Fields of long grass stretched thousands of feet between two tree lines, swaying in the midnight breeze. A small camp sat in the middle, lit by a paltry flame. A canvas tent sat nearby, illuminated from the inside by dim lanterns while two other tents sat on either side. A meager encampment, but a functional one.

A woman in a long cloak sat by a bedridden man inside the largest tent. The color of her skin was most similar to that of gravel, pebbles of gradient grays and blacks covering her body. Even with this rough-looking texture, her skin was still incredibly smooth, only housing sparse wrinkles. Four rusty eyes sat atop each other on a face with no eyebrows or facial hair to speak of, her long, once gray and black, striped hair was now turning into a more uniform gray. A long and slender tail poked out from beneath the cloak, raising the cloth, with a small heart-shaped end. Her delicate four-fingered hands held surprisingly sharp claws, while two furry ears like a dog sat on top of her head, replacing the ones most species would’ve housed on the sides.

She was a hiddunson.

She gently rubbed a wet towel on her companion's fevered head before returning the cloth to a bucket of cold water, small amounts of worry and weariness coloring her face.

Her friend laid across the makeshift bed, panting hard and sweating profusely. His ashen skin did nothing but enhance his pitiful appearance, as his large serpent tail fell off the end of the bed and wiggled slowly. His arms were thin and his bone visible, and his yellow serpent eyes and lack of ears and nose—which was replaced by four dark holes—would most likely scare any child (and any man) around. But the most eye-catching feature was the jagged red “X” stained in the center of his chest. He was a moon-man.

“You should sleep, it’s not as if wetting me with that will cure me…” the serpent said, shooing her away with skinny, elongated fingers.

“Shush, Slogine, it may not improve your condition, but it will ease it…” she responded, rubbing the cool cloth against him. “That’s better than nothing.”

He gave her a small smile, before shutting his eyes once again and frowning, his worry obvious. “Gult… Do you think he and the others are safe? If Cammo continued his training, then I doubt he’ll be an easy victory… And the Blood Moon coming so early… I don’t like it. Cammo is one thing, but moon-men are another.”

“Mind’s Tumor hasn’t been activated yet, so I’m sure they're fine,” she said, grabbing hold of one of his hands. “You need to relax… If you hadn’t trusted Gult, then we wouldn’t have let him go. I’m sure the others are looking out for him, too. And I’m sure Gult can deal with a couple of fresh moon-men. He isn’t that young. I think you forget he isn’t a child anymore.”

The tent flap raised as the third companion entered, yawning loudly. Pink skin covered her entire body except for the forearms and shins, which were covered in golden scales and ended with small talons. A large set of pink wings folded comfortably on her back taking as little space as her small—four and a half feet was small indeed—body did. Her large pupils were surrounded by a beautiful lime green iris that seemed to sparkle in the dull flame, the size of them similar to emps. In contrast to the other woman's leather armor and cloak, she wore floaty and thin white cloth that submitted easily to the wind whims. Short pink hair that reached down to her ears hung freely in front of her left eye, blinding her there. Unlike her other bird-like features, she had a plump pair of lips, delicate nose, ears, and body. She was an avilop.

“I heard Gult’s name, and you guys are way too loud!” she said, sitting in a chair beside the hiddunson. “How am I supposed to sleep with all your noise?”

“It's nothing,” the rock-colored woman assured, ignoring the second statement with a wan smile. “Slogine was just a little worried about them.”

“It's just that… my black slugs entered three corpses, and one of those corpses got destroyed… If they were going to encounter each other it'd be soon,” Slogine explained, turning over in his bed. “I thought Locine should have died by now, but… I felt a third person during that fight. Could that fortune-teller have been wrong? They had one child, she said. And the mother will die before you meet, leaving just father and daughter. I let Gult leave because Cammo’s spell would’ve been a bad match for Gult’s. But Locine… Gult’s spell is a bad match for hers.”

The rock-colored woman gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure it’s okay. Gult can handle a sick woman if need be.”

“Buta, you only feel Mind’s Tumor activate when he dies, right?” the feathered girl asked, facing her.

“Yes, Frey, it won’t activate in any other case,” Buta answered, swiping the towel against Slogine’s back who had rolled over to allow it. “I won’t answer the next time you ask that question.”

“Yeah, yeah, just let me know if anything happens…” Frey said, getting up to leave with a yawn. “Maybe now I can get some sleep…”

And, for just a sweet tiny moment, it was peaceful. Their hearts were whole. But it’d all change in the next moment:

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Buta dipped the towel in water again and pulled it out. She was about to wipe away the sweat off his arm when she stopped abruptly. Squeezing wet cloth, an ominous hot pink light enveloped her, a light that was slightly less dense than Cammo’s.

Frey and Slogine turned to face her, both of them already seeming to know what she would say.

“It’s activating…” Buta stated, letting the towel sink to the bottom of the bucket as the light dissipated.

Frey looked anxious for a moment before bringing back the smile she entered with, but that was nervous too. “Come on, Buta, jokes like that are in poor taste,” she laughed. “If you don’t want me pestering you about it, I’ll stop. No need to scare me.”

Buta got back up with a grim expression and walked over to her. Slogine sat up as well. “I’m sorry…” Buta said, placing a hand on Frey’s shoulder. Her face was dead, her voice a distant monotone. “Gult’s dead…”

“The rest are most likely gone too…” Slogine commented, burying his face in his left palm. “Shit…”

“Come on, this isn’t funny,” Frey said, looking more worried by the moment. It’s just a cruel prank, she knew. Gult said he’d be back, and that tousk bastard does NOT break promises.

Buta looked at the ground shaking her head before pulling Frey close for a hug. Frey violently shoved her away, looking angry now.

“You said Cammo’s spell couldn't win against him! So Gult can't have died from it! No way! And his wife’s already dead, right?! So it was only him! You're wrong! You’re BOTH wrong!” Frey cried, backing away from Buta. “Don’t start giving me that ‘Oooh! We’re experienced!’ crap either, you guys just don’t want to admi—”

“Cammo didn't kill him…” Buta said, and Frey stopped. “It was a moon-man.” Buta sat back down with a deep sadness spreading throughout her entire being. She was the first person to know, but it felt unreal. Gult’s dead, she thought, as if to remind herself. Gult’s dead. “They were working together.”

“What? Wouldn’t he kill the girl? Cammo’s kid?” Frey asked.

“Not all of them would…” Slogine muttered, falling back in his bed. He was a moon-man, after all. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Yes, sorry…” Frey mumbled, calming down slightly. This was no joke, she was starting to realize. “So… it's true then? He really is… gone?”

“Yes, his last moments are playing in my mind over and over,” Buta said, grabbing her head with both hands.

“And the others?” Slogine asked, sitting up now with his back turned on the others.

“You already answered that,” said Buta. “Gone… Killed…”

Frey fell to her knees, placing her rough golden-scaled hands in her face and started to cry. Softly at first, until they devolved into violent sobs.

Buta got back up and sat beside her, placing one arm around her. Frey did not push her away this time choosing instead to throw herself into her arms, her cries the only noise in the silence of the night. Buta hugged her tighter as tears quietly streamed down her own face, and she gave Frey a light kiss on the forehead.

“Oh, Pinky… do you want to know what his final request was?” Buta asked.

Frey nodded her head softly in between sobs, hugging herself even tighter.

“He wanted to ensure your safety… He asked if you could be spared.”

“He… did that?” Frey asked, hiccupping.

“Yes… the man who killed him agreed to this.”

“And he was the moon-man, right?”

“Yes.”

Slogine placed his own skinny hands in his face and took two deep breaths before coming to a conclusion: “We failed the Guerrieros. Let's leave this place…”

Frey pulled herself away from Buta’s motherly embrace, wiping away her tears and calming her breathing. “What do you mean we failed? They’re still out there, and people are still sick. You’re still sick! We can’t give up now…” Frey stood up. “We can’t!”

“It’s too dangerous! We have no idea what that moon-man's spell or ‘gift’ is!” Slogine shouted. “I’m not losing anyone else! Both of your lives are more important than anything to me, right now! Now be quiet! I’m trying to think.”

His outburst surprised her, so she looked down in a mix of sadness and embarrassment.

“I know, but we can't stop now. We have to go forward, even alone,” Buta interjected, standing back up. They both looked at her. “And it's because of his eyes…”

“The moon-man's eyes? What about them?” Slogine asked.

“They were black, Slogine. They were black…” Buta answered, looking into his to showcase the truth in her own. “It’s our duty. The moon-man who killed Gult was a Guerriero.”

The three of them fell silent. Frey wiped away the last of her sadness and a look of hateful resolve replaced it. Buta stood by the tent flap and stared into the dark night, unsheathing two long blades with handles on the side of their hilts. And Slogine weakly slithered to her side, dismissing both of their attempts to help.

“Don’t be so ready, I still don’t want to send you out there. Especially after Gult and the others lost,” Slogine said. “I don’t want you to be a meaningless sacrifice.”

Frey stared at him with all sorts of violence in her eyes, violence and offense. “Gult’s death won’t be meaningless,” she claimed, moving over to the tent flap. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“Frey’s right, Slogine,” Buta said, sheathing her weapons and placing a four-fingered hand on his shoulder. “Plus, I don’t think you’re in any condition to stop us…”

Slogine looked at both of them pleadingly; but they were right. Despite his size, he was too weak, too thin, too sick, and too tired to do anything to halt them.

“Okay,” he relented. “But be safe.”

“We will,” they answered in unison.

“I’ll take care of her, Slogine,” Buta promised. “We’ll be back.”

The night went on as normal. The two packed up and made their way into the pitch-black forest. They gave the tired moon-man a wave goodbye and disappeared into the darkness, disappearing from the safety of the small camp's light. Slogine laid back in his bed, dimming the lamp and falling asleep. In the last moments before the slumber caught him in the night, he said something quietly to himself as if in prayer.

“Be safe,” he said, turning off the one lantern. “You two are all I have now… So please, be safe…”

They had been a family, even if none said the fact out loud. Slogine adopted the two wizards, Gult and Frey, who had been traveling together in rags at the time. He took them in, clothed them, fed them, loved them, and he felt that they loved him back. The hiddunson, Buta, had fallen in with him too—she loved him in another way, and Slogine loved her back. And their family had managed to survive for a long time. But now there were three left. And he hoped there’d be hell to pay.