There was something wrong with the salamanders.

That was perhaps too strong of a word, “wrong,” but it was the only one Lysander could think of as he sat in a tree, chewing on a piece of deer jerky. Below him the salamanders were fiddling with a few traps, but there was a noticeable…tension between them. Best he could tell, there were two different groups of salamanders within the same tribe, and they didn’t like each other.

It was more than just a mild dislike. There had been at least three different fights he’d born witness to, little more than squabbles but serious enough to not be dismissed. Mostly he couldn’t tell who was on what side most the time, nothing simple like “red salamanders versus orange or yellows,” but this time the line was clear-cut. The salamanders making the traps were chattering away in their chirruping language, gesturing to what they were doing, while the others watched, gripping their spears tightly and looking about nervously.

Lysander popped the rest of the jerky into his mouth as he shifted in his perch, having situated himself comfortably in a V of branches about halfway up a tall ponderosa pine tree, his back to the trunk as he lazily lounged, one leg dangling beneath him and relatively certain he wouldn’t be spotted. This was largely due to the bit of magic he had tried to weave about himself as practice. It was a simple trick; spirits used it all the time to lure someone or something away from their “favorite spot,” or whatever it was they didn’t want the elf in particular to see.

The issue was, it was silent magic. Instead of whistling or humming to invoke his magic, he had to do it without making a sound.

The idea was to create an avatar of intent, a projection, a feeling that tickled the sixth sense and nothing more, somewhere else in the treetops. The salamanders would sense that intent instead of his own observing gaze, and therefore would not bother him with so much as a glance. In theory, anyway. In reality he had to also try to project peace and quiet from himself, to help the salamander’s gaze slide over his location. After a few months of practicing he’d become fairly proficient with the simple magic; it wouldn’t hold up against someone who knew what they were looking for, or were just plain experienced, but these salamanders were inexperience and didn’t seem to know about these kinds of magic.

Like children. He reminded himself, watching as an orange salamander laid a trap that should – and would – never work in the middle of a clearing in the trees, away from the game trail they had been following. One of the more aggressive salamanders rumbled something that sounded like a question, and the orange salamander, Orangey, as Lysander had come to call him, warbled back a reply.

In truth none of the traps being made would work, the trail was for larger game such as deer or elk and not the smaller squirrels or grouse, but the one Orangey was making was truly atrocious.

The bait was smashed bugs set in a small, crudely dug pit – only an inch deep – with a single sharpened twig embedded at the bottom. Above said pit was a rock and a figure 4 trap holding a stone up, ostensibly to force the victim into the pit to be stabbed by the sharp twig, though the trigger nowhere close to the bait. The other traps at least had sound theories for someone who didn’t know what they were doing. This one? It had to be intentionally bad.

He’d seen Orangey make better traps. So what was the thought with this one?

Lysander narrowed his eyes. In the months he had been observing them now, he had never seen someone try so hard to create a trap so idiotic as the one before him. And he had to just sit there and watch as the salamander made it, unable to intervene. He let out a long, slow breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment. Well, at least this sort of “hiding” magic didn’t take too much out of him. Affecting the physical world, such as summoning a gust of wind, was much harder to do.

Once done the salamanders conversed, their tones rising and falling in what seemed like annoyance, accompanied by a bunch of hand – claw? – gestures by the trap makers, all while Orangey seemed to play the mediator. After a while they shot off, each group in different directions, disappearing through the trees as they went about their day. Orangey stayed behind for a brief moment, shaking his head, before following after.

Lysander watched them go, waiting a few more minutes before he dropped down from his perch. That weird feeling of magic prickling his skin, of warmth pooling in his stomach, ended as he let his intent slip, the spell ending. He knelt beside the poorly made trap, pine needles crunching beneath him as he clicked his tongue and shook his head. Pitiful, just pitiful.

“Oh well, time to make fun of them again,” he said with a hum, searching about for a large pinecone. When he found one of a suitable size, just big and round enough to be hefty, without any missing scales, he promptly stuck four twigs into the thing. He examined it, eyes narrowed. No, it wasn’t good enough. If he was going to commit to this, he had better put some effort into it.

For a long moment he remained silent, straining his ears for the sounds of anything trying to sneak through the underbrush, then started to hum. It was a low sound, deep and rumbling, stirring the magic within him into action. Like pine needles poking up beneath his skin it pushed up from his core and down his arms, pooling at his fingertips and trying to connect with the twigs and pinecone. He frowned, varying the pitch of his hum up and down until he found the right tune, his magic snapping into place and flowing freely into the pinecone and twigs.

Wood twisted and grew, sweat beading on Lysander’s forehead as his brow furrowed in concentration, focusing on what he wanted it to look like. The tips of the four twigs curled and split to look like little hands and feet, growing a bit longer and wider to look the proper size. Scales on the pinecone itself reshaped themselves to form little eyes and an O shape for the mouth, mimicking a look of surprise. The moment it was done Lysander let his magic drop, ceasing his hum and letting out a few panting breaths. A bead of sweat dripped off the tip of his nose, and he wiped his forehead with the spider-silk shirt he still wore. Then, and only then, did he admire the little pinecone-man he had made.

It was comical. It was perfect.

He giggled to himself and pranced back over to the trap, placing the pinecone man in it to look like it had fallen victim, then darting away.

Let’s see what they think of that.

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The salamander’s reaction hadn’t been what he had expected it to be. What he had been expecting he wasn’t sure, but it hadn’t been to double down on the terrible traps. He stared incredulously at the four traps laid before him, nestled in a relatively open spot on the middle of a hillside – all the pine needles and debris had been swept away by what looked like the salamander’s tail, leaving a clear, open spot for the traps to sit in.

If he hadn’t triple checked to make sure there was nothing hiding out in the surrounding trees, he would have bet his canoe that there were salamanders lying in wait to try and catch or see him. With a frown Lysander crouched at the edge of the dirt clearing, judging the size. It was easily six feet across, the traps placed so he’d have to step into the dirt to get to them. He hesitated once more, frowning. Why would they do that…?

His gaze drifted to the turkey tracks that had wandered through the dirt, clear as day, and suddenly it all became clear. They were trying to get his tracks. The dirt wasn’t just cleared, it was very obviously churned so the top layer would leave tracks easily – they wanted to know what his footprint was like, so they would know what to look for. It was almost ingenious, and Lysander had half a mind to still mess with them by putting more pinecone men into the traps without leaving any tracks – if it was possible. But Alaric’s command echoed in his ears and, with a frown, he slowly backed away, making sure to step as softly as he could. His moccasins would hide most of his footprints, but he couldn’t be too careful.

Only once he was certain he was far enough away did he fall into a run, loping through the woods and leaping into the trees, practicing his tree-jumping.

“I got a bit careless there,” he muttered, casting one last look over his shoulder. The sun was just starting to set over the horizon, a few clouds drifting lazily over the high mountain peaks and a slight breeze rustling the pines. “Stupid Lysander. These aren’t Elves. You have to be more careful,” he chastised himself, knowing full well that if they had been he would absolutely have continued to mess with them. But they weren’t. He had to remember that. Alaric had been too cautious for him to be so careless, and until he knew more, he couldn’t do all the things he would have done.

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The salamanders attempts to spot him increased in intensity until it turned into full-on traps made for him. Spears left out in the open, an overturned herb basket, more illogical traps as a bait beneath a much larger trap. Sometimes Lysander would spot them lying in wait in random areas around these spots, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He never gave them the satisfaction, steering clear for the most part. They’d grow bored of trying to catch something that might not even be there eventually, and he got the feeling his patience was infinitely longer than theirs.

The only good thing seemed to be that both “sides” within the tribe, antagonistic as they might have been toward each other, had banded together to catch him.

By the time mid-fall rolled around, heavy grey clouds promising snow becoming more frequent with each passing day, the attempts had mostly subsided. Only one salamander remained doggedly determined; little Orangey.

He was the orchestrator for the current trap, one that Lysander had a bit of interest in as it was the most complex one to date. He had set up a pile of shiny things – some of those black rocks, a pile of orange and yellow scales, and something that looked remarkably similar to the gold rock he’d found in a river once - in the middle of a grove of trees, a hole cut in the branches so sunlight would glint off of them for most of the morning. Beneath said shiny things the salamander had hidden a rather large net with some pine needles, tying it to three tall, strong saplings that were ready to spring up and pull the net tight around whatever triggered it.

Lysander would have clicked his tongue in annoyance – clearly, this one had figured out that he often found them by their bright colors and the shine of their spearheads – were he not hiding where he was. The tall grasses around him waved gently in the chill breeze, not but twenty feet from the grove proper. Mud and dirt had been smeared all over his face, grasses sticking out of his hair to help camouflage him as he peered out of the tall grass. Orangey had not noticed him yet.

He nodded and made a small clicking noise, Lysander closing his eyes to hear it better. What did that mean? He remained still for a few moments longer when a sharp three-noted bird call echoed through the air, alerting the salamander. Lysander frowned. That kind of bird should have flown south for the winter, so that meant…it was probably Sybella with some winter supplies for him. Except it didn’t sound like her? Lysander cursed a bit and pursed his lips, rolling his tongue as he imitated the sound of a woodpecker. Orangey’s head whipped up from where he’d been messing with the net, yellow eyes narrowing as he peered about for the noise. His gaze slid right over Lysander, much to his relief. He hadn’t even had time to set up his magic yet.

Another sharp three notes echoed out in confirmation, and the small meadow fell silent once more.

Until chirping coming from the left echoed through the trees, and Orangey a hissing noise he had learned to mean be quiet, or silence! A smaller, yellow salamander came skittering up holding a spear, gesturing wildly behind itself and making a few panicked chirruping noises. Lysander frowned at those. He didn’t recognize them. New words? Parsing out their language was proving difficult – it was far more complex than birdsong.

Orangey’s eyes widened, and he glanced back at his net, back toward the little yellow one, then hissed, grabbed his spear, and skittered off after it, back towards their cave home. Definitely following, that looks interesting. But first…

Lysander whistled a quick blue jay call and waited. It was only two short minutes later that the call was returned, albeit shorter and sharper, meaning the salamanders were well and truly gone. Usually that call was used when a hunter accidentally spooked their prey and it took off, racing over the mountains without stopping, but this worked surprisingly well for what he was doing now. With a shake of his head Lysander pulled himself out of his hiding spot and moved next to the net, examining the pile of goodies.

More specifically, he looked at the oddly-shaped shiny rock the color of dried brown grass sitting on top of the pile. It was maybe the size of his thumb, and had clearly been scrubbed and scuffed to clean it off. Was it some kind of crystal? It wasn’t quartz, so maybe something else?

Soft footsteps in the grass behind him alerted Lysander to the elf that was approaching – based on the weight and the way they moved, he could be absolutely positive it wasn’t Sybella. His sister wouldn’t have made any noise whatsoever.

“Who is – Geovrick?” he asked, looking over his shoulder and raising his eyebrows at his friend. The grey-haired elf waved at him and moved to crouch beside him, rubbing his chin as he examined the net trap. “I think I made them mad. They’ve started setting traps for me.” he explained, flipping the shiny rock through his fingers.

“Did you do something to deserve it?”

“I put a pinecone man in one of their traps,”

“So yes.” Geovrick said, nodding sagely. Lysander snorted, tossed the shiny rock back into the pile and stood, looking in the direction the salamanders had run off in. “I dropped off the supplies I was supposed to bring at your little shelter. Sybella told me where to find it and what I was looking for – nice little setup you’ve got there. Think it’ll last?”

“Should. Since when did you get chosen for this?” he asked, moving away from the net and in the direction the salamanders had run. Geovrick stayed back for a few seconds, a quick glance over the shoulder revealing him plucking two scales, one of the black obsidian stones, and the shiny rock from the salamander’s pile before moving to follow. A part of Lysander wanted to tell him that if he was going to take something he should leave something of his as payment, but remained silent. He couldn’t control Geovrick, but maybe the salamander wouldn’t notice a few things missing? Plus with winter coming, they might forget all about it by the time the snows melt.

A foolish thought, to assume. A small voice in the back of his mind told him, but he didn’t change what he was doing either way, distracted as he was by the desire to see what had freaked out Orangey so much.

“I bugged Alaric to let me in on the secret once he got back. Finally relented.” Geovrick said proudly, puffing out his chest. Lysander snorted and fell into a run, his friend keeping up with ease as they shot across the valley floor, angling up the mountainside. Bits of grass from Lysander’s camouflage flew off of him as he ran, sprinting through the trees. “How’s it going out here, anyway? It’s pretty crazy to think that there’s intelligent lizards.”

“Salamanders. It’s impossible to deny now; they’ve got a language and everything. Still trying to figure it out, but I’ve got a few basic words down. I think.” Lysander explained distractedly. He made a chirruping noise in the back of his throat, frowning when he got it wrong. “That, for example, means yes. Though it doesn’t sound quite right – getting the pitch and tone correct is difficult. Now be quiet for a bit, we’re heading into their home territory and I don’t want to give ourselves away because we were talking.”

The two fell silent, trees blurring by until a familiar chirping noise started to echo up the hillside – Lysander made a motion with one hand and leapt into the air, clambering up a tree like a squirrel. Geovrick followed in his own tree, the two leaping from treetop to treetop until he spotted what had the salamanders so excited.

The frost bear stood in the middle of the creek that ran out of the lake near the salamander’s home cave, a decently sized trout flopping in its mouth. By the way it stood, fur bristling and lips pulled back in a snarl, it was clearly on the defensive. Five salamanders, Orangey among them, all stood before it along the banks of the stream, spears at the ready. One, a rather large specimen with orange scales so dark they were almost red, jabbed its spear at the frost bear experimentally, making a loud squawk-like sound Lysander could only assume was a threat.

“They’re kind of cute, actually,” Geovrick whispered from where he perched in a tree, the tip bending dangerously as he leaned out over open air to get a better view. Lysander nodded his agreement, but stayed as hidden as he could in the foliage. Leave it be. The bear won’t attack you if you just leave it be. He mentally urged the salamanders. The large one thrust its spear again and took a single step forward – a step the frost bear matched, snarling and mist starting to form on its fur.

That seemed to be the last straw for the others, the orange one obsessed over catching Lysander slowly moving around in front of the larger salamander and backing up, forcing the larger one to as well. He couldn’t hear the conversation from where he was, but it apparently made enough sense that the others started to break away, backing off from the frost bear. Said bear snorted and shook itself, turning and lumbering off down the stream with a half-frozen trout still in its mouth. The salamanders followed, but at a distance – likely just to make sure it didn’t venture close to any of their non-hunter peoples.

Lysander watched them for a bit, then jerked his head to the side, Geovrick following him as he headed further up mountain, away from the salamander’s usual hunting ground. It was about time to head back to his temporary home anyway – it would be dark by the time he got there, and Geovrick had a long run ahead of him.

“You going to stay for a bit?” he asked.

“Just a day or two. This is way too interesting to not investigate. Sybella and I will be taking turns bringing you stuff, though I don’t think Alaric will allow anyone out of the caldera when winter sets in. Something has him pretty spooked; never seen anything like it,” Geovrick said, the derision in his voice clearly audible. Lysander grunted – he would never understand Geovrick’s distaste of his cousin Alaric, but didn’t question it either.

He was sure he’d figure it out eventually.