Economy Class Boogie

[Menagerie of Voices]

I have read up on the region, but as far as I could tell this is the only place I could hide a small country that nobody bothered with. The weather system is just weird and is probably the result of a magic war that happened centuries ago that I haven't explored yet. Sorry!

Picture, if you will, a sky so blue, so deep, so perfectly clear it will swallow you whole. Dimming only faintly as it plunged to the jagged horizon to the east, nestled like the finest gem, the sun beat down upon the desert beneath it like a relentless hammer.

Not even a breeze came through this stillness; to call up the sands and rustle the long dead trees that were dotted like sentinels, remainders of a forest that once grew on these blighted lands. They called it the Beyond; for nobody wanted to leave the protection Delphin Ridge gave; and in turn, the Ridge did not want to pass on it’s water to the land that so needed it until it could hit the rest of the pressure system that would return it to life. The Beyond was a barren place that existed purely because of bad luck, and possibly due to magic; the area was mostly unknown.

Delphin Ridge protected the Basin; in which life…lived. Of course it wasn’t entirely smooth; and certainly wasn’t a basin, but this wedge of earth, of green, of trees and stone, of baronies and minor kingships, bordered the cold, cold, ocean, and remained isolated from the outside world. One tiny outpost amongst a miasma of the Unknown; ignored by the inhabitants of the continent Dheathain due to it’s outward appearance of barrenness. This was possibly a good thing; because nothing the Basin produced was very nice. Their main export was war; their main import people from the ragged currents that rushed around the headland and forced ships onto the coral reef that devoured everything that came it’s way.

How such a place could occur was unknown, but, dear reader, I can tell you that such an event occurred beyond human memory certainly, but even further before that of Draconian and Fae; which separated the few tribes of humans who made their lives there. Survivors of shipwrecks, primal earth-speakers; lost princes and kings, they survived only amongst the prevalent magic that they shunned because of one anomaly; the Ridge. In turn, the storms from the sea battered them all, even those who were most inland; but none cared.

Their world was their world; and nothing came beyond it. They warred; and their population suffered. They lied, they cheated, they blatantly stole from one another to cause famine; and the Basin moved on, ever watched over by the Ridge. Nothing had changed for a thousand years, bar the influx of occasional news from a ship that had the misfortune of being wrecked on the shores of the more friendly states.

Until now, of course. The shockwaves of the event were still rippling through the midland, the coast had not yet heard of the shake-up; but they would, and by the time anyone could react it would already be too late.

The only reason that everyone could exist was that there was always conflict. Now the conflict had stopped; and rather unfairly; and a new age was to be ushered into the inbred, confused and foolish beings that called this place home. Fight amongst yourselves, but never invite the Outsiders in, those that came from Beyond. Monsters patrolled these skies; speaking demons dwelled beneath the rock and giant worms consumed what life they could find on the surface as they swam through an ocean of tiny, tiny grains. And worst of all; things that assumed human form and could do terrible, terrible things.

But let us leave this little country, let us feel a slight wave of pity for it; for it’s cut-off state and it’s ignorance that allowed cancer into it’s heart.

Although, had it not been for this mysterious figure we would not have a story.

There was, in fact, a trail.

An odd trail that started out strong but then dropped, every now and then, to become odd imprints of something else, leading from Delphin Ridge to the lands beyond.

There had been blood, originally; drip-dropped along the trail, but the scrappy forest that did make some form of living on the foothills of the Ridge had sucked it up the moment it hit. Likewise; it’s origin had clotted over, but the originator didn’t really have a choice but to keep going, if only for the tree's sake because the things had started to move.

Truth be told, he wanted to die, but a man who was born a survivor doesn’t die all too easy.

He just wishes he could.

[Menagerie of Voices]

Taking the right path had been the wrong decision, he decided, but that, like everything else right now, was distantly in the past and therefore not a place he wanted to visit right now. There were more important things to do; and murdering his pride was one of them since it got him into this mess in the first place.

He’d laugh if he had the strength to, but he needed to save everything he could for just putting one foot in front of the other; make as much distance as he possibly could before night fell. Training for himself dictated otherwise; but half those runny-nosed children on his tail he’d actually taught, and they’d follow the orders to the letter from any Tom, Dick and Harry. They didn’t know how to think for themselves, no matter how hard he’d tried to encourage them.

It just wasn't done in the ranks.

Nonetheless, said training was there for a reason; walking uncovered across the desert was one of the more stupid things you could do during the day. The heat made everything shimmer and the only reason he couldn’t see Delphin Ridge behind him and, you know, judge distance, was because of the way the light was hitting the goddamn sand. He should have waited until nightfall. He should have scavenged cover. He should have stolen more water.

He should also be dead.

But this is not the land of 'should'. This was the land of 'was' which meant he’d be sunblind in a few hours apart from being very thirsty and very cooked with a crispy skin. The few expeditions that were mounted out here by the observatory always had that issue; but everyone thought that Melida was a place of dreaming idiots and half-mad scientists. Why else would they want to be so close to the top of the ridge? Madness, bloody madness.

With a grunt, the man pitched forward, and waited for a moment to try and calm his heart; staring down at the sharp lines of his shadow beneath him. He could almost hear the sizzle of his uncovered hands against the ground; but hadn't the strength to pull himself away.

He just had to go for a little bit longer. The wind would pick up as the sun went down; wipe his tracks. Crimson eyes flicked from side to side, a tongue trying to moisten dry and cracked lips as his mind ticked over through the headache he'd had for the last few hours.

A runner would have been sent back to the castle; that would take half a day at least; mobilise the troops; another day or so; meaning provided – and this was a big if – they played it by the book and did things intelligently. This meant that logically he had two days to make it across the Beyond and to the other side. His tracks could be wiped by the winds; but it would be safer to make it to the underbrush of whatever lay…well, beyond the Beyond before anyone got their hands on him.

Whatever Beyond was.

It was a stupid name.

Rest. An internal voice spoke.

He mouthed the word no, but still lay down, startled by the sickening heat that leaped through his clothing and set him on fire. Weakly he pawed at his bag, trying to draw it up and pull it over his face; but he’d fallen awkwardly and somehow on top of it.

Now he really did smile; because it was just the kind of thing to happen to him right now, wasn’t it?

It moved as he rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut as an attempt to protect what remained of his sight from the unforgiving brightness that poured down. It wasn’t much; but a moment later his head was tucked beneath the satchel; and in his ear the distant slosh of stolen water. He wished it didn’t; the sound was intoxicating and promised relief; but such relief would be short-lived. After all, he’d rested for as long as he could in the dead forest before making a break for the open; and couldn’t drink until sun-down no matter how much he wanted it. Water was precious; and his body could learn to do without for the moment; he knew it well enough to last for a few more hours.

Twitching his head around a little, he focused on the boiling horizon, the skin on his cheek burning horribly and selling vines of pain throughout his face.

Half of what they said about the Beyond was not true; even if Melida’s few explorers had managed to make it to the other side in search to an end of the blighted landscape. He’d read the reports only out of politeness; the woman who ran the place was excited and he had needed her at the time to help fill his lines during the Raust-Lavis border battle. There was land beyond the Beyond; but very different; which added credibility to the land's many creation myths of a world scoured of life by magic.

The people hadn’t had enough supplies to make it past the first few leagues of land; but he’d never gotten hold of the images they’d brought back, only seen them at a glance. Swamplands, he guessed, odd plants, odder animals. After the leader had been eaten by something and another few had been poisoned by plant and insect alike; they’d decided the world wasn’t quite so fun.

You never thought you’d have to be out here, didn’t you. A land of fairy-tale monsters, ghosts and witches, so far removed from our world. All of which do not exist, for nothing has come to eat me; which means that all of those men are stark raving mad.

Did he feel stupid for believing such things?

No. Ignorant perhaps, but not entirely stupid; it wasn’t as if the world could offer him much of a safe place; and Raust and it’s surrounding borders were all he’d known. Raust had devoured the smaller city states, brought those Barons and Baronesses under control and fortified itself against the oncoming Lavis as best it could. War was what he knew; not exploration; but survival perhaps…

Ignoring the need to sleep, he pulled himself up onto all-fours, crawled through the strap of the bag and slowly got to his knees, then to his feet. His hands were blistered, but they would heal. His face was blistered with the sun; but that would heal. He would not die here.

Fists clenched, and crimson eyes narrowed.

He was too good to die here; done too much; his bones would not bleach in this unforgiving lan-

But the thought didn’t finish.

He had gone several steps, but the sudden movement from lying down to standing up made the blood rush to his starved brain. His blood was too hot; his body too weak, he blinked a few times with a stunned expression on his face and pitched forward, rolling down a half-dune until he collided with what looked like the remains of a cart; some of it’s original paint of stars and moons. A muffled moan slipped from his lips, and his limbs trembled; his entire body screaming for moisture, but alas, he couldn’t give it what it required for his mind was gone.

Pride usually goeth before a fall, and what a fall that was!

In the shadow of the only pieces of humanity this desert had to offer, sun-sores weeping from the body’s rough treatment, Gunther Rustig Bellum slept, and dreamed nothing beneath a lonely, empty sky.

[Menagerie of Voices]

His story would have ended there in his sleep, but that would have made his story rather pointless and sad and a waste of time. Instead, like most people who have been bad, something nasty happened to him.

While he slept, completely dead to the world, on the horizon something began to form. A curious whirring began to fill the air, and as the sun began it’s gentle drift down to the horizon, there were sparks of light from this ‘something’ which was soon accompanied by the steady beat of feet and the creak of wood and leather tack.

The locals on this side of the mountains and it's border desert didn’t have anything to fear from a ‘Beyond’. More or less they called it the Scar and pretended it didn’t happen and nobody was at fault. Nothing makes you feel better about a national mistake than Not Talking About It.

So they avoided it, and clever and wise folk like Bolgiff of the clan Mu'ol'Nar used the Scar as a way to get around the border taxes on the way to the grand markets at Talmhaidh. Of course, Bolgiff was neither clever nor wise, but like the rest of the folk of Dheathain, his massive family liked to pretend he was because it made them feel better about their own lives and shift blame for any mistakes onto him. His ego could take it, and he could argue until the other side believed him.

At this moment in time, when a collision clearly marked ‘dumb luck’ or maybe even fate comes into play, Bolgiff was chewing his talons and feeling fairly put-upon by one of his many wives; mostly because one of the stupid broodlings hadn’t been working the Worm Charms down the back of the wagon train; and a distant relative (he couldn’t remember who, and didn’t really care, it was the silks that had gone he was bothered about) had gotten snapped up by those damn stalking bugs. It wasn’t his fault, he was up here making sure that they were going the right way, just as his father had done before him, and his before him and so forth, it was his damn job! Stupid females! They’d probably band together and he wouldn’t be able to rut with them tonight, but he’d show them by crushing an egg or two. Yeah.

He lashed his short, stubby tail, and grumbled angrily at the Squawkers lashed to the front cart. They were doing a fairly good pace right now, and with luck they might even have some live specimens back from the Scar as opposed to having just the skins. He enjoyed poaching; and their trip had been cut short by a mass commotion of man-folk out there of which he didn’t want to become a part of. Still. They needed to go faster.

Regardless of being the product of many years of inbreeding, stupidity and theft, Bolgiff was well attuned to his senses of survival; and this trip he could - at least, before the attack, damn it – afford to cut it short.

But skins still sold well, and seeing as he was the only one who managed to catch the little bastards out here, it was fine. Nothing crossed this space except birds, the Squawkers (who were also birds, but couldn’t fly) and his wagon train twice a year. Two separate worlds and he felt like the king of it all when he was down there. He just didn’t know what lay beyond the slope; ruins of old man-dwellings were there but had long since been emptied…except for the damn mountain folk. It was their creatures he took, because men-folk couldn’t be trusted with a wooden spoon let alone a weapon, and evidently if they allowed their homes to become so awful and their numbers so few, then he was doing them a service!

A deeper instinct however, mumbled that something else was afoot. The usual pale ones were rare this time; he’d seen men-folk like in the big city; the ones the Big Lizards didn’t take too kindly to. How had men-folk ventured this far into Draconian territory without the Big Lizards being aware of it?

Bolgiff didn’t know. He just found it strange, and strange things made him feel uncomfortable. Like writing stuff down, and marrying outside the family. You just didn’t do that stuff. It was wrong.

“Dah!”

Above him, still twirling the worm-charm, one of his broodlings was peering down at him with bright amber eyes. Bolgiff didn’t like this one and couldn’t get a name to spring to mind, it asked unpleasant questions and had the head-ridges that made it look slightly more regal. “Wut?”

“Sumfin’s up ahead.”

“So’wut?”

“Well, well, izza sumfin, innit?” The broodling whined. His hand dipped the charm for a moment, and Bolgiff snarled. “So, like, shiny an’…” He gave up. “O’er there.”

Bolgiff wrinkled his snout and peered towards where the broodling was pointing, but couldn’t see anything except sand. However, further out there was a cart that looked like-

“’Ere. Whazzat?” He said, waving at the air. “Seenit ‘fore?”

A pause. “Uh, uh…no’ ours.”

There was something shiny over there. Bolgiff stood up, raised a paw and made the sign for the bigger broodlings (expendable) to come to him over the wagons and join him. Maybe there was something shiny there, but that wasn’t one if the carts of his clan. Someone else was using the Scar, and that was pretty damn disrespectful.

Waving his tail in impatience, he waited for the train to pull up, one after another. He made more gestures that vaguely looked like he was having an epileptic fit while upright, but to the assembled members of his clan were signs of organisation. It translated as half of the broodlings having to stay at their posts and continue using their charms while keeping a look out, and the other half to approach the wrecked wagon – which it was. Very wrecked. Maybe a salvageable wheel, wheels were good because Squawkers were stupid and ran into potholes...But it had long since been worm-food. Probably. Hnh.

From here, Bolgiff’s weak eyes couldn’t make out the design. All the traders used specific designs on their carts, otherwise there might be mix-ups come trading days. Of course you could steal one and repaint it as per the normal fashion, but that was another thing entirely, that was (un)fairly won, but hopefully one of his money-counters would remember seeing it if the broodlings couldn’t remember.

They darted like shadows off the wagons and approached the wreck with caution; bodies bent and tails up as they stalked it, climbed onto it’s broken remains and began to take it apart.

And drag something from it. Bolgiff cocked his head to the side and slowly started to grin. One was already hefting a panel, two wheels had been lifted and a specimen of men-folk!

“’Ere!” Yelled the one holding the panel up as it ran towards him.

Not his tribe, that was for sure. He took the piece of wood from the broodling that carried it, lifting a leg to knock it off the lead cart before it could climb up beside him. Not his clan, that was for sure. Possibly Tam’An’Nac. His eyes narrowed; those bastards! Although the design might be Lo’Sol but they were normally on the other side of the coast…

“Dah!”

"Dahhhh!”

“Y’startin’?!” He snarled back, over them. They fell back, but he caught sight of why they were crying at him – the man-folk was still alive. Barely. His sensitive aural areas could still pick up it’s heartbeat, and better still it came with extras; a fat satchel which could be hiding treasure inside.

“Dah, ‘iz tracks, like, frum…over there or sumfin.”

A dark grin spread over Bolgiff’s face. “E’s a proper mountain lad, this’un. Stow ‘im out back.”

The broodlings did as they were told. There was still some sunlight left; and work to do, and perhaps a rare man-folk on sale might be interesting. He could contact a few links to the Big Lizard head families, see if they wanted something like this. If it lived of course.

The trip was looking up, even if only slightly. If he couldn’t coerce one of his women into his cot, he’d at least be able to see the state of the man-folk, and they were always rather hilarious when poked with a stick. The grin only grew wider over the jingling of traces and the vumm-vumm of the charms.

[Menagerie of Voices]

As it happened, Bolgiff was able to get laid; but the sex lives of Wyrmfolk are probably best left to one’s imagination. Gunther slept unmolested; or at least remained unconscious until the next morning when at long last the smell of many animals kept in a small and unclean place finally slapped him awake. The giggling broodlings helped too; but the patches they were poking with various things had gone numb quite a while ago.

He did what came naturally; gagged, coughed a few times, and tried to get up. This proved rather hard and even as his coherent brain awoke, screaming from some foggy dark place, deep red patches of pain opened up all over him making him cry out. Eyes wide, he buried his face into the stinking matting, shaking and sweating until the pain passed and vaguely aware he’d knocked something over. The mat was now colder and wetter than before; the smell intensified.

Idiot! Now look what you did! Years of training and you decide to be a cock and run out there in bare linen, and look at you; burned to a damn crisp…

Which was not entirely true. There were burns, yes, and there were blisters too that were now weeping and shrieking in agony; but he wasn’t fried to a crisp and there was no creamy center.

He rolled, blinking in the halflight and wondering why his neck felt so constricted, why he couldn’t move his hands properly or his legs either. He was also trying not to pay attention to his bladder, which had been working very hard throughout the night. Chained to the wall and collared it seemed; limbs bound, unusual for a Raustian transport, and they didn’t bother to truck animals out here, so that didn’t make sense. Unless there was a bounty hunter contacted but that would mean…

“Oh hell’s bells.”

The broodlings came into view; and the first thing that came to mind was a bunch of upright crocodiles with short muzzles and human hands. Revolted, Gunther kicked out and slammed up against the back wall, waking up most of the caged birds above him who began to scream, showering the floor with broken feathers and guano.

Likewise, the broodlings also screamed; but their cries sounded more like a rasping hiss.

Two of them ran out, the last one wet itself and dropped the stick and curled up into a ball, making these odd spines rise up onto it’s back.

Gunther’s eyes narrowed – he was still blurry, but instinct told him no permanent damage had been done with his walk, thank the Gods. He edged his body out, stretching, and punted the little creature in the head, and kept going until it finally took a swipe at him and scuttled out of the moving cabin.

"And don't come back." The albino muttered as he drew himself back up against the wall. Dire situation this might be, chains and all, but at least he wasn’t in a bounty hunter’s cart. That would prove to be embarrassing. He might even be escaping the Beyond entirely, but whatever the hell those creatures were…

He blinked. Speaking of creatures…

The birds had begun to quiet down and the ‘rain from heaven’ had stopped at least. Pulling against his restraints to the dry part he didn’t take in the bowl of water he’d destroyed, just the rows upon rows of cages that were somehow attached to the wall. Swallowing hard, he tried to identify some of the species, but most he didn’t know - they were as alien as his pudgy captors. The closest he could see were the jar-contained Ivy Vipers who watched him mournfully (and made his stomach growl, when fully grown they made fine steaks), a small number of Church’s Finches, a couple of Floppits (that wasn’t going to end well) and what looked like common Echofox skins. And possibly even a couple of live ones, but he could be wrong - the bodies weren’t moving.

So…hunters then? Then why were the creatures trussed up so? Wasn’t the point just to gather the bodies? Wouldn’t that mean traders? So where were the traders?

This had to be a cart, otherwise why would it be jerking around so much? The floor was wood; and soaked with enough excrement to burn blue should you ever be able to get the bloody thing to light; it wasn’t his imagination, the whole place seemed damp.

Which lead to the smell. He couldn’t, in fact, smell anything which was probably a good thing – his nose had shut down during unconsciousness, filled itself with snot and left a note his brain saying it had gone fishing. He could still, in a weird sort of way, taste it. Which was not something he was too happy about at all.

Where was his damn bag? People had gone to a lot of trouble to get that to him when everything went to hell, and some bugger had nicked it; probably those malformed lizar-

“Gah!”

The whole room lurched again and his stomach finally made it known that it wasn’t happy with him. He curled up into a ball and tried his best not to be sick with the weird furry-taste-thing in his mouth. The lurching didn’t help. The whole thing did a massive sway, and Gunther fell first amongst the wall then rolled the other way to the full extension of his restraints. He was then watched by the animals, all wearing identical wtf it’s moving expressions while he kicked and thrashed and quite loudly choked himself half to death.

Outside was a distant yelling, squawking and hissing, but Gunther didn’t pay attention – he now lay, flat on his back, gargling distantly and kicking desperately to push himself up the floor – with hands and feet bound, he wasn’t going to-

Ah shit. Blacking out. Oh fuck. Came the tired little thought that sounded entirely unimpressed. His back continued to flare in pain adding insult to injury until finally his foot caught something and like a magnet both were there and pushing him back.

The pressure eased, and more shocking were the squeezed tears that he could feel trekking down both sides of his face from the corners of his eyes.

“You pussy.” He moaned out loud. “Stop crying like a bitch.”

But the voice sounded very empty and pathetic in the half-light.

The next lurch goaded him into action; wriggling up and steadying himself against the wall. His brain felt fuzzy; and that wasn’t from the near-death experience that was for sure. His back ached and the pains in his hands meant that most of his blisters had burst. Blearily he curled up there and watched the door; because now motion had stopped…

…And something was opening the door. It did so quickly, and he was hoping to see a human face. His heart fell when the blunt snout and scaly features of Bolgiff came into view. His guts squeezed tightly and there was the distinct feeling of his balls trying to crawl back into his body cavity as the mother of all uglies strode into the room, wearing a filthy, torn leather loin-cloth and what could only be described as a studded leather jacket. Adorning it entirely was gold. Gold chains around it’s neck that were huge and garish and undoubtedly stained, pierced nose-horns and ringed ‘fingers’.

“…Holy shit.” Came the whisper.

[Menagerie of Voices]

Gunther is Agnostic, but he does refer to ‘Gods’ in general. It’s not because he believes, it’s because he knows somebody out there is watching him and ‘Gods’ covers everyone and everything. Besides, anyone who follows a particular God tends to get their arse kicked by the religion next door, so it makes sense to be flexible. Deities certainly don’t care, they’re too busy giggling like children and shining their divine magnifying glasses on poor bastards to watch them burn.

I believe we classify those poor sods as ‘heroes’, and they have a very limited shelf life.

You will not be spared the thought of what happened; as goods must be inspected, alive or dead.

Bolgiff had brought a couple of mates to the party; and they were rather good with dealing with humans, although the humans might say 'Bleedin' hell, do not get on the wrong side of these bastards or you're dead!' and there might be a few references to kicking, biting and flailing in response to the 'Good with People' part.

The idea was to see the state of the person involved. In other words, strip them down, check them for parasites, eat said parasites and go about their business.

This was possibly one of the most embarrassing things to ever happen to Gunther in his thirty-five years of wearing that particular skin. It was up there along with the Public Wetting of the Pants in Front of Assembly when he was six (the bitch of a nanny hadn’t listened at all when he’d said he had to go NOW), the, ah, Surprise Sex Oh Dear God What Is That when he was fourteen (Thus cementing his fear of spiders, and women afraid of said spiders and making him get rid of it) and the old favourite Oh Shit, You’re Little Harry? Fuck You’re Massive barfight that lead to him being banned from one of the best pubs his country had to offer.

So, while this is happening, I'll spare Gunther most of the mess because I've tortured him enough already, and we can see the goods trailer from the outside. No, it’s not pretty. The trailer I mean, Bolgiff and his lot were actually being rather gentle to a man who really didn't want to be there. The cart? Really, there is mold growing at the bottom, and the broodlings do indeed sometimes eat what they find underneath there. The paint job needs wo-

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND WHERE IS MY STUFF?”

-rk, as it’s starting to peel, and generations of broodlings have all left their mark in an attempt to be useful, often daubing it with brushes, if found and-

“GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF ME!”

- sometimes even their own pa-

“WHAT. WHAT IS THIS FUCKERY. DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I A-MY PANTS! GIVE THEM BACK NOW!!

-ws have been used, which makes for-

“GGYYARARRRRGHHHHH!!!11!ONE!!!11”

Oh fine. I’ll shut up then. You seem to like being tortured, Gunther.

The rickety cart moved around a little; vaguely reminiscent of an old Volkswagon microbus in hippy-mating season, the screaming and yelling becoming a little more high-pitched and then the chorus of Wyrmfolk joining in. There was a rumble, and a minute later one of the lackeys was sent reeling out the back, and tumbled to the feet of the Squawkers lined up in front of the next cart. He was mauled in an affectionate way by the pair of massive pseudo-chickens, and tried to call out for help amidst the feathers and scaly legs, but the passer-bys didn’t really notice because, you know, noise is kind of interesting. Besides, one of them was blind, but the other two weren’t – they were quite aware of what their job was, and helping the idiot on the ground wasn’t it.

The reason for the screaming and the attack was soon presented; and now sporting a rather large red mark on his forehead and held down on either side by amused heavies was Gunther, still panting, eyes glittering with barely contained rage. He would pay for the headbutt later; but the damn creature had come too close and some bugger had his arms and legs held down. He had to do something.

He knew his rights as a prisoner, hell, he’d read them out most of his life once he started taking names and positions. This wasn’t on. These scaly bastards weren’t playing by the goddamn rules, and everyone knew the goddamn rules!

Still panting, he struggled against them – sure, it was futile, it was pointless, but he was not going to take this lying down…

Bolgiff on the other hand was snorting with laughter. It sounded almost like a bathtub being emptied.

“Hush yer gob.”

All stood to attention, apart from Gunther who was unceremoniously dropped to the ground. He scrambled backwards until he hit a wall and raised his lip to the haggard blind creature that now joined them.

“’Ere, wez onlee havin’ us sum fun, granny.”

In the characteristic grace all old people have, she whacked him in the shins with the gnarled cane she leaned so heavily on. Her muzzle; caked with dried snot but with a fresh rivulet running from the left, was swung into the air in a wide arc, her free paw grasping at nothing in the air. “Youz be nuffin more ‘an a stupid bastard, Bolly. Th’ goods, fine, fine.”

Bolgiff frowned at her. “…’E ran out. Inta th’ desert. ‘Ow’s that fine y'crazy ol'slag?”

Gunther, who understood absolutely nothing of what was being said only that it was angry. He shivered with revulsion as Granny stuck her tongue out to taste the air, ignoring the insult. “Pox-addled ‘e ain’t. Smell burned flesh, like. ‘Es a runaway. Cast out.”

There were general murmurings from the others, spreading to those who were now outside the cart, peering in to see what the fuss was about. The broodlings whined atop the caravans, still whirring their worm-charms and not able to see the show. Granny knew men-folk better than anyone.

“Wot you think ‘e’s price iz then, ay?” Came the snapped reply.

“Plenty good. Men-folk frum the Scar, iz different from Men-folk frum across the Water. Say…say ‘e fell inta the fire, like, sumfin like tha’. Still ge' gud price.”

Bolgiff wrinkled his nose. “Nobod’s gonna be’l’ve tha’, granny.”

“Nobud can be’l’ve yer chieftain, Bolly.”

“Blatantly yer tryin’ to start sumfin!”

“Take yer cock-fight sumwhere else, yer stupid nadger.” She swung the cane again, but missed as he casually side-stepped. The fight in him went out almost immediately; his crest went down, his tail dropped and he settled back into a rough crouch to watch Gunther squirm.

“’Ows ‘e made it this far?” He finally asked. “’E makes sounds.” He raised a paw, and Gunther snarled in response, raised a now bare foot and kicked Bolgiff away. “Yu’d fink ‘e’d be worm-fud. Bu’ ‘e’s ‘ere. Alive.”

“Worms only eat gud fud. E’s no’ gud.”

“’Ow so?” One of the guards blurted out. “E smells fine!”

The old one came close; and the “AhhhHHHHHH” Of indrawn breath sounded as Gunther twisted away from a gobbit of snot that fell from her nose, just missing a knee. She sniffed him in short little whuffles, kind of like a dog, moving from his thighs, past his underwear (which had thankfully stayed on, close call, that one) and upwards.

At this point in time the albino wasn’t doing too well. Perhaps the physical exertion of almost choking himself to death was starting to take it’s toll, or maybe he really had done something in his stupid midday run, but he was feeling fuzzy and horrible, and it was being made worse by all this movement, these monsters, and their weird growly language which meant nothing to him.

And the fact the fat lady here was possibly getting off on his funk. The thought alone was terrifying.

The old one and the fat one with lots of gold jewellery (who did, in fact, look like a complete wanker, but Gunther didn’t know or understand this word just yet) were talking about him, and arguing too. He was starting to wonder now if this was the live feed shed and he was going to be cooked, which was rather hilarious but…

The crusty muzzle stopped, at his chest. Automatically, Gunther looked down too, and for the first time saw...it.

He had woken up in his current (well, most current, seeing as it was on the floor around him, and some broodling was trying to wear his pants on it’s head) garb within a jail-cell, nursing the mother of all headaches and wondering if he’d gotten thoroughly pissed at the festivities the night before.

Only…well, jail cell. Bars, and straw, and everything. Hmm.

A few of his loyal subordinates (as opposed to subordinates who just followed his orders and picked their noses and tried to fart tunes…Gods, give him strength and enough patience to properly train them!) had managed to sneak in, and tell him of the coup within a coup. It was all rather surprising, because the prick who had done it – ye Gods, he couldn’t even remember the man’s name – was a stupid little bugger and everyone was feeling very out of sorts…

…but the point of the story was, they’d bought him supplies, patched up his face because none of them knew how it had happened (but knew what it meant of course), and they’d all gone up into the few safe passes left, and then he’d scarpered. There were people waiting for him of course, but they weren’t nice and the whole ‘We have loyal supporters in the mountains who can help!’ is kind of pointless when you miss the turning and realise you’re in Bat Country and you have No Car.

There had been no time for personal care. All his aches and pains had gone under the heading ‘Shit I Shall Deal With Later’ after he’d gotten to some place safer than the massive clusterfuck his country had become. Much like a bath. Or dental hygiene. Or a decent bloody round in the bloody outhouse.

What is that?

It was oval in shape; black as sin and sat where his sternum ended; curving gracefully against the sharp relief of twin arches of the rib-cage at this rather odd angle. It was inside him and outside him at the same time, and he had no idea how it had gotten there – except that when he laid eyes on it, he felt a chill.

It was a chill he recognised, because he wasn’t the kind of guy who ignored gut instinct because that got a guy killed. Now he had seen it, there was the vague impression it was looking back…And horror would possibly follow in it's wake.

[Menagerie of Voices]

“…This. Iz why.” The old creature extended a talon and pointed at the stone.

Gunther watched her, face paling further beneath the sunburn, reading her expression almost perfectly - some expressions are carried across just about every race and disgust is one of them. The stone tightened beneath her presence, as if trying to burrow deeper into his body.

Bolgiff shrugged. “Mebbe men-folk custum?” He wiggled his talons mockingly. “Li’ ourz pretties?”

Granny wasn’t convinced. “Men-folk…be part fearin’, be part struttin’. Do’n truck wiv this kinda stuff.”

His head-crest rose again. Strutting he understood. The stone should be a gem, he thought privately, and pondered the idea – not just his scales, all shiny, but a gemstone or two…just what kinds? The beautiful ones were always fragile, except diamonds and they were too easy to steal. He reached past the Wise-Tailed Granny and grasped the men-folk’s neck, hearing him gargle with pain and fear. Muscles rippled and strained beneath his skin, drawing the beast’s eyes for a moment, but Bolgiff settled back on the stone.

“Doan touch it!”

“IMNOT.” He snapped back. A talon was traced across the pale, terribly fragile skin, trying to find a mark where the human’s flesh had been cut open. They had it lucky that way; their bodies could be adorned with piercings and tattoos; while they built their armour out of raw materials. He had to wear his pretties around his neck and on his belt, on his talons and his tail. It was somehow unsatisfying because they could, and did when the broodlings were being particularly pissy, nick his gear and that always left him in a bad mood.

But then, he did have a lovely coat of scales that could repel most men-folk weapons. And men-folk broke so easily.

A cold eye came closer, and Bolgiff heard the men-folk suck in a breath at the contact. He grunted quietly at this, mostly annoyed, and sank his talons into the flesh, ignoring Gunther’s yelp of surprise. He started to move again but Bolgiff had enough time to see there were no marks at all that showed how the thing had gotten in there; just bruises from old fights, scars from older, and fresh and new blisters that looked about ready to pop.

This in itself was tempting, but there were more important things on his mind. He smiled at the elder. “…Wez, like, y’know…wez cud use it.”

Her nostrils flared. “’Ow?”

“No more worms.”

“Iz evil. Worms run aways, no’ wannit. Iz bad luck, like. Mebbe works only fer men-folk, whys take risk? I smells bad fings frommit.”

One of the big ones snickered. “Mebbe Snarflon farted.”

That earned him a clout over the head. “Shu’up yer fat shite. No’un comes inn’ere an’ plays silly buggers or A’ll ‘ave their’ide.”

“Yes Granny.” Came the muted, shamed school-boy chorus.

Still chilled, Gunther watched all of this with wide, disgusted eyes as he was attached by collar to the wall again (having, of course, been taken off it as you can’t examine an unruly prisoner if they’re bound all that easily. Four stout men and a limb each is so much easier.). They only became wider when Bolgiff watched him and they all let go and filed out. The look was one he’d seen before, but on the faces of those he worked with, above and below his station. Pure, naked hunger.

But why?

Slowly the creatures left, the door slammed shut leaving the broodling still in Gunther’s pants to shriek loudly. It took a moment to snatch them off it, and have an adult open the door and haul it out, but the carts started to move again with a chorus of strange grunts and squawks and shrieks and he was left to dress in comparative relief, or at least do his best to. His shirt was an obvious no-go, which left the stone in full view.

Around him the cart slowly came to life again; the frightened living peeking out of their messy-cages and eyeing him now as an equal instead of a creature to be afraid of. This was rather disconcerting to say the least but even more so was the stone itself.

How had he not known about it? Was that what the creature was after? Why was he still alive, unless they were letting him stew in his own juices…which would happen fairly soon, because it was getting damn hard to hold it in. He frowned in a general way. Although considering this floor it’s not going to matter. I’ve been through worse, and while pissing myself is not the preferred option, I value my bladder a lot more than my pants.

It was still pretty disgusting mind you. He shivered despite the fetid warmth of the cart; and pondered the usefulness of his gear right now; he felt too naked and exposed without it. From there he stared blankly at the wall, wishing like hell he knew what was going on…

“Oh fucking hell.” He groaned, letting his head flop back. Two days ago he was in full regalia and eating…well, eating stuff he could eat! And now! Starving, nauseous, probably suffering from sunstroke and needing to take a pi-

The thought didn’t finish.

The door was opened violently and almost thrown off it’s hinges as the chieftain came back, a rusted knife in his grip. Gunther didn’t even have time to yell out in surprise; he acted on instinct. Stomach muscles contracted bringing his hips up; naked feet met the charge, ankle connecting with forearm and pushing it away as Bolgiff sought to swoop down and cut him open. His left heel went right into the creature’s gullet as the human kicked, providing a satisfying choking sound as Bolgiff staggered back.

In his military career, Gunther had never really gotten on with horses. Walking everywhere had given him a fair amount of power; and even Bolgiff, in his tiny little mind, was impressed. He was just too busy choking to voice it.

But Gunther wasn’t finished. As the monster staggered off balance, the right foot that had blocked the incoming blade was hooked around a misshaped wyrmfolk ankle and pulled hard despite the obvious hard-scales-pain-thing and his body’s own screams from the pressure.

His left heel was brought down with a satisfying crunch into Bolgiff’s crotch, without even the tiniest of winces at what he had just done.

Howling, Bolgiff struggled to stand and this time succeeded in swiping Gunther with the knife – dragging it across the shin-bone. He held his breath; saw the thin film of blood spurt from the wound but dug his nails into his palm to control his pain responses – you stupid fuck – and he twisted his body around to be on his side and kick Bolgiff again. This time it was below the sternum; their backs were covered in hard scales but their bellies seemed soft. The chieftain went down very hard.

Okay, okay, it’s just him, and nobody seemed to like him anyway. Gunther thought, biting his lip now. His body was shaking violently, and there were too many things to worry about right now than just survival. My pants managed to take most of that blow, but there is a cut there. He might have chipped a bone, but that’s okay. If I can finish this, I can find my shirt and patch this shit up. Okay. Okay.

But the growls and thumping had brought friends - two little broodlings had left their posts atop the cart and were now staring with wide eyes at their winded leader, and acted accordingly, raising their muzzles to the sky and screeching like banshees. Again, the whole thing shuddered to a stop and there was the pounding of paws on the ground. One of the ones who’d come in before was now a the door, eyes wide with astonishment and behind it were a few others he didn’t recognise.

“Ugh.” Came the muffled grunt. Gunther pulled himself up to sit, then crouch and watched them with equally wide eyes. Then suddenly the whole place became very confusing as one of the smarter ones pulled out a net and snagged him as one of the others barreled into him.

Something had to give; and it wasn’t the floor.

“OOooooaarrrrrrwwwwwwwwshit.” Are not the usual words spoken when you go flying across a room to the extent of your choke chain.

Well. I’m well and truly fucked now. Everything went a pretty shade of red, then a lovely, cool, comforting black that was so nice to slip into...

[Menagerie of Voices]

I am displeased with you. Came the voice somewhere around him, close yet fuzzy in his disorientation, jerking him out of his 'sleep'. It sounded a lot like his own voice, but Gunther didn’t quite care, he was feeling rather blissed out having found out death wasn’t all that scary. Twice in a twenty-four hour period you have ignored my warnings and now I have no choice but to step in. This will come with heavy penalties, Lord Bellum.

The darkness in which he had thought was death was peeled away to reveal itself to not be darkness at all. There was the sense of something pulling away from him and the darkness parted; revealing itself as robes of fluttering…colour; but dark colours, colours the eyes could easily be fooled into being as black. He thought he could see the darkest of greens against violets, blues, even red, and that somehow was more sinister than anything he had seen as yet in his life.

There was no ceiling; the sky was the end of a tunnel of wind and spite that whipped at his hair and face, and against the fluttering backdrop the voice revealed itself; speaking as it wove itself into existence from his very being.

And yet the caravan was still around him; it’s occupants frozen. Animals were crouched in cages; or caught in mid-flight against the bars of their makeshift containers; the wyrmfolk were in various states of attack (one in fact being poised over him and ready to break his skull into a thousand pieces) and his own body; suspended from the floor as he was about to break his neck.

Above them all the creature rose, the darkness becoming it’s robes fluttering in the vortex and the quite high, judging them all.

It didn’t look human. It didn’t look like anything; but it still spoke his language and used his voice. And it was pissed. He wasn’t sure quite how he knew that, but there was the distinct feeling of barely contained rage that was going to be directed somewhere, and that somewhere and all concerning someones had better take cover and fast.

He tried to open his mouth to speak, but it hovered over him, stealing his breath until he choked. In this moment of stillness, intimacy, and defilement when time no longer existed, Gunther realised he was staring into a copy of himself…but a copy that barely held itself together and had the colours wrong.

Gunther had lived in a world were magic did not exist. For centuries, his people had ignored and refused those who washed up on the shore with their abilities; magic did not happen, magic was forbidden. but you could still sense it, still recognize it. Magic was for the earth; not for the people. People and magic created bad things; and while he had scoffed in his younger years that anyone would be stupid enough to use it, but there was no way of mistaking this taint for anything else.

His extremities burned; behind him was something huge; something writhing, boiling and held captive.

His core was numb; frozen in the act of giving birth to the monstrosity that now – as it wove with threads of gossamer silk over the hidden head - wore his face; and his face alone. Green eyes peered at him from behind the mask, held up by a hand covered in perfect, tiny, gun-metal grey scales. The lips did not move, but the creature spoke again, straddling his chest and stroking the stone with the ball of it’s thumb on it’s left ‘hand’.

You will return the favour, Lord Bellum, for the saving of your miserable life.

Gunther frowned. Regardless of whatever the hell this creature was, that was pushing it. “If it’s so fucking miserable, why don’t you just bugger off? I never asked to be saved, damn it!”

Eyes widened in those fake sockets, but the surprise was only for a moment. The eyes returned to their half-lidded expression of superiority, but that meant nothing as this did have the feeling of a fairly ordinary dick waving contest.

It sighed. Sucks to be you.

It was an almost philosophical statement, but then the creature reached down, 'grabbed' him and tossed him into the swirling vortex. Gunther did make an attempt at swiping at it’s long, dark grey hair and catching a handful and yanking hard as he tumbled, earning a shriek.

The caravan tumbled away taking the monster with it as he was sucked upwards and into the sky. He reflected that this wasn’t at all what the priests ranted about in the streets – and those bastards were always out in force when the armies were marching, unsettling the troops until he went down personally (if he were in the mood, otherwise it was his personal staff) to debate, pour water over or just generally pummel the poor sod, screaming WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW, BITCH?? to the general amusement of the populace. It tended to win townsfolk over when the local crazy that frightened the kiddies was frightened off. There was lots of talk of a hell with fire, and devils and such forth, and torture, blah, blah blah, and on the other hand a land of fluffy clouds, where everyone had wings and were fucking happy. All the fucking time, the boring little shits.

None of them had said anything about monsters wearing human faces, or sky-tunnels or-

Holy shit. I can see my castle from here! Followed by a suspicious; Wait a second. What?

[Menagerie of Voices]

‘It’ had a name, but it was too long and too complicated for human tongue so ‘it’ will remain as…well, it (For the time being at least.). There was also the fact it was very unhappy, cramped, generally annoyed in the first place which didn’t make for a good mixture at all.

Gunther wasn’t the only one in this saga who had things taken from them, and the creature that now inhabited his body – still suspended in this nano-second of conversation and switch-over as demons have little understanding or need for time – wasn’t too happy that the latest in a long succession of hosts was about to kick the bucket.

It wasn’t as if it even liked him; it was just…circumstance. And the demon knew from experience what a bitch circumstance could be.

Which is why we fast forward to now.

Time is restored; and the body flopped like a fish, choking and screaming as the chain was pulled taught and the body dropped to land unpleasantly, audibly snapping the neck. Before the body could even register it was in fact dead, veins bulged across Gunther’s skin, full of darkness from the stone. The body jerked about a few times, the confused wyrmfolk male staring in curiosity as to why the thing didn’t, you know, stop moving and all.

All around them, the creatures yammered. This was disconcerting enough for Bolgiff and his extended and incestuous family, but it wasn’t until a hand reached up to grasp the attacking male’s belt and casually toss him aside into a wall.

The healing still wasn’t done, and there was something horrible about the way Gunther’s head just…hung there…until the jerky hand grabbed a handful of various lengths of hair and pulled the head up to settle it on it’s spine again. Then; using both hands; it twisted the head back on, cricked it from side to side, then opened the now pure green eyes.

“…That hurt.” It was still Gunther’s voice, but covered with that odd, strangely worrying fuzziness. It could barely be heard above the cries of the animals.

Still wearing an expression of bland disinterest the Gunther-thing pulled the cast iron collar apart; not at all reacting when it’s hands smoked and came away red and sore looking. Now it jerkily stood up, twitched a bit and was still.

Bolgiff paused in his calculations of how much a regenerating men-folk would cost, lost in the moment between profit and saving his own skin.

The human’s neck was covered with red patches from the collar. He raised his face to the ceiling, the lips pulling back into a horrible, horrible grin. However, for many creatures, showing as much of your teeth as possible tends to set for a warning.

Well, at least Gunther had left it some fun, the demon reflected. The first attacker had only just begun to stand up again, but was met with a hand that was patiently waiting for it. Easily, the demon broke the creature’s neck with a casual twist, then let the body drop.

“Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry?” Same voice; now speaking in perfect bastardized draconian.

Bolgiff stared. “AY, AY, FAIR COP, GUV!! OOAAWWWRRRSHITSHITSHIT-’”

It took a moment to make Gunther look sad; facial muscles were not the demon’s strong point. “You should have listened to your grandmother.”

Then the body launched itself at the group.

In two seconds the group was gone; and parts of the walls were painted with the dark stains of blood.

In three, the walls had caved in, and the roof had come off.

Second four, the shockwave had turned the closest five carts into nothing more than children’s toys, thrown high into the air.

By second five, the first realisation of what was going down had struck the assembled caravan, but by second six?

Well…by then it was a little bit too late.

[Menagerie of Voices]

Midday in the Scar was a bitch at best, but the local sandworms were having a field day. At long last, there were no more of those goddamn noises that made it so hard for them to track down their prey and they could feast at their leisure, nosing the barges for noise and then going after said noise to see what it tasted like.

The thirty or so caravans were in disarray, half of which were overturned, missing walls and wheels, the tethered Squawkers were no more, having either broken their traces and gone to higher, more stable ground or eaten while they stood there. Loot lay everywhere; gold and jewels, fine bales of cloth, Draconian clothing and scarves, armour and rare – and possibly fake, knowing Bolgiff – tomes of magic or artifacts in general were strewn like confetti. Somewhere a hatchling was giggling at the pulsing half-blind eyeball that was slithering across the floor and taking in the family that were doing their best to stay completely still. The worm that owned the eyeball was beached at the bottom of the tilted cart, it’s mouth open and waiting for something to fall in.

It had gotten two rice sacks, a water bag and a mouldy pillow. So far, it thought, so good.

The surviving caravans on the extremities of the trail were already a couple of miles away, screaming loudly. The worms had given chase, eyeballs and all, but had given up after the first mile. Squawkers weren’t all that fast until you put the fear of Worm into them. The rest of the wyrmfolk who were actually alive just sat there, making faces at each other and trying to find some decent worm-charms to get them to safety. Oh, and curse the lucky bastards at the front and the back.

At the center of the debris lay Gunther, entirely unaware of the danger he was in, fast asleep. Funnily enough two walls remained on his cart, most of the creatures had scarpered save one, and he was blissfully ignorant of the splatters of scales and blood that littered what remained.

The demon was well-aware of the time it would take for it to recharge, and for Gunther’s own immediate reserves to come back. It had…taken steps…to alleviate the damage and those steps, or rather step, was now prowling about the cart, sticking her nose into everything. Even the slather of scales was sniffed then licked up like a hungry dog, sunset-orange eyes dancing.

It hadn’t wanted to give Gunther any kind of ally – he was a stubborn, finicky creature, but his reserves tasted so good it didn’t do well to leave him till his death. It had been some time since it had a host this full of vigour. Trading off a little of it’s power to lash the beast to his soul and make it a part of him had been a necessary sacrifice…or so it had thought. On linking to it’s mind the demon realised that it – she – was probably just as stubborn and foolish as it’s host. But by then it was too late, of course.

The fox in question didn’t startle when the cart lurched – it had been lurching for awhile now, and in her foxy-brain she could hear (for the first time actually recognizing it as words and not just sounds) the worms below, aware of the living creature above them. They had been avoiding him (definitely a him, he smelt very boyish) while he had the Bad Smell on him, but now, the echofox – Cinnamon, she had decided, liking the smell and taste of it from the human’s memory – was well aware they wanted to eat him. She understood that her duty was now to protect him, that her very being was infused with demonic energies that would make her faster and stronger…but all that didn’t really matter right now because she was out of that damn cage.

The eyeballs made their appearance, almost floating above the broken planks from the front wall. She watched them impassively, licked her chops then began to groom herself.

Beside her, the human began to stir, finally waking up. He was very big.

“…Drrssttt.” He said, then felt around his jaw, making ‘maahhanagaagagg’ noises of rearrangement. “What in hell.”

She looked up at him, cocking an ear.

“Huh.”

Bad Smells go bye. Cinnamon piped up, but the human didn’t hear her. He stood up instead, and her ears flicked down with annoyance. Hey! You!

The human continued to ignore her, instead walking straight to his death. On one of the last posts of the cart was a leather bag, which he clutched at quite happily, cuddling it and still blinking in the slow stupid way of the stunned. He continued to look around, and the eyeballs were trained on him like little globular hawks.

Cinnamon was not pleased at this. A-hoi-hoi?

The human finally looked around. “What?”

Gunther no go down!

“Why not? Who is this?”

Cinnamon.

“Who’s Cinnamon? Are you that thing in my dream? What the hell-AAAAOOWWW!” She grabbed his ankle and pulled as vigorously as possible to make him fall out of the way of the emerging worm, looking like a massive white turd with a beak breaking the sandy surface. It groaned then fell against the sand and flopped, it’s eyeballs darting around to see where it’s prey had gone. “…Oh Gods. What-”

Noise told Cinnamon Ground Things stay away. She informed him, padding over him and standing – possibly deliberately – on his crotch as she strutted onto his chest. Ground Things eating Bad Smells.

“…I’ve gone mad.”

She wagged her tail. What mad?

“I’m mad.” Pause. “Wait, why am I even talking to you? You’re a…you’re…” He reached out and grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. “What are you?”

Cinnamon cocked an ear at his worried look, not at all understanding that becoming a creature of summoning – hence the burned circle on the wood beneath them both and the arcane symbols that traced around it’s edges and the intersecting smaller circles and lines connecting man and beast together through the ritual – meant physical changes. To Gunther she did indeed look like a fox, but perhaps more stylised. She flickered as she moved, her weight barely registering to anything but himself. Slashes of violet were across an eye, her muzzle, and swirled along her shoulders and hips. And how he knew she was a she he wasn’t sure, but it was as if there was suddenly a piece of him that swam into existence. She was just there.

Her mind was an open book; and he caught the last remnants of the ritual before her physical body was destroyed; blinding pain through black and white which had now become swirls of colour. Gunther recoiled in disgust – magic? – but found it settled again when she looked at him with her bright eyes.

Wut Came the word, harshly pronounced into his consciousness.

“Who did this?”

Noise did. Big Noise, come from sky. Loud. Hurt Cinnamon’s ears.

“A noise?”

A pink tongue licked her lips again in agreement.

“And this noise did this?” If a noise could do this kind of damage, it could make a wonderful weapon...shush survival now, killing traitors later!

Gunther part of Noise. Cinnamon part of Noise. All Noise together. She flailed a paw, claws out at the stone embedded in his chest. The flail, while wild, wasn’t meant to hurt, and the moment claws touched flesh he noticed there was little to no pressure at all. Bad Smells make Noise angry. Noise come, stop Bad Smells.

Gunther stared at her for a moment. Madness or not, as she ‘spoke’ with her badly-handled Raustian she was making more and more sense to him. The whole noise thing was rather worrying (and he did feel rather scratchy and his ears were ringing…not to mention his neck. It felt a little achy, but he’d been lying oddly right?) but the worm things – which she’d saved him from – were the issue at hand.

Maybe he was mad. He'd heard that mad people didn't know they were mad and just...lived in the fantasy. But did that mean that he wasn't mad because he thought he was mad? No, no use thinking in circles. This was a place of demons and gods, right? Right? Sure. Okay. So weird things happened. Maybe this critter would disappear once he left the Beyond or maybe it would stay; what mattered right now was survival.

“Those worms, right?” She looked up from chewing a hind leg, still suspended in the air. “Those…ground things you called them?” Her tail wagged. “They can smell us, see us or hear us?”

Hear good-good. See not so good when Bright Light is high.

“Better at night?”

Another tail wag.

“And they didn’t try to eat me before when I came from my country because of this stone? Or because of the…noise?”

Noise is Stone. Stone is Noise.

“So…why doesn’t it work now?” The whole caravan shifted, the worm having managed to burrow back down and now trying a different tactic. “Shit, it’s a tenacious prick isn’t it?”

Big Noise tired. Sleep. Gunther sleep? Her nose came close all of a sudden, her tongue out trying to lick. Cinnamon friend! Cinnamon watch! Gunther sleep?

He dropped her in disgust. “Sleep? At a time like this? Fuck, if I’m dreaming this is weird. At least I’ll die peacefully…” He looked around, frowning. The worms were everywhere; he had to think fast before El Fatso tried to beach itself again to get him. “Cinnamon…Cinnamon, right? I’m never going to live this down…I need your help for a second.”

[Menagerie of Voices]

The bag was alright. He had to hand it to Carl, the man was thorough. Some personal effects, most of which hadn’t been touched by the Head Lizard and his clan, a change of clothes, medical supplies (which he was now using), a battered military teapot and several sachets of tea that survived the more curious little ones. He pulled out the flick-knife from the pocket on the underside of the leather satchel and made quick work of the bandages, wrapping up a few wounds he’d received during his spell of not being him, hands especially. They weren’t too serious, but he was feeling too light-headed to want to have something split open quite suddenly on him. His sleep had done him good however, and Gunther wasn’t quite as dizzy as he’d been before…but the knowledge that being out here, in the sun, was probably pushing it a lot more than was necessary.

He dressed quickly, boots and all, packed up the kit and configured the straps to have the back sit on his back instead of at his side, and approached the edge by far more carefully. His eyes bulged a little at the sea of lost treasure, and he whined a little in the back of his throat.

Just great. I could be looting now if it wasn’t for those damn things.

Okay. Quick glance around? Check. A few remaining birds, still with gear were perched atop one of the more sturdy caravans, and a few Lizards looking rather worried amongst the others. An implosion of dust to his right signified one of the sandworms finally getting the right idea and slamming into the bottom of an almost complete carriage, the creatures inside shrieking loudly as the whole thing capsized. Gunther watched with interest.

What do?

The cold nose in his ear woke him from his musings. “Hush up.”

Ground Things can’t hear Cinnamon.

“Ground things can hear me scream like a pansy. Warn me before you French-kiss my ear, please.”

She actually frowned at him.

What do? More insistent this time.

“I don’t know. The fact is we still need to eat, and there’s nothing left here except…Bits of things. I’m not sure. Wait, is that rope?”

It was indeed, rope. An idea was forming in Gunther’s mind, but it would take some work and some incredibly careful motion. A noose was made, and he took stock of what he could see on the ground.

“Can you lift things, Cinnamon?”

She shrugged, and he offered the noose. She gave him a worried look, and stuck hear head through it with her ears flopped down. Cinnamon bad?

“If this wasn’t a life or death situation, I’d have laughed. No, idiot. Can you bite it?”

Her ears pricked and she pulled out, nosing at the rope and finally biting onto it. It held for a moment before slipping through her form and to the wood once more.

Cinnamon sorry!

“I’m going to throw it at things down there. I need you to loop the noose around edges so I can pull. The creatures will hear it, but I don’t think they’ll bother too much with inedible things. They do, ah, realise it’s inedible, right?”

Cinnamon raised a vulpine eyebrow at her albino master.

“What?”

What ‘inedible’?

Gunther sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Can’t be eaten. Now let’s try this. Ready? And you’re sure you won’t be heard?”

But she was already over the side, and running across the sand with barely a ripple. She faded out once or twice, and Gunther felt a strange tiredness forming inside his head, logic making him realise that their connection had limits. If that’s what it was. He’d have to find a magic man to see what all this was about. She was nosing something – a sack of grain from the looks of things – and Gunther began to fish.

He called her back after a half hour. Two bags of wild rice, one of grains (another had been too rotten, so had been thrown with great gusto at a beached worm which had not appreciated it and roared at the world for a bit to dare the bugger who’d hurt it to come out and get some.) and a sack of mismatched coinage. Gunther had no idea how that would help, he couldn’t tell what they were or how much they actually costed, but they might be a useful barter instrument. There were bound to be thieves out there. It was a pain to leave the armour and the weapons down there, bar a single simple blade or two, but they were by far too flashy. No water bottles, which was a pain, but there had been a bale of cloth which was light enough to fashion a sort of covering for him and some scattered treasures – clips, necklaces, rings, anything Cinnamon found that interested her – that went into his pockets.

Sentimentality be damned. Gold bought anything.

The worms had been interested at first with the dragging sounds, but because Gunther gave them a constant momentum and fished from all sides of the cart, they soon lost interest. Cinnamon had snuck into a few caravans to create a ruckus, hiding both of their tracks…which left Gunther to the final problem.

Stuffing a piece of dried meat from one mostly clean food pouch into his mouth (it wasn’t all that bad, and provided he didn’t think about where it had come from, he was fine) he watched the remaining Squawkers mill about aimlessly. At his side, panting like a puppy, Cinnamon lay half sprawled and half curled into Gunther’s hip. She rolled onto her back to expose her lengthy belly when he absentmindedly reached down to give it a rub. Oddly enough she felt incredibly real beneath his fingers, and yet could barely hold an object between her teeth unless she really concentrated.

He fed her some jerky as he counted the birds again, and finally presented the question. “Can the birds outrun these things?”

Yes.

“Do you think we could lash one or two to this cart? No, that’s a stupid idea, they’d be eaten before I got even one hitched up.” Gunther tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his knees, watching the caravan sink in front of him as more worms tried to attack it. No doubt they’d come after him soon and employ the same tactic…He blinked. “I wonder if one of those birds could take my weight?”

Could try. More Yum-Yums?

“Are you allowed to eat?”

Cinnamon doesn’t know. More Yum-Yums?

“Ugh, fine.” She almost took off his fingers, but the tickle of her whiskers was pleasant. “You need to make one last run, but I’m going to need two sections of rope. Got that?” She rolled over, sat up, and peered at him, and then caught on to what he was planning.

Cinnamon thinks Gunther is crazy.

“He is. He’s in the middle of nowhere and talking to you.”

Feh!