I have fallen off a lot of buildings in my life.

This is unfortunate for several reasons; Reason one is that it usually hurts. Reason the second is that it calls in to doubt by skill and balance, which is frustrating. Reason number three, it means that I have built up a reasonable hesitation to jumping off them without prompt.

There are good parts though. For example, reasonable hesitation does not mean that I will not jump off if the occasion is forced upon me.

----------------------------------------

The gusting air kicked up by the wings nearly topples me. Vortices of mist swirling from each wingtip. I fight for balance, lift centimetres of the ground then drop between flaps. The shimmering feathers pound the air with concussive force.

I'm going backwards, The wings sit parallel to my back like a bird. Sanding up straight they are pushing me backwards as much as upwards. I need to be flat, and I need space. Shit.

My eyes are drawn inexorably to the roof edge. The inexorable call of the void calling from beneath.

'I've been telling you to jump since forever.' The cruel voice taunts gleefully. 'Do it coward.'

Fuck fuck fuckidy fuckrocks. I hear yelling from below me, a light goes on in the watchtower. A beam of it sweeping slowly towards me, carving a path of gold through the fog. Shit.

I run, leaning further forward with every step. My treasures, jingle and rattle and bash against me. The slope of the roof beckons towards an ever hungry abys. Time moves too fast, overloading my thoughts. The edge is so close, the swift end of my mortal struggles even closer. I dive.

Trying to get as far forward as possible, as parallel to the ground. The implanted instincts of the wings take over, the surety of a practice I've never had guiding me. The tail dragging behind me seems to connect with my heels and in an awful shudder of prickling sensation locks my legs strait. Then I'm falling.

The swirling mists gobble me whole as I plunge into them, the cold stings my cheeks and the fear steals my breath.

The wings beat once and my plunge becomes a swoop. The ground looms from below, my stomach lurches, then I'm rising. Thank the Gods for instinctive use artifacts!

The unsettling feeling of unfamiliar understanding worming into the back of my mind makes me shudder for a moment, I suddenly have the ghostly sensation of the wind across wings solidifying in my mind. The knowledge of how to bank and turn. The feeling is disgusting, like worms writhing on the back of my neck, but so very worth it. Because… flight!

I rise through the clouds until they release me regretfully to the open sky then rise further still. The growing commotion I left in my wake a bright gold spot in an otherwise grey ocean. The city stretches below me, the warren of streets barely a shadow under concealing clouds, the protruding roofs and towers like rocks weathering the surf. The twin moons, on the horizon now, illuminate the night in a clear radiance. Jagged mountains, like the teeth of some world swallowing leviathan, pierce the fog to north and south containing the clouds that roll in from the ocean, splashing against the mountain walls and spilling through the gaps. It's beautiful, breathtakingly so, I simply don't have capacity to care right now.

I can feel my eyelids sagging. The energy derived from excitement and danger is short-lived and costly, tonight I have gorged on it. I need to get somewhere safe and sleep. But first… appreciate. I am too drained for celebration right now but I will remember.

I take in as much of the land seen from above as I am able, the serene beauty of a world rendered insignificant by distance and perspective, the feeling of freedom. Everything that has ever troubled me is so small from up high. I take in the dark horizon, an edge lit cut out of the mountains I am familiar with, menacing and majestic. The endless carpet of undulating clouds blanketing the hard sharp city in their softness. Then I try and acknowledge myself, to feel. My fingers are in quiet agony, torn, strained and cramped all at once. My hips and leg and shoulder ache from being pressed into the cold metal shaft. My left ear is tender from where it rubbed against the steel. I'm thirsty, parched actually, I've done a lot of sweating, thanks to which I'm freezing cold. Despite all of that I'm elated, triumphant. The breeze through my short, damp mane is glorious. The strange experience of having three extra, articulated limbs is stage and disorienting but not strictly unpleasant. I know I will remember all of these things later and, despite the pain, it will be a fond memory.

The strange ephemeral sensation of commanding new limbs grows stronger as I fly. East first towards the mountain pass with the great sands beyond it. Distance is hard to understand from such a different viewpoint so I pay attention to landmarks instead. Several familiar spires of temples I recognise tell me I'm close to the city's edge I think I can make out the shadow of the thick monster walls in the mist, simply follow the twisting earthen road that winds away from the city. The mist, forming like foam on the ocean waves pours in a relentless waterfall from the mountains upon which it condensed obscuring my vision despite my height. I think that I have con far enough, so I turn and circle around the small city the white blanket thins quickly as I make distance from the Destran walls. The bright moonlit silver is replaced by the unidentifiable darkness as I leave the clouds behind then becomes even less clear as the moons dip below the horizon. My aches are truly beginning to get to me now, the bruises have started to form and the straps and ties are beginning to bite into me with the weight of my cargo.

But I've completed my tasks, leaving a false trail in the other direction should delay pursuit until we can escape any following bounty hunters. I fly west and marvel at the speed I'm achieving, I'll manage a days' travel by calox drawn wagon in an hour and a half.

For a while I just exist, my body moving without conscious thought, my mind slowed to quiet nothingness.

In the darkness I see a light. It's green and it's beautiful and snaps me out of my fugue state. I begin a slow bank towards it. The foreign knowledge of how to bank an insistent passenger in the back of my head, something I am lucky enough to be used too.

I allow myself to circle once, enjoying the sensations of flight despite ever growing exhaustion, then descend. A group of laden wagons awaiting travel next to an inn and bunkhouse it is down to one of these wagons that I swoop. The ground rushes up at me like a shadow from the darkness but I don't panic, the strange instincts that the wings seemed to give help reassure me like an intrusive thought. I flare the feathers and angle the decent so that I can come to a graceful touchdown; I slow, my feet come free to catch my fall, something on my left pulls.

I hit the ground face first and skid, grinding across packed earth.

"Aaaauuuwwwch" I feel myself groan. What the fuck happened? I drag myself to hands and knees and look back. The wagon is rocking slightly, my wings are skewed and I recognise a burning torn sensation from all along my spine. Apparently those implanted instincts don't help with spacing, because instead of softly alighting on two feet, one wing clipped the edge of the wagon sending me careening into a full, bone rattling, faceplant.

"Aaaaawch. Fuck. Goddess damn." I groan again quietly pushing myself onto all fours.

"That's an interesting landing technique." Someone walks out into the dim lamplit greenness and stops before my prone form. "Cutting it a little close there aren't ya' ferret."

From the floor I flip him off, "Go stick your dick in an ants nest Spicer." I probably shouldn't have said that but I just ground my face into the gravely earth at speed, so yeah.

Spicer just chuckles a little "Also help me unload all this shit! I'm so weighed down with loot I don' think I could run wit' it."

With much more professional speed Spicer helps take off and pack away the assorted spoils. "Damn fawn you’ve outdone yourself!"

Normally I would have preened at the praise, well perhaps not preened but be pleased underneath my normal spiny shell of silence and glares, now though I just feel slightly nauseous. "One more thin'."

Getting the wings of is smooth and without issue, it also leaves me heaving for a good few minutes at the disgusting feeling of the tendrils writhing under my skin as they withdrew and the uncanny feeling of missing limbs as the burgeoning nervous system, that I'd barely even noticed, disappeared. The series of soft sucking sounds as the tendrils withdraw from my skin one by one will accompany me into my nightmares I am certain of it. The soft warm trickling of blood down my back does not help.

"Chuck on a jacket kitten you look frozen."

I grunt a vague affirmative as Spicer stores the wings in a magic isolation box, before climbing into the back of the covered wagon. There's not a lot of space but I don't need much either so it is little trouble to find a blanket, curl into a ball on a tarp covered mound of rugs and pass out.

*

Everything hurts.

My body had processed this before my mind and I am moaning softly before I even have the ware with all to articulate that thought. Even as I wake I feel the bruises and strains, my mind grinds into reluctant alertness despite the abrasive sandstorm of bodily discomfort clogging its workings.

I am bruised from my feet to my knees, all across both hips, my shoulder, everything from my stubby tail to my neck is tender. My hands feel stiff and pained, my eyes are dry and throat raw. That's before counting the constant nagging hunger pangs and the absolute hammering going on inside my skull.

"Fuuuuuuuuu……." I don't even have the energy to finish the swear, only curling up tighter in my blanket refuge to hide from the pain that the world seems insistent of causing me.

It's a familiar soft cackling that wakes me fully. Bleary eyes venture beyond the warm walls of my improvised bedding. A meter away sitting atop a crate of expensive books sits an old man. He is playing cards, a single player game called conquest. I recognise this old man. The tufted grey mane clinging in inconsistent patches, the hunched shoulders that make him look predatory instead of diminished.

"What are…" I lick dry lips and try again "What are you doin' here?" I ask, unsure if I want the answer.

"I'm here because I want to be. Why are you here little girl?" He croaks back not turning away from his game.

"I'm here because I owe people." My headache is getting worse in real time as sharp beams of sunlight pierce my dim refuge and stab at my consciousness. The light of day provides some clarity though. "Are y'u real? I don't think y'are but I don' know f'sure."

The old man cackles, still not looking my way. "What makes you so certain that you are real? Ey girl."

"I don't… I'm not…" I feel so stupid, so tired, so dizzy. I trail into incoherence. Licking my cracked lips again. Fuck I'm thirsty.

"Seems to me that If you're not sure either of us are real then our odds of existing are about the same." The old man cackles again but this time he turns to face me, his familiar old, lined face with its missing teeth and crooked antlers. This isn't real, he's back home half a continent away. I exhale forcefully.

"I'm'a get a drink and some breakfast, you're goanna disappear 'eforre I get back. We'll see who's real then."

I turn to leave ignoring the quiet chuckling, the sound of the cards turning, the mellow old person smell that I could swear really permeates the air.

Shit.

I haven't had a hallucination this vivid in months. I'm still not entirely certain that it's not real. The soft rasping of turning cards haunts me despite my determination not to look. I glance back in a moment of weakness. Are the shadows right? I'm not sure, and now I'm uncertain about all the other shadows. I can't let myself become unsure of everything, that doesn't end well. I shake my head. I can't be doubting everything right now, it's not productive. I know how to deal with this.

'Acknowledge only the existence of things you expect before you notice them, or clear and active dangers.' Reminds the calm, soft voice the pleasantly husky voice reassuring as always. I accept the advice despite the irony.

I expect to see Spicer sitting up front, driving a pair of Calox. There will be other wagons in front and behind driving along a dirt road surrounded by woods. I take a breath and step out into the sunlight, pursued by the ghostly chuckle of the old man who I know to be a world away.

I emerge into sunlight blinking my scratchy dry eyes and wincing against the onrush of stifling, humid heat. My boss and maybe sometimes mentor glances my way with an unenthusiastic grunt.

"Mornin' ol'man" I croak.

"I'm thirty-five you overgrown rodent… But yes, morning."

Spicer sprawls laconically across the bench, his feet kicked up in front of him in a pose of supreme relaxation. I have to step over his arm to get to the bench, which I subsequently collapse onto. The world is indeed as I expect it, ahead a wagon laden with ceramics, glasswork, and fabrics rolls ahead of us. Clever merchant that one. The land around us is a vibrant mix of colours, green leaves, blooming flowers, sands of a rich red brown, the bright plumage of exotic birds. The scents are of life, rotting wood, the faintest hint of sweat, the calox dung of someone ahead of us in the convoy. A small dip in the road lets me see ahead to the line of drawn vehicles ahead of us, some of the mercenary guards hired to protect the merchants sit on a roof fingering weapons. I try to mimic Spicer's relaxed pose but when I realise I have to lie on my shoulder blades in order for my heels to rest easily on the raised front lip I give up on that.

"Screw bien' short." I hear myself mutter. The boss man laughs softly.

He's a big guy Spicer. Everyone is tall compared to me but I find myself looking up at him with some envy as I retrieve a half full canteen from under the bench. I don't exactly want to look like Spicer but I wouldn't mind stealing some of his significant height. Perhaps his antlers too. Mine are habitually shaved to stubs while the boss man has an impressive rack of broad flat skull ornaments that show his northern heritage In the way they mould close to the skull and are flush with the colouring of blood close to the surface. He's not dealing with the heat very well, even in the shade that an awning of canvas provides us with and months to get used to it. The heat is constant and oppressive and the thicker build and mane that he refuses to trim down keep the roguish buck constantly uncomfortable. I suppose he's probably quite handsome, objectively speaking, even square features permanently curled into sly half smirks or sharpened by intense concentration. He is entirely unmarked with tattoos as far as I can tell, which is strange for a career criminal, but a modest collection of jewellery adorns his ears, following the bottom edge towards the pointed peak. A buzzing insect causes the ear in question to twitch and the boneless crew leader to groan.

"I really fuckin' hate this country. It's too hot, the food is over spiced, the language is incomprehensible, I burn if I so much as open the fuckin' window during the day and I'd bet good money that bugs are actually summoned from thin air whenever someone even thinks about getting comfortable."

I half nod half shrug. I don't really agree but it's usually best to just let people think you share the same opinion. The path we travel on is like nothing back home, the vivid greens tracing the drunken meanderings of cloud fed streams through the hot sandy hills. I think it's beautiful.

"Oh, you don't agree little Pyrite? Is there some counterpoint needling you?" His voice is jokey but there's the tiniest undercurrent to it. Damn. When the hell did he even start paying attention to my tells. I wish I hadn't told everyone my name was short for Pyrite, It always sets me on edge to hear it.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I try to deflect. I don't like talking much but I can do it when I have to and I've got better since I started hanging around with Spicers crew, who all speak more formally.

"…I mean… Erm …Can't be all bad right? Anythin' y'u goanna miss?"

The man relaxes slightly and I feel my ears come forward into a more relaxed position, I hadn't even noticed they went back in my anxiety. He pauses a moment to think about it, opening his barely closed vest to appreciate a cool breeze and reaching into a pocket to remove a paper wrapped cylinder of fragrant herbs. The exposed skin, dappled light grey and brown except for some sun damaged red on the exposed shoulders glistens with the slight sheen of sweat, then the entire form is lit up. A small application of Spicer's personal brand of magic results in a tight jet of flame from one extended fingertip then the smouldering cigarette is left dangling from Spicer's mouth as smoke curls from his nose.

"We'll… I'll miss the cheap herbs."

I supress the habitual envy I feel at the display of magic. It's not the most powerful natural talent in the world but the fact that Spicer uses his natural power to light his Goddess damned smokes feels like a kick in the shins.

"The women are admittedly very beautiful, some of the men and the in-betweens if I'm being honest."

He inhales deeply, the ring of embers climbing up the paper and leaving only ash behind. An exhale sends a plume of smoke wafting through the air.

"I like that flatbread that all the street vendors sold too. Good stuff that. But that's all by the by. What makes you like the place so much?"

I try to bear the discomfort of attention coming back to me without reacting. A personal answer, something he can't disagree with.

"Those bags of roas' nuts, they're nice, an' I haven' had a cold or anythin' since we got 'ere which never happens."

Spicer nods in consideration. "Fair enough. Anything else?"

"I got my shit kicked in less… Tha' was nice." Shit I didn't mean to say that, it just sprung out my mouth! Is that alright will he think I'm insulting his home country?

The boss chuckles quietly. "That was less?! You must have got stomped three or four times."

He seems relaxed. I breathe a bit easier. I feel my lips pull back in a mirthless smile. "Hey, tha's 'bout a third as of'en as back home."

"No shit? It's really that bad?"

I shrug slightly, even that slight movement making my bruises ache. "Acid war vets hold a grudge."

Spicer laughs yet again at the understatement. Alright no signs of offence, good.

"I can believe it! I hear that acid is one of the most painful ways to go, and the wounds it leaves behind! Grisly."

He's not wrong, the war wounded have some of the most painful looking scars I've ever seen even the better part of a decade on from the end of the conflict. I don't see why they should take that out on me though. When the fighting started I was two!

"Hardly my fuckin' fault." I mutter. "'Sides the army won in the end so wha's even the problem?"

"The horrific disfigurement and chronic pain probably. Not to mention several bloody independence movements and worse, a tradition of jewellery making that massively outcompetes our own!"

I squint over at my sometimes mentor. It's not like he's stupid, quite the opposite, but it's rare for him to give complete answers. He's being unusually nice, Weird. It's probably not some sort of trick, that's not really Spicer's style. Well whatever if Spicer's in a good mood today then I can afford to relax a bit.

I grunt in response muttering my opinion on the matter under my breath. "Point is, it's nice to get my shit kicked in once e'ry couple months 'stead of weeks."

"That's a fair reason… I hadn't realised you had spent so much of your youth in a kicking circle."

My bruises flare in solidarity with the memories of their ancestral line. I am really sore.

"Soldiers end up beggin' and working in temple's a lot. Tread a lot of the same turf as me. If they spot me bien' shady they get pissed. Really pissed."

"I suppose that makes some amount of sense."

"My Mum's not even from Ethona she's from the shinin' peak which is like.. I don't know like two countries over." I shouldn't grumble but it's a literal sore spot for me. Spicer gives me the look, like 'Are you a moron?' and I hide a surge of impulsive annoyance.

"It's right on the border, I would have thought… I suppose not."

Oh.

The shame boils in my guts and the conversation trails into silence. I watch the world go by in quiet contemplation. Above birds circle in the cloudless sky. The convoy of overburdened wagons trundles ever onward occasional sending small animals skittering into the undergrowth. The noises of people and wildlife merge into a singular music of life.

I realise I'm still in last night's clothes, which means I'm sticky with dried sweat and blood. I should clean and change clothes or people might get suspicious. I shift and pain surges in ripples of sensation. Maybe I can just rest for a moment. The companiable silence lasts unbroken for some time until my hunger refuses to be ignored. My stomach grumbles.

"Uurm… is there any food I can have?"

"Sure on the right. While you're in there why don't you grab the bag I left out."

I nod then force myself stand to duck in. The movement hurts me. But I'm glad to see that I'm alone in the space once more.

The wagon interior is piled with boxes, bolts of fabric, jumbles of maps, towers of books and stacks of ivory. The veritable mountain of treasures is all the more impressive for the fact that it represents less than half the real value of the trip. Under the floorboards lie hordes of artifacts, art, jewellery and drugs. The knowledge of the insane quantity of wealth all around me overwhelms me with a sudden feeling of vertigo leaving me briefly dizzy. In the last six months I have held more wealth than my entire life before, ten times over. I'm finally on the up! My cut will be a tiny portion of this haul. I know and I don't mind because a tiny cut of the profits will still clear my debts and put food on the table for maybe years if I stretch it. That's not even the important part though. I did a job for the man in charge. I went above and beyond. I have the skills and reputation to get good work, better yet I have a crew! None of them are saints but they've looked out for me in their own little ways, taught me stuff, given advice and even food on some occasions. For once in my life I think things are looking up. The sudden euphoria of it all threatens to overwhelm me.

'Good things never happen to vermin like you.' The cruel voice growls from the confines of my mind, 'Don't let your guard down little rasch.'

I ignore the voice, it's not like I don't have practice.

I wipe myself down with a damp cloth and put on my other set of clothes. I manage to scrounge up some food. I chew a tough sausage into submission as I gently force myself into stretching my abused body. Muscles and tendons scream at me but I ignore their protests as I gingerly coax them to their limits.

My pain gradually decreases from debilitating to merely crippling and I allow myself to relax. Taking a stale lump of hard cheese and some dried fruit I return to sitting on the bench next to Spicer. Bringing one of the bags of loose trinket's I stole yesterday.

"Good haul right? It's a shame so much of it goes to taxes." I'm not sure why I feel the need to fill the silence but I do.

Spicer grunts, "Nobody likes paying taxes, but it keeps the beasts off our back and pays for the orphanages."

I find myself agreeing, the caps and their cudgels often need paying off and the 'Orphanages' do keep kids from freezing to death when they can. School to raise goons and thieves or not.

I realise belatedly that I'm speaking in gang code despite the fact my heavily accented Glastan wouldn't be understood by most people in the convoy anyway. Never mind, best to stay in the habit anyway.

"Come on kid, I didn't ask you to bring that out for decorative purposes, open 'er up." Spicer tells me.

I open the bag and pull out one of the item's. Then another and another. It's truly staggering. None of this stuff is fully charged but some of it is charging now it's out of the isolated vault and I'm a little worried about someone tracking the emissions, Spicer's not worried though so I shelve my fear in its box. I'll bring it out later, when it's needed.

"This is some fantastic stuff. Those twinned rings of lightening especially are an incredible find."

Most of this stuff looks the same to me. A handful of rings, a couple of bracelets and other assorted odds and ends. Not to Spicer though, I think that his talent in identifying and valuing artifacts is one of the main reasons he is the boss. As I watch he examines an ornate silver rimmed monocle. Then holds it to one eye. "Wow. That is certainly something." A pattern reminiscent of woven roots spreads from the silver onto the glass but Spicer reacts to something beyond it, something seen through the magical eyewear. He looks at me and grins, "Well isn't that adorable!"

I'm more than curious at this point. "Hey Boss? What y'u seein'?"

He hands me the monocle with a flourish. "You look like you have a pair of little flowers as horns."

I take the magical device, hold it up to my eye and depress a small button. The colourful world beyond the lens lights up. A light snowfall, motes of shining crystal drift from above. The plants are suddenly tied around and throughout with vines and veins of… something. Some are matte others iridescent, the structures as varied as they are numerous. Huge sections of the forest suddenly change meaning now that I can see the whole picture. A huge flower the size of a dinner plate is suddenly revealed to me as an organic jaw trap awaiting victims, a twisted tree that looks to be suffocated under a thick coating of choking vines is actually a tightly woven symbiosis, the vines providing a mesh grid tower of structural support and protection. My mouth drops open. Spicer chuckles at my reaction. I glance at him in indignation but freeze when I see him. His antlers are like bouquets of broad petaled flowers. Even as I watch, one of the floating motes touches a petal and the flower folds in on itself blooming again a second later.

"Wow." I gasp. The monocle dims, flickers and returns to mundane view as it's charge runs out. I don't even feel disappointed. I'd heard that our antler's collected magic, but to see it is something entirely different. Shaking fingers move on their own accord to brush against my own stubs. 'A pair of little flowers…' I know I've been stunting my magic development, I've known for a while. But… did I really know? I let my hands drop back to my lap. It doesn't matter. It's for a good cause, If I hadn't cut them down the alarms might have picked me up. It's the same reason I wasn't eating.

I'll live. Not to mention that now with a bit of money and reputation I can afford to be more careful, to eat regular meals and perhaps even let my antlers grow out. Things are changing for me.

"You can keep the monocle if you want." Spicer says apropos of nothing. "You really went beyond expectations on this one Pyre. Not even the man on top will complain. Miserly fucking twat that he is." Spicer mutters the last bit.

My heart almost swells out of my chest at the words. I smile at the grumbling and slip the lens into one of my many hidden pockets. That's out of character for him but I'm not going to complain. I even manage the hackles of paranoid suspicion that the unprovoked kindness incites from me. Things are going to change.

We spend the day winding between hills and dense cops of greenery. Few clouds break the plush canopy of blue skies. The day gets even hotter as the sun beats, like a drum it is relentless, fiery, torment.

I eat my lump of hard cheese before I manage to settle my stomach then nibble at the fruit as the afternoon stretches. We stay mostly quiet neither of us having much to say.

As time passes I'm becoming increasingly aware that the wagon behind me represents a truly staggering amount of wealth. It's not just the goods bought cheaply from Destran traders, it's also the stolen goods of six months of work by our crew, the goods that couldn't be fenced locally, for that matter there's a bunch of stuff taken bought and traded for from the local fences. Despite how anxious they make me I'm glad that the caravan has a mercenary escort. Because I am in some small way responsible for all of this. Anxiety can only act as motivation for so long though and eventually exhaustion catches up to me. I crawl back into the wagon for a nap my body protesting every motion along the way and the dusty confines of the mobile edifice lull me to sweet dreams of wealth with their wonderous sights.

*

I wake in the evening to a campsite in a clearing. The entire caravan has circled up and now fires are lit and food set to cooking. Grilled flatbread and strips of spiced dry meat create a mouth-watering fragrance. Traders gather together into groups to talk and eat. Most of these people have been are locals, traveling the same roads in circuits season after season, they know each other even if only in passing. We are then outsiders by default and I look about to find others who fit that description.

Near the edge of the makeshift camp a low firepit is surrounded by the lounging forms of the mercenary guards, Spicer is there also gesticulating widely as he recounts one of his seemingly endless amusing anecdotes. I think he just makes them up. I hop down and walk over stiffly. Just as the tale comes to an end and the group erupts into laughter.

"Ah, here she is. All you fine folks meet my niece, Pyre." Spicer introduces me and I'm met with a soft chorus of polite greetings.

I wave awkwardly back. Keeping my mouth firmly shut.

They all go back to their previous conversations and I try to make myself comfortable on the ground. It's a nice evening, autumn here only means an extra hour of darkness so it's not too cold. Our fire is still quite high so it will probably be ten minutes before someone starts cooking on it. Around the clearing people are winding down from the work of the evening and have begun to bring out games and instruments. The waves of sound and activity wash over me like a gentle current. I allow myself to bask in the gentle comfort of it. Sometimes I don't feel real, I know that I am, I'm not insane, but I feel adrift, intangible. Maybe that's alright. Maybe occasionally I can just allow myself to exist, even if I have no purpose, even if I move through the world like a ghost…

"You alright there little one?" A voice pulls me from my thoughts like a hooked fish. I'm instantly on guard.

"Huh. Erm. Yeah. Just thinking" My trade tongue is good enough that after months of practice that I don't leave any overly long awkward pauses as I think, progress. The person who speaks to me is androgynous, long limbed and sharp featured in the southern mould, long thin antlers and a fluffy dark brown mane, dense enough to keep the sun off their neck but still let some air flow. Maybe just a tough looking woman or one of the people who prefer the indeterminate third pronouns. It's strange that they have that in this part of the world but I kind of like it. That does not mean I've yet to pick up the courage to just ask people strait. I'm not about to start now. Besides they approached me which makes them dangerous.

"It just… well your face is scuffed up nasty now." They lean in close to get a look at me and I feel my skin heat.

I have to touch the cheek she's looking at before I actually remember what it's from. "Ah, yeah, I faceplanted on some gravel." I wince as I touch the marks of my failed landing.

"Ouch." They say sympathetically. "Maybe make up a better story if it's going to scar now, yeah?" The way they talk is strange. More eastern accent than I'm used to I think. They sound a bit like Mum... and they add 'now' more often than is necessary which is really throwing me off.

I chuckle a little, "Any... suggestions?" I have to pause as I find the right word. Trade tongue is really more like half a language it's designed to be augmented with words from the local dialects and that's where I struggle. "A fight wit' a thregn maybe?"

"Oh no little one, you have to make it a little believable now." they pause to consider "How'd you get your big scar?"

My hand unconsciously reaches to touch the rough patch of skin under which my skull has been pieced back together like broken pottery. "When I was eight I walk'd in fron' of a cannon as it was firin'." I lie. "It just clipped me. I was deaf in one ear for two years until I saw a healer abou' it."

The person grins down at me. Sharp face cocking to the side. "That's a story now. Is it's not true is it?"

I shrug. "Why not pretend?" I need to remind myself to be alert around this person. They're still a stranger even if I'm less of a target than usual.

A hand claps down on my shoulder and I tense instantaneously, my fingers itching, the urge to slip away or lash out almost overwhelming. They don't seem to notice my reaction which is lucky.

"I like you now little one. Come get some food you look practically skeletal." The offending appendage helps me up and guides, or more accurately pushes, me towards a different fire upon which some meat sizzles. It's also a part of the mercenary group's preparations. I wonder why they need two different fire's, it seems wasteful, but I've never run a mercenary outfit so what do I know?

At the mention of food I manage to real in my impulse to pull away and reach for something pointy, my mouth fills with saliva and I have to surreptitiously wipe a small string of drool away from where an old scar splits my lip. I'm gently corralled into a short que by my impromptu guide who thankfully lets go of me before my self-control is depleted and I stab her or something equally stupid. We shuffle along until we're at the front, a grizzled, greasy, grumpy cook shoves a bowl and a piece of hot flatbread into my hands without questioning why I'm parasitising their food and I move off to the side. My, I don't know, chaperone joins me and I place my bread atop their bowl before it burns my fingers any further. "Thanks. Spicer pretty much only packs dry travel stuff. It's nice to get a hot meal you know."

They smile down at me. "No problem now little one." They hold their bowl towards me. "Take your bread back and eat now."

"I… ah. D'you wan' it?" I feel awkward refusing it but I don't want food to go to waste.

"You’re a growing girl, you've got to eat." They look genuinely confused by my reluctance to take it.

I hate explaining my weaknesses but… it's easier to just get it out of the way "I can't eat it. Anythin' wit' grain makes me sick." To a sudden look of confused concern I can only shrug. "Not sure why it just does. I'll probably have to clean this hand before I eat too." I grimace at the contaminated digits. "Hard t' grow when y'u puke up e'ry meal let me tell y'u."

They give me a look of sympathy and I remind myself again that they can't be trusted, to stay in the open with people around. There are worse things to be than paranoid.

Somewhere behind me music starts, a small collection of stringed instruments strumming, a tube drum pounding out a repeating melody around a bass rhythm, a moment later someone stars singing in a high clear voice. I turn to watch. A space opens and people start dancing. It's not particularly elegant but it's full of life and energy. People jump and hop in time with the rhythm, they pull in others and the circle expands. I find myself enraptured. I've spent almost six months in this part of the world but the sheer strangeness of it never cease to amaze me. Someone with an actual traditional dancing costume emerges and leaps into motion, the chimes attached to their antlers ringing in time with their movements so that they become a part of the music themselves.

My food is delicious, a sort of spiced stew with cuts of grilled meat in it. Hot liquid rolls down my chin as even hotter spice burns my tongue. My eyes are watering by the time I finish. I ate too fast and now I have a stomach ache but that's alright.

I enjoy a moment of relaxation. The band is quieter as half its members have paused to eat. Most of the dancer too retreated but they'll be back later I'm sure. The wagons' ring is really more of an ovoid and a group of kids are using the shortest space at the far end to play a ball game. I don't know all the rules but the objective seems to be bouncing the ball off the opponent's wagon wall. They seem to be having fun. Using their feet, knees, elbows, anything except their hands pretty much to knock the ball around.

I sit and watch for a long while, just allowing myself to exist. I let my attention slip away from my body, sensation fading to a comfortable numbness. I'll stop thinking soon too. That will be nice…

----------------------------------------

The next few days passed quickly for me. The convoy travelled at a good pace and experienced no trouble from creatures in the forest or the like. Spicer was being strangely kind to me as well, this would normally have been enough to set me on edge, but I just chalked it up to his looking forward to leaving the country with a wagon full of treasure. With the benefit of hindsight I wonder who he pissed off to end up here, the poor guy is was not built for the heat, or did he ask for the assignment? I doubt I will ever know now.

For me this trip was bittersweet. The last few months had been some of the best of my life at the time. Time flows forwards though and there were new opportunities waiting downstream. The best part of the journey to a prepubescent me though was that I was fed regularly and barely had to speak a hundred words aloud the entire trip. The mercenaries seemed to have taken a liking to me and were more than happy to let me hang around in silence while my 'Uncle' did the socialising for both of us.

It's so strange looking back now at what I used to be... memory can be a funny thing. Especially for me.