Amanda was explaining the problems she’d encountered with her automatic plough design. The biggest being some way to control it without an Ib with Tolyin, which granted the power to manipulate and control metals. We were lying together in the glow of our latest horizontal jogging session, we had a lot to catch up on, when there was a loud knock on the door to the solar. I threw on a dressing gown, closed the curtains around the bed, and crossed over to the door.

“Your grace?” opening the door revealed a familiar young welf,”There is a messenger from the queen.”

“The queen, Seona?”

“Yes. She says it’s very important.”

“The messenger or the queen?”

“Uh?” Seona looked confused for a moment.

“Does the messenger say it’s important, or does the queen?”

“Both. I think.”

“And it’s the messenger who is here, not the queen herself?”

“Yes.”

“I best go see her then,” I sighed.

The queen’s messenger was one of three burghal welfs. She introduced herself as Blossom Sydney. Her two Guardian bodyguards, Nia Groves and Sunshine MacKay, wore insignia either of the capital city or the kingdom as a whole. Probably the former.

I found them waiting in the entrance hall and welcomed them into my home and the seat of my responsibility. They laughed at my phrasing before Blossom presented me with a scroll, sealed with wax. I won’t bore you with the exact wording. I’m sure it’s filed somewhere if you want to read it. But the short of it was I was being invited to the capital to a council on the transformation of the Kingdom of Tares into a Scottish republic. I was sure, sarcastically, that it would be absolutely thrilling. And it would be. But not in the way I had thought. The multiverse has a strong sense of irony.

I made sure that the three had rooms for the night before I returned to my own bed.

It had been three days since the brothel brawl. Making it, in my estimation, Friday.

TGIF, right?

I, and everyone else on Lusfell, only wished.

The six idiots from the brothel brawl had survived their injuries and, with magical healing, recovered from them. Thankfully one of Forfar’s three Sheriffs, Giuseppe Di Colombo, had been located leading the local Guardian garrison I’d mentioned previously. Given that Scottish Sheriffs are judges, I had someone to do all of that court stuff for me. Hooray for delegation.

The idiots were now doing several hundred hours of community service in several of the farms around Skipingham. We were in agreement that the castle dungeon was not suitable for long term incarceration. I’m against long term incarceration in general principle. So that worked out fine for all concerned.

Less fine were the farms.

Sure we could go from seed to harvest in a single day using vegetation magic. As long as the soil was good we’d never have to worry about eating again. But that accelerated cycle was taxing on both caster and soil. The nutrients had to come from somewhere and with living plants they came from the soil just as much as the caster’s Daq; the reserves of their Seagel. One of the casters said they felt like they’d aged a year. While another took a two day ‘nap’ starting the moment the spell was finished.

So we had to find ways to renew the soil.

Divine intervention was right out. The Torks pantheon, that of the burghal Tares, didn’t practise Ib. Also it lacked any deity associated with fertility. So the poor priests had to work for their power, were useless outside of their Seagel and whatever power their gods granted them through their prayers. Not the kind and mutually beneficial arrangement of an Ib.

The pastoral Tares revered the Seagel themselves. Soil, rock and metal weren’t alive to them; life came from the vegetation. So nobody had a Seagel for them. Or maybe nobody had a Seagel for them so they weren’t considered capable of having one. It made sense either way.

To be honest the folk beliefs of the pastoral Tares makes much more sense to me than mucking around with gods and their nonsense. Just don’t tell the gods I said that.

Turns out that a stop gap solution to the failing fertility of the soil was to heal it. A lot of soil fertility seems to come from its microbiome. Most healing magic seems to tap into and boost the body’s own mechanisms to work. Healing the soil like it was hurt and sick worked. Since intent was a major factor of magic. A lot of our healers had now developed and shared spells to promote soil fertility.

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Mixed with field rotation, fertilisers and just not doing it too much we could optimise our harvest and have enough stockpiled for the winter. In fact we were in the process of growing new warehouses and granaries just to hold what we were capable of harvesting now. Our current plan was one harvest per week, but roll it back if that was too much. I remember reading somewhere that it takes a thousand years to create a strong fertile soil. And only a handful to destroy it.

The other thing had been sightings of what could best be described as “creatures” at the edges of the farms, where they met the forest beyond.

Large, eagle sized, birds with four hooked wings and apparently no legs had been seen. Apparently they hang from branches when not in flight and brachiate to move through the dense canopy. They’d already been nicknamed Gryphons. Although the Tares had called them Xylk.

Bristlehounds were the next thing reported. Although they were more like maniticores than anything else. The Tares had called them Vlovitz. These were the size and shapes of wolves, although more feathered and scaled than furred. They had long feather-scales around their necks and along their backs that rose when they felt threatened. Reports that they could fire these at will and with accuracy were yet to be substantiated. Curiosity more than malice seems to have brought them to the forest’s edge. They soon fled when spotted. But still. Caution and preparedness are survival traits.

Finally, and most concerning, a short spear made of a burnt tree branch and headed with an Vlovitz scale, had narrowly missed a farmer. Thrown from the tree-line by a diminutive figure apparently wearing hides. They had fled when challenged. This said to me that there were more people out there that needed to be found and cared for. Although why they might be aggressive to us was beyond me. Maybe they thought that they were alone.

Looking at the map, getting from Skipingham to the capital, Torksey, only had two real options. I could follow the metaled road up to the port of Wickburgh and take a ship across the bay of Daylet to the capital.

Or we could divert off at the village of Clitford. Yes that was its name; it’s apparently the place where you can cross the river Clit. Although my map didn’t show any waterways in the area. From Clitford we’d then travel overland via unmetalled roads. Through the towns of Knamerton, Portstedge and Hatbury. Before eventually reaching the capital.

Economically the land was still in chaotic free fall. We’d sought someone with a Merchant class specifically to get them to use their Self Lore to identify the value of our coinage and they couldn’t. Apparently money was not integral to what people, more familiar with computer games than tabletop role playing games, were starting to call the World Engine. The Merchant had admitted that this rendered them a cynic according to the late Oscar Wilde; knowing the cost of everything, but the value of nothing. We tried to role play some transactions. How much for one item and how much for another. But just as we thought we were getting the hang of things something that we all agreed was worth less than another item apparently cost more. Or what we thought was the more valuable coin was in fact the less. Or some coins had more power in some transactions than in others. That didn’t seem a viable system.

So what I’m trying to say is that we had no way to know what the price of passage by ship would be, or what to pay for room and board on our way.

The obvious solution was to fill my inventory in the Cronephere and take as much camping gear and supplies as I could carry.

Being limited to bringing myself and six others, this put a rather large burden on me. But by bringing at least one other member of the shadowy assassins cabal with me could probably double capacity.

It took two to double capacity. I’m guessing the size of the Cronephere inventory space is something to do with level and probably some attributes. Anyway it’s not the size of the inventory that matters, but what you put in it.

I had picked Durward Banerjee, the jocular militiaman; and Chelo Lucas, one of the castle servants. Because they had the largest capacities and their absence would have the least impact. No other reason.

I filled out my party with Murdo, Luachlan, and Greg. Which left me with one other person to take with me. This became the most difficult decision of the planning session. Amanda had to stick with her caravan, but could bring it along after me a day or so later. She suggested Deanna, but Deanna had to remain to run things in my absence.

In the end I just picked a Guardian semi-randomly.

Kirsten Deng had been a student of criminology back home; her family were local restaurateurs. But she was now a Pastoral Tares with Seagels of wind and vegetation. Those would prove useful.

I had considered taking Heather. If I was to be her parent now then I’d be a damn sight better parent than the two losers she’d been born to. I had never met her actual father but, as I am an avowed pacifist, I’m sure he’d have a face I’d never tire of punching.

I mean, how dare they kick the poor girl out just because she discovered that she’s not the boy they thought she was. At least the Drummonds, bless their cotton socks and saintly hearts, took her in. But if I ever meet the Radnors! …Ahem! Sorry. Anyway.

We estimated it would take us five days to ride Torksey. Five days of supplies for seven people and our Sancers was not an inconsiderable amount. But we still had room for other camping gear. With Kirsten we shouldn’t need tents, but we still had them. Cooking equipment was also a consideration. It turned out that we had enough space that we could carry spares.

The curious thing was that things inside the Cronephere didn’t seem to age or decay. At least over the time we’d had to examine things. It wasn’t like a perfect stasis; hot things cooled and cold things warmed to the ambient temperature of the realm; roughly a few degrees below room temperature. This meant that we could safely store prepared food for the trip and only have to reheat it. We would supplement these rations with things hunted and foraged on our trip however, as the Guardians had the skills for it and wanted to practise them.

Which was fair. The only skill I had levelled so far had been First Aid. Which was now at rank 1, and that was from treating the idiots from the brothel brawl. I am glad that the World Engine, or whatever we were calling it now, uses the Elder Scrolls style learning-by-doing rather than any other style of skill progression. Can you imagine if the world worked more like Dungeons and Dragons, and we only progressed when we hit a new level? It would be an utter nightmare. Especially if we only gained experience through combat. Packs of Murder Hobos would be rule rather than the exception; wandering the countryside slaughtering all in their way as they forever seek the elusive Ding.

Second edition was a mistake!

You’re looking at me as if I’ve grown a second head. I haven't have I? No? Then I better get back on with my tale.

It took us most of the day to plan and prepare. The next morning felt weird, as we saddled up and prepared to ride off. I’d been here only a handful of days and it already felt like home. Now I was about to ride off to points unknown.

Amanda and company waved me goodbye as we set off. I knew that they would follow on in a few days but still. It felt like I was leaving a part of myself behind as Skipingham receded into the distance.

We were on our way.