Chapter Three // You Look Lost

There was really no clear reason as to why that desert was called the Seven Wastes. It was a name that had originated centuries prior, one whose meaning had been washed away in the currents of time and memory as casual nomenclature became ubiquitous fact, then myth. There was, of course, really only one Waste.

And, indeed, 'desert' was something of a misnomer, too, for these were endless rolling dunes not of sand but of ash, grey filmy featherweight ash that whipped and whirled as brutal winds surged across that scorching surface. These were the only remains of civilizations long ago brought to ruin by the terrible emergence of the Colossi, ones the shapes of which were known not to a single living soul in the present day. It was a graveyard long forgotten. More frequently, however, it was a battlefield.

It was amidst that seemingly infinite grey expanse that the five of them stood as the gate slammed shut behind them and a massive cloud of dust kicked up, blanketing them all in blinding and stinging particles.

When the dust cleared, the five of them were alone.

They stood on the precipice of a great dune just outside the city walls, all of them stark naked; every one of their possessions had been shaped and crafted from the Great Worm's undying body and thus their ownership was now forfeit. The Worm's gifts had always been conditional offerings, and now that condition had been violated. Everything had been taken away.

We're corpses, Zekval had said almost immediately, sinking to his knees with a vacant look in his eyes. We're already dead. That was what had set Makran off, had sent her screaming at him to shut up, to shut his mouth before she shut it for him.

Arha didn't particularly care. As the argument raged on, threatening to boil over into violence at any moment - as disputes between Winnowers always did - her mind was nothing but a blank, mute canvas. She was a woman who had sacrificed quite literally everything in life in devotion to one singular, solitary purpose, and now that purpose had been taken away from her. Without that purpose, what remained? What reason was there even to exist?

"Makran-" Nageth was saying, trying to come between them.

"Nageth, listen to him! Listen to what he's saying!" the short-statured warrior raged. "The spineless little gve'ka's already given up!"

"I didn't say I was giving up," Zekval said, and there was a surprising edge to his voice - a hard insistence antithetical to his usually-meek delivery. "What I said was that we are going to die out here."

"That's not true," Nageth said quickly, turning to his brother.

"You probably will, anyway," Makran scoffed. "Kneeling in the sand, mewling and crying like a bitch. You made your choice, you moron, now see it through or-"

"I made a mistake!" Zekval snapped, shooting to his feet and storming over. Incensed by the potential for a challenge, Makran surged forward to meet him, and Nageth was forced at once to restrain the other warrior as she lunged at his brother. "There - I said it! I made a mistake and I fucking regret it! I never should've followed you people here!"

"Aww, how sad," Makran mocked, even as she was thrashing against Nageth's iron grip. "Poor little Zekval might actually have to do something difficult for once in his life!"

"Yeah, that's right," Zekval said scornfully, nodding his head. "Keep talking, Makran, that's right. If running your mouth is what you gotta do to cope than hey, by all means."

"Don't provoke her-" Nageth started, but now Makran was struggling even more violently than before.

"What a great idea, Zek!" she called. "Let's do just that - I'll keep talking, and you can shut the fuck up!"

"Alright!" Grakke thundered, his patience finally snapping, and then came the swift and brutal discipline that was part and parcel for any Winnower. With one colossal fist he sent Makran sprawling; with the other, he shoved Zekval hard to the ground. Grakke was neither a particularly friendly nor sociable man, nor could he in any way he classified as a mediator. He saw the honor guard not as friends or family but as soldiers to be kept in line, and his preferred method of resolving disputes had long been to simply apply even greater, swifter violence until all present were forced to submit.

But they were no longer pseudo-soldiers in a pseudo-army, and Grakke was no longer their superior. Though Zekval stayed down, Makran leapt to her feet snarling and slavering like an animal, a challenge to which Grakke's nostrils flared as he prepared to meet her head-on.

This was to be a fight the likes of which someone would certainly die.

Fortunately, it was at that moment that, for whatever reason, Arha came quite suddenly to her senses.

"That's enough!" the former Eltok's voice came, sharp and clear, and at once all four of them snapped to rigid attention, their grievances and frustrations instantly forgotten. Arha's voice was one of absolute and total command, one that her honor guard had obeyed without question for the entirety of their adult lives. Though Arha might have been pitifully devoid of purpose, for the others obeying Arha's words was their purpose. Despite her broken form, Arha still carried with her the poise and presence of a true Bloodied One, and thus anarchy coalesced into authority at once as the honor guard readied to obey.

After all, there was no crueler fate in the wasteland than being forced to think for one's own self.

"Two things," Arha said, holding up a pair of fingers. She was working overtime to keep her voice hard and steady, even as her legs were trembling with exertion beneath her. "One - from this moment onwards, we are kin, because if we are anything less I am certain these wilds will devour us. We've all known one another for countless years; we've all fought beside one another in countless battles. Are there any objections? Any who would go it alone?"

Nobody said a word. Makran was giving Arha a look of quiet contrition - and glancing guiltily over at Zekval, who was grimacing and shaking his head. Nageth was calm and steady, as usual, drifting just a hair closer to his brother as she spoke. And Grakke, of course, was hanging onto her every word, that notorious temper thankfully seeming to have dissipated.

Alright, she thought to herself. It was a good start.

"Two," she said. "Our main priority, above all else, should be to find shelter. If we are visible then we are vulnerable, and at the moment we would make an ideal target for marauders, flesh-takers, Remaens, or even ashspawn. We are only safe when we are out of sight."

"You're right, Ar," Grakke said, slowly. "But where could we possibly go? There's nothing out here but..." Zekval's head was already turning, and as Grakke moved to follow the other man's gaze it was the realization of what she was proposing that drove him to sudden silence.

There it was, its presence marring that featureless horizon - a spot of black upon the grey. A forest, impossibly, in the middle of the desert. The Blackwoods.

A ripple of unease spread through that band of hardened killers, through men and women that had seen and slain all manner of terrible things that defied the bounds of the human mind. Unease and discomfort were plain upon all their faces because they all knew that the Blackwoods were the one place that even a Winnower simply did not go.

Centuries-old myth held that some terrible Colossus had met its end in those woods, whereupon its vile essence had spread like a plague, killing the forest and trapping it in perpetual, undying stasis - dead, yes, but never diminishing. It was quite literally a stain, a shadow the mere sight of which prompted a certain sensation along the back of one's spine. Some primal, deep-nested instinct that predated any spoken or written language but that said, in no uncertain terms, that this was a place where one should never tread.

"That's..." Nageth trailed off. "I mean, I get the logic. But the Blackwoods...?"

"The damn cursed forest," Makran - who quite literally never shied away from danger - agreed, fixing Arha with a wary stare. "No offense, Arha, but have you lost your mind?"

Even Grakke, who was both Arha's most steadfast supporter and a practical mind who could understand at once that this was really the only sensible option, found himself somewhat at a loss for words. He didn't want to snap again, didn't want to just yell until the others fell in line - but what argument could he possibly make against the fundamental wrongness of that place?

Arha was facing a similar conundrum, compounded by the fact that her body was wrecked and her mind was filled with a thousand unanswerable questions that she was actively forcing herself to ignore in favor of raw, instinctual survival. Like Nageth, the others understood the logic perfectly well; it was the emotions of such a prospect that had them all skittish and uneasy, and if there was one thing Arha certainly could not do in that moment it was make an emotionally charged argument. To let in even a hint of emotion would likely all but destroy her.

Fortunately, help did arrive - from the last source she ever would ever have considered.

"I mean," Zekval muttered, glancing back. "It's just a forest."

"Just a forest?" Makran scoffed at once. "Come on-"

"No, seriously," Zekval said, his voice rising. This was the second instance in a short span of time that he had gone entirely against his own tendencies to stay silent and unseen - had exile somehow endowed him with a newfound boldness? "It's just woods. I mean, there's probably gonna be some kashak running around, yeah - but we've killed plenty of kashak before, right?" It was a frequent occurrence to be assaulted by kashak, which translated quite literally to monsters, during marches through the Wastes - warped and malformed byproducts of the Colossi's presence. Twisted shapes of legs and eyes and teeth and tongues, some stark raving mad and some patient, careful hunters. All of them predators, nonetheless, and all varying degrees of dangerous.

"Think about it," Zekval was saying, and even Arha was listening intently now. "When we get in there, what are we going to have to do? Most likely the answer is kill. A lot. And what do we do best? What were we literally trained to do from day one?" His eyes flicked down, then, his momentary confidence seemingly spent, and it was Arha who leapt in to seal the deal as Zekval muttered a quiet "I'm just saying, anyway."

"From here on out, this is a war," Arha declared, folding her arms. "Not against any conventional foe. Not even just against the Blackwoods itself. This is us fighting a war against the world, you understand me? This is us warring against exile, against the Wastes, against the Blackwoods, against starvation and madness and despair and every little thing that dares challenge our continued existence. And that war starts-" she pointed a finger "-with the cursed forest. Now - is anyone here afraid of a little war?"

Of course they weren't. They were Winnowers, after all.

And so, off they went.

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"Well," Bartok drawled, settling into an enormous chair, "I'm glad to be done with that particular mess."

Tekarn sat opposite the Grand Lord, a slab of desk between them, his posture rigid and his expression carefully neutral. Yet even a blind man could see that behind that blank mask there raged a storm of apocalyptic proportions, one of emotions that Tekarn had been keeping in check for decades upon decades and would continue to keep in check now, in this damnable meeting. Not one of his impulses would pass from brain to body. Not one.

He had maintaining this iron-gripped self-control for a long, long time. Right now, however, it was perhaps more difficult than it had ever been before.

"As am I, Grand Lord," Tekarn said flatly. His eyes never left the other man's, not even for a second. "It is always a somber thing, to condemn one of our own."

"Yes, well," Bartok said, waving a hand as he took a gulp of dark, fermented liquid. "It was the right thing to do, in the end. I think we can both agree that woman was getting far too popular far too quickly."

Tekarn blinked, momentarily taken aback by the Grand Lord's casual admittance - but he reasserted control over his mind and body at once, and thus did not reply.

"I mean, come on," Bartok was saying. "I know she was your little project and all, but look beyond your own biases and emotions and you'll see clearly that she was dangerous, Tekarn." He paused, then continued before the First Eltok could reply: "And those damned public duels she insisted on? What a disgraceful spectacle! Our rituals were never meant to be displayed openly before the common people - the strong should never debase themselves before the weak in such a fashion! The woman didn't just cultivate strength, she cultivated popularity. And if not for that damned popularity we could have just cut her throat without risking a martyr. Instead, we have to deal with all this...drama."

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"The decision to exile-" Tekarn started, carefully.

"Yes, yes," Bartok sighed, cutting off the legendary general with a burp. "Your counsel was wise indeed, Lord Tekarn, and in the end I am certain we walked the correct path. It just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, that's all. To have to go along with Kelsen's ridiculous charges to simply justify it to the Third Host?" He scoffed. "I'm Grand Lord - since when have I ever needed to justify anything? By all rights I should have simply crushed her skull, then crushed the skulls of anyone stupid enough to take issue. But things aren't so simple anymore, are they, old friend? Not like the days of old, oh no."

"Oh, no," Tekarn echoed blankly.

The Grand Lord talked and talked and talked and Tekarn just listened, silent and unmoving, for what felt like a boundless eternity until finally the meeting was done and the First Eltok was dismissed, saluting and stepping sharply out the door.

The walk back to the First Barracks was a brisk one. Gekto met him halfway, and the two did not speak until they were alone in Tekarn's office-chamber and the door was sealed firmly behind them.

"Well-" Gekto started.

"Quiet," Tekarn snapped. The First Eltok had all but slumped into his desk, his head held in his hands. He looked then like a puppet with cut strings, like a man with neither soul nor energy to animate his earthly shell. And Gekto, who knew him perhaps better any alive, also knew to simply wait until finally Tekarn raised his head once more. Once again, his face was an inscrutable mask, betraying nothing.

"Hey," Gekto said, and there was only the faintest hint of that signature half-smile on his face. "I liked her, for whatever that's worth. I was sad to see her go."

Tekarn and Gekto's friendship - if indeed it could be called that - had always been a rather curious thing. The dark-eyed Winnower was the stern Eltok's mirror opposite in just about every conceivable way, save for the cold and relentless drive to be the absolute best that defined them both. Even now, as Gekto was expressing genuine sympathy, Tekarn found himself puzzled by his Shadow's demeanor. He had a curious way of breezing through even the most dire of situations, always smirking and always unaffected. Even his condolences were delivered like the punchline to some snide joke.

"She was a traitor," Tekarn said simply, as though this were quite self-evident. "She was weak."

"And that's why she's gone," Gekto said, the half-smile returning in full. "So it goes. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

"Kelsen," Tekarn agreed, steepling his hands beneath his chin. "He is a problem."

"Nah, no problem," Gekto chuckled, shaking his head. "He's absolutely terrified of me. Truth me told, he already bores me - the fool goes scampering away if I so much as sneeze in his general direction. I don't think I'll ever get to really hurt him."

"It's your own reputation to blame for that."

"A reputation that's been useful for the both of us, no?"

"So why are you complaining?" Tekarn demanded, to which Gekto merely shrugged. This sort of rapid back-and-forth had long defined their odd friendship, and it was wildly at odds with how Tekarn would speak to anyone else. Or, rather, it was at odds with how anyone would dare speak to him.

"Alright, then," Tekarn said, rising to his feet. "You want something more interesting? Go and speak with Draven."

At that, Gekto perked up.

"What about?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

"I want you to push him," Tekarn said, to which Gekto's excitement only grew. "Push him and see what happens - does he bend? Does he break? Does he dare try and retaliate? He is a tired old man at the end of his life upon whom there has suddenly been thrust a great and terrible responsibility. He will adapt, I am certain of it - but he could do so in any number of ways, some beneficial to our cause and some the opposite. I want to know which. I want to know what kind of Eltok he will be - and how difficult he will be to control."

"I'd be happy to find out," Gekto grinned. "How hard can I push him?"

"As hard as you like," Tekarn said, knowing full well what exactly he was permitting. "But no killings."

The look in Gekto's eyes was one of feral, salacious hunger. Of a predator, licking its lips in anticipation of a future meal. Of a dog that had just been let off the leash.

"You got it," Gekto grinned. And then he was gone, and Tekarn was alone.

He was able to bear the silence that followed for a scant few seconds before he stormed to his feet and set off in search of someone to spar or someone to duel. It really didn't matter which - all that mattered was that somebody would be getting hurt.

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Dead didn't even begin to describe it.

The Blackwoods weren't just dead - they were frozen in time.

From the moment Arha's party had crossed the abrupt boundary between grey ash and multicolored dead leaves a great and terrible silence had descended upon them. The sky was no sky at all but an unending ceiling of deepest black, devoid of all stars, and darkness between the trees was like a thick and shadowy fog. The air did not move, did not shift; it was as dry and empty and still as the void of space. And all around them everything was in a state of static entropy - the trees all tall and thin and limbless, and the floor beneath but a carpet of innumerable crumbling leaves.

For the first twenty minutes they had ventured, not one of them had dared speak a word, and all stepped as gingerly and quietly as possible. It was unspoken covenant between them, that at all costs they should do everything in their power not to disturb this unholy sanctuary.

The denizens of the Blackwoods found them anyway.

They were analogous to wolves, to bears, to boars and even primates - but twisted beyond description and constantly decaying, their wretched forms literally falling apart even as they flung themselves howling and screeching and gibbering and moaning at the intruders.

But for all their feral savagery they were weak, malformed, dying things; thus the exiled Winnowers set about killing them in almost mechanical fashion. Bereft of proper weaponry or armor as they were, they fought with sticks and sharpened stones, breaking and bludgeoning the attacking creatures and at times killing even with bare hands alone.

Second-nature though it was, Arha's body was being pushed farther and farther to its limits, and she found herself having to be bailed out by Grakke's prodigious strength or Nageth's sentinel protection time and time again. She had, after all, been a duelist, not a brawler, and thus it was Grakke and Makran who excelled in this nightmarish battlefield, the former working in silent and simmering anger as the latter laughed uproariously, seeming not even to notice as fangs and claws tore into her flesh.

And then, suddenly, it was over. The onslaught came to an abrupt halt as the survivors scampered off into the darkness and then the party were alone once more, all of them panting heavily and drenched in ichor-black blood.

"Come on!" Makran roared, blood-drunk and delirious as she spread her arms wide. "I'm still here! I'm right fucking here!"

"Knock it off!" Zekval complained. "I wanna relax for a minute."

Far to the side, Arha was leaning against one of countless dead trees, her breath faster and shallower than any of her companions. And she was covered, too, in far less ichor-blood than her fellows, though her arms bore a dozen scratches and rends.

"Hey," Grakke was saying quietly, huddling close so as to keep his voice from the others. "You alright, Ar?"

"I'm...I'm fine..." Arha huffed, waving a limp hand. In truth she was far from fine. Tekarn had broken several of her ribs, fractured her ankle and skull, and carved the very eye from her face. Worse, still, was that she had not eaten in well over twenty-four hours, and her stomach was now but an aching, yawning pit at the core of her being. Her body was in desperate need of rest, of time to recuperate - but instead she was pushing it farther and farther. This was the way of the Winnowers, after all. To push oneself until one broke. Weakness was sin, after all.

"Listen, Ar," Grakke was saying. "You're the only thing holding us together right now. You understand that, yeah?"

"I do," Arha nodded, groggily.

"Then they can't see you like this," Grakke insisted, and his tone was one that would brook neither argument nor complaint. "We're camping out for the night."

"Here?" Arha blinked, her head snapping up. "Are you mad?"

"What, are we supposed to traverse the whole damn forest without sleeping?" Grakke demanded. "It'll be a week's journey across at the very least. And who knows what's gonna be waiting for us on the other side? We need sleep, and we need food, and this spot right here has both of 'em. Much as I might not exactly be thrilled about it."

"I..." Arha trailed off, her eyelids fluttering. She staggered, then caught herself. "Okay." She nodded. "Can you...?"

"I got you," Grakke said firmly, patting her on the shoulder. He turned now to the three warriors, all of them were hotly debating who it was that had dealt the killing blow to the oversized eight-eyed boar sitting atop the mound of corpses.

"Alright, listen up," Grakke boomed, and all heads turned at once. "We sleep here tonight."

"Wait, what-"

"But-"

"No argument," Grakke snapped, folding his arms. "Sleep in the leaves, eat from the corpses. When everyone's properly rested and fed we'll set off again, and that's the end of it."

"This place already smells of death," Arha offered, groggily, from behind him. She was already all but passed out against the side of that tree. "Maybe it'll...I dunno, keep 'em away?"

Once again, it was Zekval who stepped up.

"Sure," he shrugged, appearing shockingly unbothered by Grakke's proposition. "I can stand watch - I don't often sleep much anyway. And I've got keener ears and eyes than the rest of you."

"My eyes are plenty keen," Makran scoffed - but nevertheless, there was no further complaint, and soon the four of them were sitting amongst the corpses, ripping free strips of dead flesh and biting reluctantly into the dry, sallow grey meat. And, as the air was filled with sounds of crunching bone and squelching flesh and smacking lips Arha was drifting further, further, further away...

In her dream, there were only teeth. Ninety-nine gleaming, gnashing, hungry teeth.

Arha woke with a gasp.

It was night now, perhaps - for the sky above never changed, not really, only lightening or darkening by imperceptible degrees - and all the others were dead asleep, many of them snoring obnoxiously.

And so Arha was alone in this strange twilight. And so, for the first time since Tekarn had appeared like a phantom in her doorway, she wept. She wept bitterly and quietly, her hands curled tight into fists and her back hunched and tears streaming freely from her one remaining eye.

What had she done wrong? That was what she lamented over and over again. Was it that she was simply not strong enough? Was it that despite all the constant, grueling training - despite the fact that the only thing that had dominated her thoughts for so many years was how best to kill human beings with a sword - she was still somehow weak? Did she deserve this?

No, she decided, her tears beginning to dry, and now she was all but shuddering with rage. No. This was not what the Master and the Great Worm had taught. This was abomination. Sacrilege. Like many of the younger Winnowers, Arha paid only lip service to the religious teachings and rituals of the Celebrants, but she believed in the philosophy of the Worm as surely as any bible or text, and now she felt deep in her soul that that philosophy had been betrayed. She had lived up to the ideals of the Worm - had strove to embody them all her life, just as she had been taught! It was they who had-

She lay there awake for hours, unable to sleep or even rest, her thoughts a carousel between rage and sorrow and indignity and denial and all manner of things between. And then, slowly, the others began to stir, and soon they were on the march once more. As always, philosophical musings and existential fears came second to matters of pure survival.

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The next two days were markedly more unpleasant.

First, there was the matter of food - the raw flesh of the Blackwoods's malformed denizens had proved quite impossible to keep down, and thus after several rounds of retching and dry-heaving the exiles had been forced to continue on stomachs even emptier than before. Perhaps cooking that mottled flesh might have yielded something more edible; however, surely there were far more efficient methods of suicide than daring to spark a fire in the darkness of that forest.

Then came the rain. Though the void above was more reminiscent of ceiling than sky, nevertheless on the second day did the rain come roaring down in a torrent so loud and so blinding that the exiles were forced to join hands together as they progressed. When the rain subsided, they were all soaked now to the very bone, and their march had become but a barefoot trudge through ankle-high mud. Already the soles of their feet were worn through with blisters and scarring.

And then there was the changing temperature. While the 'days' were oppressively hot, the 'nights' brought with them a bitter, chilling cold, against which the exiles' only defense was to huddle their shivering bodies together and eke out what little warmth they could. It dawned upon Arha that it might not necessarily be a lack of weaponry that spelled their demise - it could very well come from a lack of clothes!

By the third day, the exile's half-starved bickering had turned to interminable silence as they trudged and trudged, their eyes vacant and their mouths hanging slack. Every one of them was focused almost entirely upon one thing and one thing only - left foot, then right foot. Left foot, then right foot.

And then, mercifully, there came a stroke of luck. There, in a clearing much like any other, were a scattered array of human corpses.

Slowly, cautiously, the exiles filtered into the clearing, their formation spread wide. In their hands were sticks and rocks and other makeshift implements as they surveyed the carnage warily.

There were eight of them - marauders, from the looks of it, their flesh heavily tattooed and pierced with dozens of iron rings. It seemed they had been faring little better than Arha's group, for their clothes were ragged and filthy and their weapons were in a universal state of disuse and disrepair. They had clearly been set upon by the local fauna, for nearly all of them sported torn-open throats or ripped-apart faces, and their bodies were scattered as though simply swatted aside by some great and uncaring hand of god.

Had Arha been of clearer mind, she might have taken notice - and taken issue - with the fact that there was not a single scavenger feasting upon these unfortunate souls.

But good fortune was hard to come by in the Blackwoods, and so after a short minute of caution the exiles gave in to immediate celebration. They ransacked the corpses, laughing and joking amongst themselves for the first time in days as they donned whatever mud-and-gore-streaked rags they could find. Swords, knives, and even a small hammer were distributed evenly between them, with Arha herself settling on a long, flat-bladed machete of awkward weight and poor condition.

She twirled it in her hand, feeling the motion, the rhythm. It was a far cry from her preference - but it would kill well enough, if called upon.

She looked up to see Grakke with a rare smile on his weathered face.

"You look like a vagrant," he rumbled, to which Arha couldn't help but chuckle.

"We *are* vagrants," she shot back, tucking the machete into her makeshift rope-belt. "We are starving, filthy, nameless, simple-minded vagrants with neither cause nor people to call our own."

"Cheers to that!" Makran sounded behind her, and a ripple of half-delirious laughter passed through their number. It wasn't food, no - but the fact that they had met with any progress at all was exactly the sort of carrot-on-a-stick necessary to keep them going. More important than clothing or weaponry was the newfound presence of hope.

It was time to leverage this even further, Arha decided, especially since it could easily be quite a few more starving days before any more such victories occurred. She whistled twice, grabbing the attention of every one of her fellows, and turned with hands clasped behind her back to address them.

"People!" Zekval hissed, just as Arha opened her mouth to speak, and the words died in her throat as all whirled around in an instant to find a dozen men looming at the shadowy edge of the clearing, their arrow-tips glinting faintly between the trees.

The exiles froze. Hands went to weapons. Mouths muttered curses and questions. And the tension was drawn into a thin, taut line as the tallest of the strangers took a single step forward, his fellows pulling their bowstrings tight in perfect synchronicity.

"Good afternoon," he said, inclining his head ever-so-slightly. His gloved hand drifted up, then came to rest quite purposefully atop his sword-hilt. "You look lost."

For whatever it was worth, Arha couldn't have agreed more.