wide eyes, but answered. 'Raised voices, strong, sudden movements, might be alarming. They do not wish to disturb each other.' Seeing my disbelieving expression, she went on, in a tone as sweet as mine had been sardonic, 'Is it so difficult to beliebe that, once taught to live well by Serene Rest, they would be considerate?'

Trained like dogs, more like. Or livestock. 'Consideration, is it?'

For some reason, she smirked like she had me at cards. 'Would it surprise you to learn they keep quiet for the same reason they do not talk about their false selves?'

'Their...excuse me? What selves?' That had come out of nowhere. If there was anything to be called false here...

The construct nodded animatedly. 'Once worries and hardships are removed, one is free to become who they want to be. Before these folks came here, they were like stones in a river, still being carved by the tides of fate.'

I'd need to remember these lines if I ever decided to play a grandiloquent villain. Probably not this show, though: even those brain-cored dullards could spot something so on the nose.

Although...it was, would have been in other circumstances, somewhat wholesome to see things this way. All too often, I've heard people being described as showing their true colours after getting angry, as if who we were while happy or calm was false. It was oddly reassuring to hear the opposite, even if it came from a creature that saw peace the way the Free Fleet saw liberty.

I dipped my chin at her, as far as I'd go to compliment anyone with a hand in this nightmarish arrangement, before I decided to ask about another curious detail I'd noticed. Or, rather, a curious lack of details. It was a benign query, in that the answer or a lack of it wouldn't affect anything. Unless the explanation made me queasier than I already was.

Though I was thankfully unlikely to break down in tears, or retch, as people of a gentler manner might, I could only keep my outrage behind a calm mask, and making a scene during a scene (cue laughter) would not help my image. My image of myself, that was, I doubted anyone here would care, and I certainly would give no thought to their opinions, save incredulity that they could form any.

'You say everyone in the other room is human.' I'd have argued they hadn't been for some time, but my phrasing might just make her more pliable. Stroking my beard, I asked, 'But they all look like they are...that is, they are built like men.' Given her questioning gaze, she hadn't grasped what I was fumbling to get at. 'What I am meaning to ask is, well, what happened to the women? Are they separated?'

Surely the ships that had made it to the island hadn't been crewed solely by men? Every vessel or group of vessels needed women too, otherwise how could the crew keep its numbers up? It wasn't like you could leave your wife to wait for you on land for years while you went sailing with the lads.

'Oh, you mean you didn't notice?'

'What should I have noticed?' I asked, thinking that surely I wasn't so dense as to fall for the shaved woman with bound breasts scheme, like every stupid recruiter in japes about armies.

'There are no men or women out there.'

'Ah.' Well, that explained some things. Those who felt unwell in the bodies they'd been born with often sought mages to change them, though many fleets looked unkindly at those who would not or could not bear children. Even being a parent didn't mean safety if one was of a certain persuasion. You only needed to look at what my captain's parents had put him through because he loved men.

Still, I found it hard to swallow that Serene Rest would adjust its victims' bodies to match their minds just because it could. It would've been too much like actual helpfulness, when the place clearly only sought to ensnare the unwary and weak-willed. 'Would I be right to suspect this was done for the sake of inner peace?'

'It would not hurt you not to sound so scornful while speaking of it,' Aina replied, though she didn't contradict me. 'It was judged that this neutral form of flesh would be the best for maintaining a calm state of mind.'

'Judged?' I almost laughed. 'By one being, you mean. The isle. Did they want this? Did they even have the chance to "agree", if only out of fear?' I had this feeling their spirits had already been broken by the time decisions had started being made for them.

Aina's copy held up a hand. 'Ryzhan, I will be honest.' No! Indeed? 'While I do not mind teaching you about this land...why do you care so much about those saved from strife? You will forgive me for saying you've never been much of an altruist when it comes to those outside of your inner circle. Or have you forgotten the island you left to sink while its people drowned?'

I set my jaw. 'That was their choice. A true one, with no one forcing their hand. And anyone would be appalled by the husks you have shuffling around here.'

'If you don't think they're truly people, why do you intend to perform for them?'

I found myself staring into humanlike eyes of a dark blue, wide beneath arched eyebrows. Why was I intending to perform? Because this was the best role for me to play in Ib's schemes, whatever they were? I didn't think so. Being manipulated would've been even more distasteful than usual if it resulted with me ending up here.

What then? I'd been so beleaguered, between everything that had happened, the journey across the sea, then across Serene Rest...I'd stopped debating with myself about that to live in the moment, rather, to survive the moment. But I had time to think now, and no excuse for not doing so.

That was one of the dangers of Midworld, just as great as the storms and tides. Getting so caught up in surviving, doing anything for just one more day in which one could hold their kin and fellows, or, were they of a baser ilk, satisfy their simple pleasures. The harshness made you stop wondering, stop questioning, and that was something I could not allow.

Becoming so ignorant you stopped doubting, or so confident in what you thought you knew...it was the death of the spirit, for a thinker. For a scholar.

I had firsthand experience of how perilous it was. Had I not been so damned certain I was being chased, I wouldn't have gone around Midworld like a spooked horse, cutting alliances short with no explanation or a dishonest one. How many of the ships I'd left behind had sunk during a storm when my magic might have saved lives?

That was when I realised it. It all came back to my magic, in a way. And when it was all done, I might just have to thank Ib, the closemouthed lug, I thought with a fond, exasperated smile.

The old adage about suffering building character had always left a sour taste in my mouth, mostly because of the beatings handed to me by my father like sweetmeats other children might receive from a kinder sire. But, in this case, it might actually help. Magic, like diamonds, grew under pressure. By manoeuvring me into this situation, had Ib not ensured I would become more powerful, in addition to calmer? Everything that had happened on the path from the steamer, everything that would happen here...

And that magic might just help me, one day, look into the past as though through a window, allowing me to learn what had happened to those I'd abandoned, driven by the pursuit I'd imagined. It might even let me peer into the distant past, unearthing secrets that had been buried for hoever long Midworld had existed.

I could not deny the pleasure of being the first to uncover those was not appealing, but the knowledge itself, and what might come from it, would be priceless.

* * *

Mharra

Mharra's head bobbed as he slowly spun, taking in the spectators. Many of the vessels had seats built unto their decks - pleasure barges? Such luxury! How many could afford to sail for pleasure, and nothing more? -, while a few less "specialised" ones had made do with chairs likely brought from some cabin or the other.

A few people even clung the hulls of ships like barnacles, hanging onto nooks and crannies whose purpose Mharra could only wonder at. Had they been carved solely for the purpose of letting sailors perch on them like monkeys? The indents looked too smooth to have been caused by water. If he squinted, they even seemed evenly-spaced.

These people, with their garlands, their rivers of drink and mountains of food, their silk-roofed, flat-bottomed ships that dotted this uncannily calm stretch of sea like lazy frogs around a pond...had they ever known worry? In living memory, at least? The captain was not hypocritical enough to critique them for not sharing their bounty, but he was curious. Had they become so content, so complacent, that they truly didn't worry about anything - literally - beyond their horizon?

'If so,' Mharra muttered to himself, confident the people of the pleasure fleet wouldn't hear, but not really caring if they did, 'I'd better tamp down on this foolish jealousy, and wish them well. Bless their hearts, eh, Burst?'

His ship growled under him like a giant hunting cat, and, expansive as its current form was, Mharra felt a pressure building within the steamer, almost too great for it to contain, akin to that inside a coiled spring.

Or a snake, maybe. The sort that looked half-asleep until one darted up at you and crushed your torso with a bite of those fangless jaws.

Mharra felt a brief jolt of jealousy. Something with a mouth like an old man's shouldn't have so much damn strength in its maw. He still had to gnaw on some food, despite having teeth.

Mentally shelving the ophidian objects of his envy, Mharra turned his mind to the task at hand once more. His Three might have sent him a sign to live in the moment, but, even if that had been a hallucination, the idea wasn't wrong. Granted, most people whose arguments came to them in their dreams couldn't talk their way out of a sack, but he had a good feeling about this.

Tapping the deck-stage with a boot, he whispered, 'Nothing to share?'

'Who makes ships to keep them in one spot?' the steamer replied in a voice that could've been interpreted as the hiss of a hidden inner furnace, from a distance. 'It's like birthing a child just to cut off its legs.'

Ah, so that was it. His ship found the pleasure fleet unnatural. But, as long as it didn't try to sabotage the show. Mharra would leave it believe whatever it wanted. He was actually proud his mechanical friend had become able to form opinions, but discussing what a thinking ship meant would come later.

His audience had requested tragedy or horror, or anything else they didn't feel in their daily lives. Mharra had wracked his brain for a while, debating what historical event or story to stage, before deciding he might as well look to the near past and use acting to vent what gnawed as him, as performers had done for generations unnumbered.

But for that...

'I need a volunteer!' he announced bombastically, voice as loud as he could make it; even so, he needed the help of his ship's amplifiers to be heard clearly by everyone. 'Would anyone like to help me?' He held up a finger. 'Worry not, 'tis not a complicated role! A moment's instruction, and you'll understand.' His eyes glimmered as he smirked playfully at the fleet, teeth a slice of brightness in his dark beard. 'Of course, if you are too shy, I'm sure my faithful ship could provide an alternative...'

The denials of shyness and boasts of courage filled the air to the point Mharra wagered he could've heard them from leagues them. Laughing, he held up both hands, waving for them to settle down. 'Very well, very well! But it's just one role! I say, speak among yourselves, and let whoever you think the best-suite come forward.'

Mharra listed some desirable traits for his assistant: tall and slight, preferably male, capable of quickly going from exuberance to anger. He had thought about asking for three people, but, based on all the past shows when Three had pretended to disappear so he could ask for replacements, the "deputies", as his lover had jokingly called them, had often messed up the order of their lines. It was not easy for three unprepared people to play one person.

* * *

Ib

Ib iw sure the mountain hadn't existed when it had arrived on the Ashen Isle, but the obsidian amphitheatre built into its side looks ancient, and - when it extends its arcane sense's temporal facet towards it - even feels so.

Indeed, the Ashen Islanders have many stories about the generations that have come here to observe some rite or another, and they answer the grey giant's questions with what feels like enthusiastic honesty, rather than the frightened, forced calm one might expect from cultists.

The grey being trusts its senses, in this case as in many others. It would likely require more power poured into its perception to spot the truth, but it's likely Ashe has changed history so that the mountain, and the open building crowned with many of her likenesses, has always been here.

Perhaps Ib is being optimistic, driven to want to think the best of her by the same part of itself that has it using the dragoness' name, but if Freedom only expects the worst of people, what's the point of anything.

As they gather round - his friend Ryz would like the wordplay, Ib thinks, as would Three, were he still here; though only the latter would likely admit it -, Ib stands with two hands on its hips, its other arms folded as its gaze moves across the crowd. There numbers explain why there are so many artificial spatial pockets "around" the island: Ib has seen the natives' lavish dwellings, and a population this large would not have the room for their lifestyle on the Isle alone.

It is good, Ib reflects, that it has no eyes to betray what it is focusing on. Indeed, the dragon's worshippers likely can't tell its head is moving, and even that is a habit from days of duller senses and a cruder form.

When Ib does spot her, Ashe is not, as it expected, trying overly hard to be inconspicuous - something that can dra attention as much as being raucous. Instead, the human form she has chosen, smaller and less curvy than the one she bore in her temple, during their confrontation, is plain as far as the Ashen go, and further hidden by a hooded brown cloak.

A corner of Ib's mind drily notes that it was a good idea to choose this body, because the shape from the temple, would've been impossible to miss, even in that potato sack she's wearing.

She's sitting fairly close to the first row, too, not in the middle or the back, another mistake someone trying to go unnoticed might make. The giant finds it funny that a peacock like Ashe is even familiar with the concept of stealth, much less able and willing to use it.

'It is to gauge their reactions,' she told it, mind to mind, not long before Ib arrived in the arena. 'You are a novelty. Many of them have never seen an outsider in their lives, and fewer still anyone like you. They are as likely to be awed by your antics as they are to be terrified.'

'Antics?' Ib echoed unhappily. 'I'm not a monkey.'

Ashe waved it off impatiently. 'I'd say something about studs, and you might get it, if you get it.' The smirking dragoness huffed smoke at the grey being's lack of reaction, 'You are lucky I find thick sorts like you endearing.'

'I'm feeling positively blessed,' Ib said, responding with sarcasm as what must've been intended as some sort of taunt, it's sure. If the self-styled goddess takes offence at the jab to her persona, she doesn't show it. 'Gauge their reactions, you say? Can't you just root through their heads?'

'You should've learned by now that I'm not that kind of deity,' Ashe replied with bored irritated. 'As to the good question you asked, I can tell you none of them will recognise me, for my form will not be that of one of their neighbours, and they will be mystified as a result. Guilty, maybe, about not recalling who I am, in some cases.'

'And if they treat a lowly stranger poorly, you will punish them?' Ib asked, darkly curious.

Ashe flashed it a dirty look. 'It would not be your business, even if I was planning to.' She leered. 'Of course, I might be convinced to let them all go if you take their place in my service. I am sure you could be quite worshipful, once taught your place.'

'Why don't you wi-' Ib stopped. Telling her to wipe the grin off her face might have resulted in her replying she'd rather wipe something else off. Ib had overheard enough talks of the sort to recognise this kind of lecher.

Thanks, Three.

'Why don't you forget that and simply let them go anyway?' Ib asked, lamely. 'It would be a sign of the virtuousness gods ought to be one with.'

But Ashe simply laughed, and said no more on the subject. Sighing, Ib moved on. 'Will your worshippers not be alarmed if their goddess does not attend the show? I understand you are expected to be present at such occasions.'

Ashe gestured dismissively. 'I will be watching through my statues, while attending to other duties - so they will be told.'

Ib grunted, crossing its arms. 'I feel the exercise is pointless, but do as you wish.'

Ashe cocked her head like a bird, before another reptilian smile passed over her face. 'Were you hoping to see me dark in fang and claw? I daresay you can perform under me even if I am smaller.'

Not even beginning to respond to that, Ib simply shook its head and walked off to prepare.'

The Idea of Freedom's thoughts turn back to what Midworlders perceived as the present, noting the glowing orange eyes of Ashe's statues. Obvious proof she is watching, if one is gullible enough and bereft of an arcane sense, not that it believes such faithful needed any evidence to believe. That is, Ib understood, rather the point.

'I am here to amuse, not muse,' Ib reminds itself in a whisper far too quiet to be picked up by human ears. Above, in the stands, the disguised dragoness sniggers, receiving looks from several of the people around her, some perplexed, other annoyed.

Oh, yes. This is definitely going to improve her opinion of her worshippers.

Lifting its upper arms, while letting the middle ones fall at its sides, Ib holds out its hands. 'Before we begin! Before anything else, I must tell you this: we may not look the same, and we might not believe in the same things. But I was once just as lost as the lowliest wretch who might have made it to this island, and I knew even less of my mind than most lackwits. It was only thanks to the help of the family I've found that I was able to remember myself, to become who I am today. It is never too late to hope.'

Not if Ib has anything to say about it. Deep, deep beneath, beyond and above its form of substance, the Idea of Freedom lifts its gaze to a stormy horizon, and to the gaping hollowness behind it. It is growing larger, as it does when there is no one to keep the cycle of life and death.

But everything will not end this time, just like it did not the last four. Ib has seen the plans of the Remaker Midworlders call Mendax, the being they misunderstand more than most. Flourish and her successors did not toil so that perhaps the most promising heir to their station will fail.

And it will play a role in this, the greatest show there has ever been. So will its mage friend. It is Ib's duty to bear him, and the others, to where their prowess and character will be put to use.

* * *

Aina

Aina is kicking her feet when the change comes over her. Unlike the ones from her youth, this one is fast and smooth and painless, without eldritch not-matter reverting to human flesh mid-shift. It just feels like her limbs stretching, almost.

Chromed tentacles speckled with slime writhe under her white dress, filling it and giving it the appearance of a bell. Aina rolls her eyes, seeing she is still far from being at peace with herself. It would not do to change like this with Ryzhan.

Would it?

The young woman turns her attention to the screens, a finger to her temples. That funny captain is coaching a child and his pet (?) slime through what acting the deuteragonist of his play entails, while Ib has clearly set the stage for a biographic show.

But her friend...

'Why didn't you ask?' Aina murmurs sullenly, knowing she's being unfair, and not caring. Ryzhan clearly cares, as can be seen from how he inquired about Serene Rest's prey, so why'd he stop? Is he so tired of the naked atrocity on display that the obvious question has slipped his mind?

'Guest?' one of the Weaver Queen's creations asks, a colossus wrought from the invisible threads of life. 'Is something the matter?'

Aina shakes her head. 'Just talking to myself...' But she cannot help it. Why didn't Ryzhan ask about the children? They can hardly be left behind when sailing. Did that thrice-damned island hollow them out and leave the shells running around? Did it force them to grow into those grey, empty, unchanging forms, stealing their futures from them before they could even dream of who they wanted to be?

She only notices she is shaking when the trembling is stopped by a heavy, callused but warm hand lands on her shoulder. 'Ach, lass, don't judge him too harshly. He's been through plenty, not long ago. And his heart is in the right place - that living nightmare might well die by his hand.'

Aina turns to the speaker before the first syllable is uttered, but despite training her senses on him, she cannot discern anything. The only reason she thinks of him as a man is the voice, for his form does not possess anything manlike - or humanlike.

The stranger is shaped like a heat haze, but denser, a colourless silhouette that somehow has depth. The face under its cowl is featureless, as are the hands that protrude from its long, wide sleeves. The bottom of his robe is wide, hiding whatever he may be from sight. She thinks he would seem to drift across a floor, in motion.

And yet, faceless, colourless as he is, he feels more human to her than almost anyone she has met.

Aina releases a breath she didn't realise she was holding, and the impression of a wide, bright smile set in a dark face fills her mind. It is coming from the stranger, she realises.

The stranger who might as well be an old piece of furniture, with how the King and Queen's constructs are reacting to his arrival.

The stranger lets go, and Aina feels more than sees kindly old eyes narrowing at her. 'Good to see I didn't scare you. That's only funny with people I don't like.'

'I accept your apology,' Aina replies flippantly, drawing a belly laugh from the stranger. The sound, which touches her spirit and monstrous half alike, is infectious, and she finds herself fighting not to smile. Rubbing at her eyes, she glances around, but nothing has changed. 'Who are you, and why are you here? How are you here, for that matter?'

'I arrived because I had to, and entered because I could,' he answers. 'As for your first question....who do you think I am, Aina of Copper's Cradle?'

She hopes she does not look as surprised as she feels at this casual display of knowledge, all the while going over every legend and rumour she has heard over the years. Several beings might be able to come and go as they please, but few make the effort to be charming. 'Mendax,' she breathes. 'The Meddler.'

The stranger blows a raspberry, of all things. 'The fact this ain't the first time that's been capitalised is almost as sad as your love life.'

Aina blinks, all bemusement swept away be vexation, and finds her face reddening, in anger rather than embarrassment. 'How dare y-'

'Shh!' Mendax shushes her, suddenly facing the screens from a chair she knows she hasn't seen before. 'It's starting. I can matchmake later, if you're as hopeless as your boy.'

It is only the knowledge that the attempt would be futile that stops Aina from throttling Mendax. Taking her seat with a scoff, she gives it a sidelong glance. 'And why "must" you be here?'

Mendax gestures at the shows as the actors begin to warm up. 'Everything will be riding on this too. Don't worry, everyone will help before you even know you've started.'

'What are you talking about? Help with what?'

Mendax gives her a look she can't decipher. 'Why, everything, lass. Didn't you listen?' Before she can reply, it clasps its hands in its lap. 'Ah, I suppose it doesn't matter, in the end. The big one will explain everything, or your mage will, if he's been caught up by then.'

As they watch, Mendax speaks of things that leave her understanding less, not more. A cosmic lynchpin to be chosen after he has been prepared for his office, lest everything end. A dream to end a Dream and see everyone free of a sleeping god's whims; a scheme that has been long in the making, but which the being has never been able to put together, much less pull off.

'Lately,' he says, 'I've noticed I can see the outline of eternal salvation - or perhaps not.' He shrugs. 'Not my job. I'm here to keep creation chugging along, even if it means patching it up a trillion, trillion, trillion times. No one gives a toss if the fix is permanent.'

'I don't understand,' Aina confesses. 'You...that is, the legends...you were never said to be this helpful. Or care. You are beyond creation and were never of it-'

'Me?!' He cackles. 'I suppose that's true, if you think creation's only this pond and what's above it, but void, lass, that's such a provincial view...'

'Are you calling me ignorant?' she asks sharply.

'I'd say innocent, but no woman's ever appreciated that from me. Fifi certainly hasn't.' Despite her curiosity at the brief wistfulness that comes to hang around Mendax, she does not ask.

'I'm sure they haven't,' she says instead. Then, 'But tell me this, at least: you say you can glimpse salvation, but speak as though it will not come from you. As though you don't understand it.'

He nods. 'Aye?'

'Then who will...defend all there is from whatever's coming?' It sounds so fanciful, said out loud...

'Oh, you might know him.' Mendax is clearly amused. 'I know you daydream, of events past and things to come. There's this sardonic beanpole with daddy issues...'

Aina might not understand half of his jargon, but she can guess. 'Ryzhan?' she asks, unable to help but smile. 'Ryzhan will-'

'Well,' Mendax coughs into his hand. 'That was on me. I coulda been talking about Edith Kharz or Flint from the Nexus or any of them other stars of their own stories, but Davey boy still wouldn't appreciate being made to sound so common...eh. Nothing to do now. Not like he hasn't had worse.' He moves his hands as if brushing something off. 'That being said, I'm sure your crush will help when the time comes. Anyone halfway decent or sane would. Most of those who're neither, too.'

'Do you truly know that?' Aina asks, unsure whether to believe the legendary trickster. She's never heard the names he's mentioned, a few mentions of the Nexus in legends as ancient as Mendax's aside, but he has spoken of her friend, too.

Mendax taps his fingers against one thigh, then half-turns to her, so that she's seeing one half of his smile. 'I know I've prepared evryone I should as much as I could. Don't worry: if fail, you won't be around to blame me.'

There is a note of finality in his voice, before he looks up at the ceiling, now talking to himself rather than her in a bitterly amused tone. 'Perks of the job...'