The route to Darksoil, as Ink-Talon explained it, wound north-by-northwest (“72 degrees right of duskward,” in native terms), mostly parallel to the Short-Deep that ended (appropriately) at Deep’s End. However, Darksoil itself was situated to the northeast of Deep’s End, relatively speaking, requiring the route to make a hard swerve to the east later on. The reason for the roundabout path was twofold, with first obstacle making itself known on the second day.

The reason was about the last thing any of the humans could have anticipated. These grasslands were home to large herds of feral bison, sparking a good few questions that Steady-Step had to scramble to answer. As it turned out, some species of animal were simply near-guaranteed to be feral. Most of the smallest animals, things like insects, mice, or small songbirds, were often feral, but there were a handful of much larger animals exempt from sapience as well. Which creatures were excluded seemed arbitrary overall, save that many provided valuable, morally tolerable food sources for carnivores, which lead to the wide-spread belief that a deliberate, ancient intelligence had made those decisions. Rarely, however, “Gifted” creatures would be born to feral parents, and such exceptions cast doubt on these theories.

The migratory paths of these herds were typically dangerous to cross directly, lest one risk getting cut off or surrounded by them, so skirting around their territory was the safest route. They still passed close enough to observe one of the herds from a distance, though, which proved to be fascinating. Understanding even extended to observing these creatures, and one could read the mood of the herd and tell when and where it would be moving, just by the movements of the members on the fringes and the occasional call carrying across the plains. Unfortunately, out of everyone present, only the birds had eyesight good enough to make the most of the opportunity.

“It’s funny, I never really thought of normal animals as being all that communicative unless they were making a lot of noise,” Ink-Talon noted, watching the buffalo from his perch atop the side of the wagon. “Turns out they’re quite chatty, in their own simple way. Lots of greetings, displays of status, affection, hierarchy.”

“Indeed. Underestimating ferals is a good way to lose your cargo, or your life,” Steady-Step snorted. “Understanding the bison doesn’t protect you from a stampede unless you’re far enough away to completely escape their path. And the hunting instincts of a feral predator are no less potent than a Gifted creature’s, but they are unburdened by considerations of morality.”

“There are… feral predators out here?” A chill ran down the squirrel’s spine at the thought. He had previously taken solace in the idea that being a prey animal wouldn’t be a concern because anyone who could eat him would have the sense not to.

“On these plains, only ones smaller than you. You have no need to worry. There was actually more danger around Deep’s End, given the settlement’s proximity to the Lost Lands.”

“Ooh, now that’s a fantastical name if I’ve ever heard one,” Maggie piped up. “Someplace dangerous, I take it?”

“I’ve read a bit about it in all this research, actually,” Ink-Talon said. “It’s a whole chunk of the continent where all animals are born feral. Deep’s End and other outposts along the border exist to study it.”

“So, if we had wandered in the wrong direction…” The squirrel trailed off. Any number of things could have happened. None of them good.

“What’s the story there, Steady-Step?” Maggie asked. “Calling a place ‘Lost’ implies that it wasn’t always that way.”

“I am not a historian, so I only know the basics,” the horse explained. “It happened over three hundred years ago. No one really knows why, only that young started being born feral, and eventually anyone who failed to flee there was stripped of their Gift as well. It was quite literally Lost to us.”

“Spooky,” Maggie whistled nonchalantly, her body language making it clear that she was more unnerved by the idea than she let on.

The rest of the day felt like it passed quickly, no doubt aided by the new routine they had all worked out the day before. Outside of feeding times, Ink-Talon now attended to the kits most of the day. They were plenty comfortable with him, and his mobility and broad wings helped in corralling them. The gray one’s eyes had opened that morning, so not having to deal with them wandering made the the trip far less stressful for the squirrel.

For his part, the squirrel had agreed to try out some basic meditation. Grounding techniques had fallen by the wayside since that first night, as being grounded in the present meant acknowledging it more than the bare minimum. “Avoidant behavior,” his therapist called it. It is not how you deal with things properly. He knew this, he’d had it drilled into his head for years, but these last few days had completely stripped away all the good habits he’d picked up in therapy over the years. He needed to get them back, even if he needed to start over from scratch.

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Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, there was someone else capable of occupying his time when he got stuck ruminating and needed a break.

“Okay, so!” Maggie began, pacing back and forth in front of him. “I don’t know much of anything about anything, but there is one thing I’m very, very good at right now.”

“Talking incessantly?” the squirrel chirped sarcastically, only for the myna to halt and pivot on her right foot, extending her wing in a showy flourish as she did so.

“Ex-actly! And you know what talking lets me do that the rest of you can’t?” This time she didn’t even wait for an answer. “It lets me rattle off actual human names to you, not to find your old one, the chances of that are like winning the lottery, but to help you settle on a new one instead!”

“Really? I don’t know if-“

“Shush!” Maggie bopped the side of his head with a quick wingbeat. “You’re clearly miserable, and not having something to call yourself can’t be helping. And it makes it harder for us to help you, too. There’s a lotta power in having your identity affirmed by others, ya know?”

“Sure, but-“

“Great! So, here’s how it’s going to work. I’ll say a name, and then you’ll give me a yes, no, or maybe. I borrowed some of Ink-Talon’s writing supplies to keep a list of the maybes in case you don’t find anything. Ready?”

“You’re going to do this whether I agree or not, aren’t you?”

“Right again! How’s Peter sound?”

The squirrel blinked a few times as he processed the name. There was less resistance than when he re-learned Maggie’s name, but it wasn’t effortless yet.

“No.”

“Alfonse?”

“Definitely no.”

“Joseph? Or maybe José?”

“No, and no.”

“Got it. How about Taylor?”

“…Maybe?”

The name listing continued for a while before the effort of re-Understanding each of them caught up with the squirrel, leaving him too exhausted keep hearing them. They’d gathered a small handful of maybes, but something had occurred to him near the end. Even if he did pick one of those names, the non-human animals would be completely lost, especially because most of them didn’t have as clean of a known translation as Maggie had with hers. It was like he told Ink-Talon a few days back: If he didn’t pick a name they understood, they’d just keep using Keen-Ear’s name for lack of anything better. He needed to take his own advice and bite the bullet.

“Okay, that makes sense,” Maggie said, nodding after the squirrel had finished explaining his reasoning. “Do you wanna try to make one in their whole ‘Adjective-Noun’ structure, or be a bit rebellious? I think you what I’d go for.” The myna gave him a sly wink.

“‘Traditional’ works for me, I don’t think I want to stand out if I can avoid it.”

“Mhmm. So then, you gotta come up with something descriptive. Either of your body, or of you as a person. The former… really isn’t what you’re going to want, if I were to guess.”

“Yeah…” The thought of being named after some attribute of his body made the squirrel shudder. So, then. What’s something I can describe myself as? Or something I can associate myself with? What’s the most important aspect of myself, to me? He had to sift few quite a few self-deprecating descriptions as he thought things through. In the end, he hit a bit of a wall. The thing he’d always associated with himself is wanting more. More out of his life, more out of his body, more out of basically every situation he was in. And now was no different. He was just stuck. There were too many things he was powerless to change, and complaining would get him nowhere. All he could do was yearn silently, hoping for something to improve. Maybe that’s the answer. Silent-Yearning? No, not quite. What about…

“Quiet-Dream,” he squeaked, feeling out the idea. He didn’t get that odd nagging feeling of wrongness from it that he did from anything on Maggie’s “maybe” list. This one might just work. “Let’s try calling me Quiet-Dream. Or just Dream for short, since I know you like the shorter names.”

“Ooh! That’s a catchy one, for sure. I like it.” Maggie turned around to address the others. “What about the rest of you, any objections?”

“None from me,” Ink-Talon cawed, an implied smile in his tone. “Quiet-Dream suits you fine.”

“It is a fine name,” Steady-Step snorted. “It is a pleasure to be formally introduced, Quiet-Dream.”

It wasn’t long after Quiet-Dream settled on his new name that they came to their stopping point for the evening. They had been traveling up an odd slope for a little while, one that extended as a clear ridge as far as the eye could see to either side. It wasn’t until they came to a stop after cresting the hill that the source of this feature became obvious.

Darksoil was a built in a crater. The city itself was distantly visible in the center, a small circle of white surrounded by what was obviously its namesake, a barren waste of black soil. According to Steady-Step, the soil made for fantastic fertilizer, but only when diluted. The concentration of minerals present around the city itself was toxic to plant life, but its properties were made obvious by the lush, green vegetation growing around the entirety of its perimeter.

“Why build in the center of all that?” Ink-Talon asked, gazing out across the crater. “Why not on the edge, next to prime farmland?”

“Darksoil was built to protect the Northern Beacon first and foremost,” the Transporter answered. “It is precisely where it needs to be.”

“Beacon?” the crow tilted his head, confused but inquisitive.

“The Beacons are relics, the only artificial things in the Known World that predate the Age of Understanding.” An odd sense of pride came over the horse’s tone as they spoke. “Some believe that they are sacred gifts from our Makers, but at the very least they are proof that greater beings once existed, and of the potential we may one day reach.”

“I dunno, that’s a lot of hope to pin on one symbol,” Maggie remarked, but Steady-Step’s conviction didn’t falter.

“Perhaps, but is that not a hope worth defending?”