“Feel no sadness, feel no grief, only be happy.” I command the latest member of the flock. Chicken steps away from her dead pack and starts running rapid circles around us. Cane turns like a pivoting battleship, far too slow to catch up, he’s the minute arm on a clock to her seconds. Artur is delighted by the reptile, chasing and silently laughing.

“Told you our flock will improve. Once she’s grown up, we’ll have a source of protein in her eggs and whatever she catches for us in the woods. It’s a win-win.” I revel in the moment, as the two children play.

Almost forgetting my people are being marched away in chains, surely they know the truth by now. They know of the betrayal and the Blackroot's true ambitions, how else could they explain an army of Mother’s own attacking the tribe?

The only Satyrs I see amongst the dead are Thorns, indicating that the Guardians and Verox only went for the armed or aggressive.

Chicken stops its zoomies near Honey, poking its rump with her nose and squeezing out some sweet nectar to gobble down.

“Clever girl.”

I go to stroke her head when a strange whistling noise is carried through on the wind. Chicken snaps around sharply.

Cattle Senses

I emerge from a lifetime underwater wearing earbuds, the clarity of the Verox’s hearing astounds me. Even the Elixir's sensory improvements barely compared to this adapted predator of the wilds.

The whistling noise comes from hundreds of creatures that glide towards us. Through Chicken’s eyes, I see their flat stingray bodies rippling over bushes and foliage. Their psychedelic coloured scales stand out like the beacons of Gondor against the backdrop of green.

Animals with bright displays and that confidently broadcast themselves with high-pitched sounds are trying to send one simple message, ‘Don’t rut with me’. I feel my conclusion confirmed in Chicken’s body, she tenses, heart rate increases with adrenaline. Ready for flight.

The furthest member of the Verox pack is enveloped by the vibrant floating blankets. Tiny orange roots rapidly expand from beneath its body and into the corpse like a defending Sea cucumber. These must be the blood creatures that Piia warned of.

“Let’s move, now!” I yell to the flock.

After suns and moons. Grey rains and blinding mists, we see a column of angry smoke rising into the clear sky. For tree falls I have seen the beacon of the human settlement from the canopy, even on the edge of civilisation their arrogance is uncanny.

The Watchtower now stands like the proud race it represents, looking down at its neighbours, reeking of sin from red light spilling out sunken windows.

We follow a worn path of many through the trees, like a delta they web to greater rivers. The wide muddy track displays deep grooves from overburdened carts, every tenth tree is missing. This isn’t the typical lumber industry practice, even in my world of recent environmental health consciousness. These men don't consider the forest's long-term health, it's selective and specific.

We hear the rhythmic thud of axes going to work. I tell the flock to hold back while I creep forward. Through the expanding openings in the forest, I see a group of men cutting down a charcoal tree. Its bark shines like stained furniture, the leaves a milky weight that rustles with each connection of the blade's head. A slow execution from a thousand hacks of its body.

I need to find out whether the tribe is still here at the Watchtower. Donning the Blackroot’s leathers and plate armour, I hide my Riptail and anything specific that could identify me. Pulling tight a leather band around my branded palm.

Boldly, I step from the forest into the sunlight, a hatchet lodged into a sword belt and whistling with a slaver's confidence. How would a man of such a disgusting profession talk? I barely heard them before they died. I should get these lumberjacks to talk first, then mimic their behaviours and accents like I did with the hunters before.

As I emerge from the foliage, they turn to run from the sudden movement and disturbance. Realising I'm human, they watch me with the curiosity of small town folk as I stride closer.

“Bugger me mate, what’s dat giant sack of meat you dragging behind ya?” A short stocky man asks while leaning on a heavy wood chopping axe.

Stolen novel; please report.

I look over my shoulder with a gut sinking feeling that Cane has followed me.

“Must be his huge balls, what ya wandering around the wilds by yaself for?” Another adds as they burst into laughter, the panic gone and workplace banter returns.

I chuckle with them. “I'm not that dim, got a group with me. At least I did.” I say.

“Well, Orda knows ya need one, bloody monsters out in those bushes man. Massive spider-bears that’ll appear from the shadows and snatch you in their six arms.”

“I heard Sally’s late husband went for a leak after the pub and a tree ate em.”

“Don’t be daft Stu, why would a plant eat a person?”

“People eat plants, why can’t plants eat people?”

“True, true.”

They all look off in deep thought, considering this new possibility.

“Anyway, have you seen my lot? Big group, similar clothes, bunch of Satyrs with them?”

“Ay, saw them enter the tower a few days ago.”

“Baron bought some of those sheep ta help wit the plague.”

What plague?” I ask.

“We call it Rot face. Hit the town like Orda’s tax, takes out da poor and da rich.”

Stu scoffs. “Nah it's all a sham, Baron’s a business man. He’ll be sellin a special ointment for it tomorrow. You’ll see.”

“Tell dat ta half the town burning in the backfield, no one survives.”

“Ya joking, Barry’s Mrs has had it for years.” He points to a bloke over his shoulder.

“No, she hasn’t.” He claims “That’s just her face.” He whispers awkwardly.

“Oh. Sorry Barry.”

Barry looks down with a little wet twinkle in his eye.

“Right. Well, thanks. Best go find my lot at this tower then.” I turn to leave.

“Do ya know where it is? I can take ya there now.” Stu says enthusiastically tossing his axe away.

“Course he knows where da tower is, ya just trying to get outta work.”

“You don’t know what he knows.” He retorts.

“Tallest building in town?” I say.

“See.”

“The name could of been ironic.”

Right, this is a waste of time. I need to get moving.

“I’m good by myself, I'll just…

“It's made of stone you stupid pigeon. Why would the name be ironic?”

I slowly walk away from the arguing men and head towards town.

“Orda strike me now, that’s not what dat word means. No wonder you're a woodcutter.”

“So are you!”

Their heated words dwindle to nothing as I creep away and double back towards my flock. Finding them still hidden in the foliage, I lead them back further into the bush until we discover an overgrown barn, partially collapsed, we pull the vines apart to find the inside hollow and dry.

“Artur, there’s people working out in the woods so you need to stay hidden. Cover Honey with furs especially as the sun starts to set. Cane and Chicken, you need to listen or watch for anyone approaching.

We’re in the men’s world now, hunters and workers will be thick in these trees, don’t attack unless they find you.” I give them my most serious leadership face before pumping Honey for some nectar to store away. Crawling back out the entrance and covering it over again, I whisper back through the greenery.

“I won’t be long, I promise. If I find the tribe we may need to move fast so be ready.”

Keeping the Blackroot leathers on, I remove the plate and dirty myself with mud. In case they’re still at the tower, I don’t want to stand out as one of their troops. Best to look like a hunter that’s been lost for a few days.

Following the road back to the outskirts of the human settlements, a clearing of trees runs the perimeter of the township. The buildings are mostly wooden cabins with thatched roofs with an unsettlingly tall stone tower centred in the middle.

It reaches high like a medieval skyscraper, so narrow throughout that I'm surprised a storm hasn’t toppled it. Order’s magic must be at work here.

What catches my eye even more is the stark contrast between people and the buildings. Between the meticulously crafted cabins are slanted shacks with dirty children playing in the mud puddles out front. Parents stir pots of broth while their neighbours smoke pipes looking down on them from their gold embellished balconies.

Beverly Hills and the favelas of Brazil merged to create this circular town of economic disparity. The rich watch me walking down the packed street, the poor too busy with chores and work to take notice of another stranger.

I do a lap of the tower, noting the several entrances, all heavily guarded by armoured men. Their purple capes housing an emblem of the tower in gold upon the handle of a sword, these are all the Baron's men I assume.

Not wanting to simply wander in circles, I seek the source of the black smoke beyond the township in a cleared field. Cows, sheep and fat dog-like creatures have been penned in the corners while a great bonfire disintegrates the remains of the infected.

Carted out by the dozens, the plague has hit the population hard and the pile grows higher and higher as several chained Satyrs unload the wagons.

Baggy-eyed, they look over their shoulders at the nearest guards in fear. Weeping welts on their backs speak of recent punishments, the unruly cattle of the wilds must be broken it seems.

I can’t sneak across the field without looking like a criminal or weirdo. So I choose to stand in the shadow of a nearby building and watch them, I can follow them back to wherever they’re being held.

Then what? Plan a rescue mission. I feel nauseous at the dangerous idea, and then the wind shifts. An overwhelming scent of burnt hair and cooked meat smothers me. My mouth waters, stomach grumbles to my disgust, Cane’s preferences aren’t just his own.

I’m just a survivor, I tell myself. Magic and limits take all people beyond what's culturally appropriate. I’m not a monster, I tell myself as my mouth salivates. I haven't eaten meat in tree falls.

“Oi!” A guard yells.

I snap up, reaching for the hatchet on my hip when I realise he’s yelling at a Satyr sprinting across the field towards the treeline. The female guard reaches out as an obsidian bow forms in the air.

The string is a bright white laser that she pulls back, aims and releases. I see nothing fired but the sprinting Satyr is impacted in the back, a scream of pain escapes him as he collapses to the ground.

The other guards walk over unamused. The slave curls inside himself for protection, but his thin arms do little to slow the heavy boots as they rain down. The scene is silent from my distance. The hatred in me isn’t.