When Mountains Cry

[Flames of Hyperion]

Continuation of Words of the Auld Hoose (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=12388). Closed at present to Feed The Machine, Liquid Ice, and FeanBough; if you would like to enter at this stage, please either post here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=12333) or PM me ^^

The sun certainly took its time to rise in this part of the world, Ingwe noticed as he leant back casually against the massive stone archway. It was dawn, and Scara Brae was only just waking up to the young sunlight dissipating the mist and casting itself upon the gabled rooftops. The first meandering rays of light flashed against the brilliant golden glint that was the roof of the Dajas Pagoda, carving long sharp shadows from the hanging darkness of the cityscape at night.

From somewhere beyond the city walls, a joyous cock cried to greet the warmth of the new sun. The cacophonous sound drowned out the melodious harmony of the morning songbirds, but only for a brief instant; barely had its last notes subsided before the larks and the warblers indignantly took up the tune once more. Otherwise, though, peace reigned, for it was far too early for more than a scattered handful of tradesmen to be up and about, much less walking the streets.

A fresh breeze soared off the brightly dancing waves and through the empty cobbled streets, pausing to tarry briefly at his feet before escaping through the open western gate and onto the plains beyond. Long dark hair ruffled gently about his ears as he adjusted his spectacles, smiling at the tales of fish and salt that the levanter brought him. The white gyrfalcon upon his shoulder paused its grooming long enough to croon something into his ear, and Ingwe replied with a gentle murmur prior to returning to the second of the books that he had picked up the day before, subtly shifting position so that his heavy cloak protected him from the worst of the morning’s chill.

At least there was enough light to read by now, without having to rely on the undependable flickering of the guard lantern. But for one reason or another, he found that he could not quite concentrate upon what was written in Codrig Ludwig's Places to Peruse and Visit, Scara Brae Edition.

The words of the obese merchant from the night before continued to ring through his mind, tempting him with their promise of answers to questions unsatisfied. Though he still harboured a slight scholarly scepticism towards the tale of the Dragon Hermit and his unfailing prophecies, one thing was indeed certain, the conclusion that he had reached time and time again whilst mulling it over the previous night.

There was no way to know for sure unless he investigated the rumour in person.

[Flames of Hyperion]

*Performs thread necromancy*

With all three original companions missing, I'm resurrecting this as a two-person quest between Inkfinger and myself. Thank you!

Time passed.

The minutes ticked slowly by as the sun dawned upon the eastern skyline, lengthening into hours as it began its ascent into the clouds above. Shadows receded from the middle of the road, the intricate friezing on the gateway arch picked out harshly by the bright light. A continuous tide of people, slow at first yet growing along with the hours, ebbed and flowed around him, respectfully according him the privacy they naturally associated with his arcanic appearance. Perhaps it was the glasses perched so precariously upon the tip of his nose, or the flowing royal blue cloak he wielded like a shield against the chilly sea breeze, or the heavy book that he was practically devouring as he waited in the morning streets.

More than once he would look up, pushing the spectacles back up his nose with a firm gesture whilst scanning the road around him. Eagerness gradually turned to surprise, surprise to concern, and concern to something teetering upon the edges of a panic attack by the time the sun had climbed halfway up from the horizon and the clock on the gatehouse wall indicated a quarter past nine.

I hope they haven’t come to any harm he worried, the acquaintances that he had made the previous evening now more than three hours late for the rendezvous.

Deep down, though, he soon realised that he knew why they hadn’t showed. The tale of the Dragon Hermit had probably been just a little too farfetched; the drunken merchant who had woven it just a little too untrustworthy. Perhaps they had found a more worthwhile rumour to chase, or something more important to do. In either case, he soon realised, he was going to have to do this alone.

Did he still want to go himself? The question popped up in his mind as sudden as a bolt of lightning, but was dismissed just as quickly. It was true that perhaps the rumours were flimsy and unsubstantiated, and that the chances of the Dragon Hermit being a true prophet were close to nil. He could understand why they had given up on it. But in his book, a small chance was much, much better than the faint flicker of hope that he had arrived with in Scara Brae. A few days worth of travel would not be too much loss, especially as he would be able to further explore his father’s homeland in the process.

On the other hand, he could only hope that he had the presence of mind not to run into one of the small goblin gangs that were rumoured to be raiding the northern villages once again. Codrig Ludwig's Places to Peruse and Visit, Scara Brae Edition was very clear in its writings about approaching the mountains, much less crossing them… be forewarned, was the message. Be prepared.

He wasn’t quite sure that going on his lonesome counted. But push had come to shove, and if he was going to make up the time lost before sunset, he had better…

A figure in the distance caught his eye as he replaced his book in his haversack, just one form amongst the many that now plied the streets, but one that happened to stand out somewhat. Ingwe’s expression creased in a puzzled frown as he paused to ponder, studying the man. Tall, his features indistinct at the distance but walking with a slight limp that marked him out from the crowd…

It’s his overcoat, Ingwe realised, trying to stop himself from staring, but failing in turn to contain the growing excitement flowing through his blood. Give him a reed hat, or an aristocratic kuge’s headpiece…

They were only fifteen or so paces apart now, and the crown was thin enough that he could tell that below the billowy folds of the robe-like coat, the man was relatively slender if not skinny. An academic, perhaps, with a slight martial bent? Not a native of the eastern isles, very obviously – the pale blonde hair put paid to that notion. But perhaps…

Then the man looked up, and their eyes met. Ingwe flushed, slightly embarrassed to be caught in the act. He paused awkwardly, hesitating before executing a cautious greeting bow, as much to disguise the colour in his face as to be belatedly polite.

Hayate twittered chidingly from his nearby perch.

Ingwe only hoped that the other man would not take offence.

[Inkfinger]

This follows It Felt Good To Get Out Of The Rain (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=16592) for Cael.

Gods above, what am I doing?

Cael Inkfinger was not generally one who went looking for adventure, no - when he found adventure, it was generally thrust upon him; unwanted, unneeded and unappreciated.

Yet here he was - all terrestrial belongings shoved into his pack, inkwell in an easily-accessed side pocket, pens tucked up one of his broad sleeves - looking for adventure. Or, rather, looking for the young man from the tavern last night.

Odds are, He thought to himself, padding through the thin crowd, he'll have left and I can go back to the pub and have a laugh at my close call. Me, an adventurer? Who am I putting on, here? There's no one to impress...

But then again, was this really about impressing anyone? Or was this really about that merchant's words? "I ask about the Dragon Hermit, they reply with the same words... wise and knowledgable as anything in the lands, and willing to share that knowledge to any who makes it to him. If you've got a question that needs answering, or a person that needs finding, or anything of the like... you go to the Dragon Hermit, and you ask nicely, and he'll give you the answer!"

Tan Li, his teacher, had turned him on his own weeks before; set him loose with only the instructions to look. That he'd have to find the next step. And look he had; his pack showed as much...but there was still that tiny niggling, nagging doubt - what if he was looking in all the wrong places?

That was what this was about.

It was already three hours past the overheard time and, unless the young man and his companions were all late, Cael didn't quite see why they would have dallied around. And even if they had, well. They don't know me from Adam. Why would they let me join them?

Granted, they hadn't seemed as if they knew one another last night either. Was that typical in these parts, then? Trusting your life (which, in fact, they would be doing if the rumors of goblins and other dangers were true) to a complete stranger?

Hmm. Rather adventurous in and of itself, that.

He made his slow, limping way through the city, his mind trying to rationalize itself out of doing what Cael wanted to do as if it were a separate entity. They should stay here, it reasoned, where things were safe and civilized.

Forget that, he thought right back, rather defiant in the face of his doubts. I could have stayed home if that's all I wanted.

It was still an intimidating prospect, though - gallivanting off who knows where, which a band that he didn't know from Adam, in a land that he knew only from guidebooks and secondhand stories.

He looked over his shoulder at the small, paper hare perched precariously on the top of his pack. The eyeless creation stared right back at him, ears waving jauntily in the breeze. "An' you're not goin' t'be much of a help either, are you?"

"Nope." The word floated there, bold and black, for much longer than Cael thought entirely necessary. He gave a good-natured sigh, and turned back to eye the now-visible West Gate.

And he paused, for just a moment. He was already being watched by a young man, a young man with so much intelligence glittering behind his dark, spectacled eyes. The intelligence, though, clouded over with what looked like the twin demons of realization and embarrassment. But that moment's glance was enough for Cael to realize, himself, that this was the young man from the pub.

He took a few steps closer and gave his own bow, letting it linger like Tan Li had always said was polite. Paper claws scrabbled on the back of his neck - It was not pleased with this movement. He held the bow for a second more, just to annoy the familiar, before he righted himself, tugging his coat straight again.

"Cael Inkfinger," he said, holding out his hand; his voice perhaps a tiny bit louder than necessary. He'd greeted the man in his land's (judging by his coloration and dress, anyway) tradition, now he greeted him in his own. "I heard y'last night at the Auld Hoose. I..." And here he fell short. Really, what was he doing there?

He thought for a second before blurting, "I came t'see if y'needed another companion, but..." Pale blue eyes scanned the area around the gate before turning back to the other, their owner's sudden confusion fairly obvious. "...perhaps tha' was t'wrong question?"

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Ingwe Helyanwe,” the Nipponese replied, the pseudonym coming easily now to his tongue. This was a good thing, he supposed. Not only was it less of a mouthful to say, but the false name would also give him a degree of anonymity from those who might seek to obstruct him. Most likely he was just being paranoid… but then rule number one of magic was to never give out extraneous information about yourself. And he had seen some magi do extraordinary things with just a name. Terrible, but extraordinary. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Gingerly he pulled himself out of his bow and met the proffered hand with one of his own. Not too limp, but don’t crush their bones either… he intoned in his mind as he grasped firmly and shook once to convey sincerity. Limp handshakes indicate weakness, inappropriately powerful handshakes indicate overbearing. Too short and they’ll dismiss you as perfunctory, but hold it too long and you’ll be derided as fawning. The art of the perfect handshake was not one that could be acquired from any book, one of his old teachers had been fond of saying, but it could be a critical indicator of the trust, mood, confidence, and even sophistication of its wielder. Ingwe had taken to the words well, although he was certain that his own lacked glaringly in the latter two aspects.

Next, make eye contact…

Ingwe looked up, letting brown-black met pale blue. As always when he came across eyes of such colouration, he was reminded of his homeland’s description of them as akin to “cold, wet, dead fish”. And, as always, he laughed at the expression, for his own father had been the bearer of such eyes and they had never been as limpid or as lifeless as the words suggested.

He studied the traveller, carefully but trying not to be overtly blatant. Come to think of it, the distinctively strawberry blonde hair did look vaguely familiar, although Ingwe couldn’t quite place the face at the tavern the previous evening. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had eyes in the back of his head, and the tavern had been dim and full of shadows…

A light breeze channelled down the cobbled streets from the ocean to his back, ruffling heads and fluttering flags as it sped inland. It was as if Mother Gaea herself was urging them on, anxious for them to set out upon their quest. There was something fresh and enticing about it, some unknown quality about it that made him eager to set off. In that moment, an almost uncharacteristically sudden decision was made.

“I’m afraid nobody’s turned up so far,” Ingwe admitted, smiling ruefully and shaking his head from side to side. “I’ve been here since before the crack of dawn, but it doesn’t look as if they set off before me, either…”

He paused, then took a deep breath.

“Truth be told, I was just about to set off by myself.” The young man spared a glance through the open west gates, out onto the grassy farmlands beyond. Rolling hills and scattered congregations of squat dwellings dotted the countryside, but the horizon was as flat as a ruler… with the exception of one or two windmills gently rotating in the breeze. The sky was blue, the clouds quick and white, the air faintly cool and moist upon his skin… it was a good day for a brisk walk.

Another deep breath, noting subconsciously that Hayate seemed to be eying the man’s shoulders with keenly critical attention.

“Please, if you could… I mean… well. What do you think of the rumours? About the Dragon Hermit?”

The words were spoken hesitantly, and there was an almost pleading note to Ingwe’s voice, well hidden within the nuances but present nonetheless. The warrior-mage turned back to face Cael, locking eyes once again as he awaited an answer.

[Inkfinger]

The breeze was enough to suck away the thin layer of sweat that had formed on the back of his neck, ruffling through his hair like his mother's hands; pleasant and almost-balmy compared to the cold winds of home - a zephyr, compared to a wall of frigid Salvic air. He could feel the tight muscles in his shoulders loosen at the soft, cool caress, enjoying it as he listened...

But then it picked up, just a little, and the momentary relief almost disappeared into a choked back yelp when Its clumsy claws scratched over his spine. The encouraged breeze was also loud enough that Cael had to take steps forward to hear Ingwe's voice, ear cocked. The words left him even more confused. His companions left him, never arrived? But they seemed so excited back at the pub... Disappointment mingled freely with relief -quest off?- before he felt paper brush his cheek. He turned his head to glimpse It's floating words.

"Things like prophets always seem less plausible in the daylight."

Cael lifted his hand to rapidly push the familiar back out of sight - Ingwe's hawk-creature was looking at him a little too attentively - and gave what he hoped looked like a lighthearted shrug, taking a few steps closer to the gate. The horizon seemed to sing - come explore me, there are so many interesting things to see, so many fantastical people to meet, so many words to hear - and that was enough to help him form his own words.

"Rumors are a part of m'job." And all too true, that was, in ways that he didn't care to think about, in ways that had almost cost his life before he'd become a wanderer. Even since then, truth be told. Some people didn't like it when the rumors about them proved true.

"I don't know what t'think yet, but I'd be lettin' m'self down if I didn't at least see what th'merchant was prattlin' on about, y'know? Nothin' ventured, nothin' gained." That might not be the entire truth, but it was close enough for now. "B'sides. I don't think anyone wants to go into those mountains on their own, daylight or not."

[Flames of Hyperion]

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And most certainly nothing left to lose.

The Nipponese admitted that it didn't do his self-confidence any harm, to know that somebody who professed that rumours were part of his job had deemed the latest one worthy of further investigation. Cael's thoughts seemed to echo Ingwe's own, from his reasoning as to why he still wished to journey to meet the sage, through to his fears for the road ahead. And it was true; no matter how often the caravan masters and soldiers drinking in the dark taverns dismissed the goblin threat in the north of Scara Brae, it was simple fact to note that they all travelled in large groups for protection. There was an undeniable safety in numbers, and it wasn't too hard to guess what the greenskins might do to a lone traveller.

Yet still Ingwe hesitated, briefly, contemplatively. Was it perhaps just too great a coincidence that the one person on the street that was bound to attract his attention, the one person on the street whom he had gaped at like a visitor to a menagerie exhibition, had been set upon the same goal as he?

Or was he just being overly suspicious of blind shadows? Life was full of fateful surprises, after all, and an adventurer's life more so than most. And when all was said and done, it had been a long while since he had last had companionship of any kind on an endeavour such as this...

He pondered just a moment more, his thoughts racing through his eyes, albeit his features carefully neutral.

Am I afraid?

The question was unbidden, sauntering arrogantly into his mind like an uninvited guest, setting his pulse quickening minutely.

Not of the goblins, no. I am not afraid, not if I am on the path to the answers I seek. Then...

He wasn't afraid. Certainly not of pain or death, not even of dishonour should it be in the service of what was right and just.

But it was as the oracle in the bazaar had divined just the other day. He was scared of being all alone, but he was also scared of failing those he cared for, and he was hesitant of reaching out towards others due to this. He was scared of himself, and he was scared of fear itself.

A cold, dark chill coursed through the back of his head, knowing that the hooded matron had been so accurate about the inner workings of his mind. Almost as suddenly as it appeared, it was banished to the depths from whence it had come; defiant and challenging was the mental cry that shouted it down. But its foul aftertaste lingered mockingly, souring his thoughts and giving his quest a strangely bittersweet tinge.

He clung with all his might to the most precious of his memories, for he was afraid of losing them forever. He was afraid of the shadows of the eternal abyss into which he feared he would fall should he let go. He was afraid that if he were not willing to do this for somebody else, then there would not be anybody else willing to do the same should he befall the same fate.

The chain of thoughts had been sparked by an innocuous set of words - the "on their own" that Cael had uttered - and by the knowledge that he himself had been prepared to do just that, perhaps suicidally, in order to find the answers that he deemed so important. On the other hand, the disturbing realisation that had followed had hit him like a pail of frigid water cast into his face, and it may well have shown in the sudden shocked widening of his eyes. He quickly made amends by averting his gaze once more through the open gate, ignoring Hayate's uneasy squawk and forcefully bringing the rush of heartstopping comprehension running through his pounding veins to a halt.

Then again, he reasoned but a split second later, he supposed that such fears - and his acknowledgement of them - would only make his next choice of action that much easier to decide upon. Why not just give things a chance? Maybe... just maybe...

Hayate's restlessness quavered in his ears, the gyrfalcon's wings spread wide in agitation. Ingwe thought he caught a flicker of suspicious movement about the other man's neck, though it was quickly gone, disappearing into the folds of the heavy coat the man wore. But he dismissed such thoughts as food for the road ahead, concentrating instead upon the present and accounted for.

"Shall we?" he asked, and with a grin sheepishly apologetic for his temporary hesitation he indicated the open grasslands extending beyond the horizon. With a hand that still trembled slightly from suppressed emotion, Ingwe reached down and scooped up the haversack that contained his remaining books and a spare set of clothes. It was, after all, the only way forward from here.

[Inkfinger]

There was a moment of hesitation from the younger man, thoughts flickering through dark eyes just long enough that Cael almost - almost - felt his own misgivings float to the surface. He struggled to shove them back down, beneath the rapids of his own excitement at being on the move again.

If he was going to do anything with his life other than fill out forms and write letters home for those who couldn't write their own, if he was going to stretch himself beyond flinging muddied half-truths and jotting down whatever accusations stuck, he couldn't balk from traveling with a stranger.

...even if said stranger's hawk-creature was starting to look a little bit too interested in his neck.

Next time, It stays in the pack. The little familiar was far too good at causing problems, no matter what form It was in, and Cael had no desire to become more familiar with the bird - even though it was quite the beauty. It ruffled its wings, peering at him rather intently, and Cael almost tugged his collar under the animal's inspection.

It's only a bird, Cael, he scolded, reaching to scratch the back of his neck and shove the animated origami creature further into the back of his jacket. Not a soldier, not an angry reader. Worst it can do is peck your eyes out...

He didn't like that train of thought at all, come to think of it. He grimaced at himself, still trying to snag the familiar. It, typically, didn't take kindly to the manhandling, shoving its coarse, papery way into his sleeve. I guess that's as good as anything. He lowered his arm, sliding his hand into his pocket to casually shake the hare loose. He freed his hand with a relieved flourish, just in time to catch Ingwe's apologetic smile and question.

"Think we should, yeah...daylight's burnin' an' all." Cael finally pulled his pack straighter now that he didn't have to worry about smashing It. The shaft of the newly purchased Naginata poked at his back in ways he wasn't used to yet, and he shrugged again, trying to shift it elsewhere, where it wouldn’t rub. Wonder if I should bother hauling that out yet...still have to figure out how to use it..

They’d be safe for a little while, anyways – safe and close to the city.

It was, after all, after the city was no longer in sight that the problems would start.

He was sure of that.



***


Cael hadn’t traveled with anyone since Master Li had sent him on his way. Oh, sure, there had been that thing with the angry Corone soldiers; that had technically been traveling with someone, but being shackled on the back of a horse was completely different than traveling willingly. The fact that this young man – despite the swords – gave off no airs of being a high-and-mighty soldier, added miles to the distance between the two happenstances.

This traveling, in comparison with his last few weeks, was nice. The beautiful morning slid gracefully into an equally beautiful day, smooth as silk. The breeze continued, the expanse of grass around them dancing in its hold, snakes under the sway of a tamer, whispering against pant legs and boots with the heady promise of adventure.

…apparently, I’m not yet immune to wanderlust.

Only time would tell if that was a blessing or a curse.

It – being the opportunist that it was - was out and about, back to its perch on Cael’s shoulder, paper claws digging into his coat to avoid slipping. Cael kept glancing at the bird on Ingwe’s shoulder, gauging the thing’s reaction, hoping he would notice before it decided to investigate Its motions further.

Is it watching me or watching It?

Not precisely enamored with the first idea, nor with the need to keep an eye on the bird, Cael snatched his familiar off of his shoulder, holding the struggling creature in his curled, inkstained fingers while he spoke, a mixture of casual and hesitant. “Ingwe, your…your bird, he’s quite t’creature.” He nodded at the bird, emphasizing his point. “Is he just a pet, or…somethin’ more?”

It had gone still, one leg kicking idly at his grip as he hurried to explain, still unsure of the proper etiquette regarding familiars and magic users, still not entirely used to being considered among those ranks.

“I only ask because it, ah, he’s been starin’ at me. Or,” He raised his hand, uncurling his fingers but keeping enough grip so that It wouldn’t be blown away. It probably would have painted a rather ridiculous tableau had anyone been around to observe other than the songbirds and the breeze: a tall, lanky, mottle-handed man with a tiny paper hare, asking questions as serious as could be about a bird.

“Starin’ at this.”

The tiny paper hare sat straighter in Cael’s sweaty palm, eyeless head high, almost as if challenging the bird to pounce. “An’ I’d just rather know which an’ why s’I know whether t’shove It back in Its box before It gets me pecked.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

The wind was in his copper-streaked black hair, the late morning sun was on his cloak-swathed back, and there was a bounce to his step that came from finally having set out upon the adventure. Ingwe was a city person at heart, having been born and raised in a bustling port town, but there was something liberating about having open grassland beneath one's feet and only the sky above stretching from horizon to horizon. Yes, he had to admit, this concept of freedom appealed to him mightily as well.

Hayate seemed also as if a massive burden had been lifted from his shoulders, the gyrfalcon occasionally giving a ripple of his proud plumage and a contented chirp. He didn't take to the skies like he usually did once out in the open, however, which surprised Ingwe somewhat; the great bird had to be weary of being constrained after spending nearly a week amongst the stony jungle that was Scara Brae. Piercing brown eyes took a keen interest in the growing mass of forest that stood between them and the looming heights of the Windlancer Mountains beyond, but more often than not they returned to Ingwe's newfound companion, studious and attentive.

A thousand questions burned in Ingwe's mind, longing to be asked and set free. They ranged from from Cael's clothing - where'd you get the robes? why do you wear them? do they have some special significance? - to the unwieldy naginata strapped to the man's back - how'd you acquire such a weapon? do you know how to use it? - and more besides. Yet the young Nipponese had never been an expert at conversation, especially at starting one of his own. He preferred instead to infer and deduce based on simple observation and subtle nuance. For instance, Cael... the robes were very similar to those worn by the aristocratic onmyoji, esoteric diviners, wizards, and alchemists under the direct influence of the Imperial Court of Nippon. His purported surname, Inkfinger, also supported the notion that he was, if not quite a practitioner of onmyodo, then a mage of a similarly obscure and cryptic branch of the arcane. Onmyodo was a highly ritualistic, highly secretive art under strict control of the Emperor, which meant that it was highly unlikely to have travelled the seas all the way to Althanas in any recognisable form... but that didn't mean that no similar magic existed, did it?

Just as Ingwe was pondering such thoughts, there was an uncomfortable rustle from his new travelling companion. Perhaps Hayate had been just a little too attentive in his inspection, for Cael now looked almost embarrassed as he presented... a paper hare...?

Instantly, the Nipponese's attention was riveted, and Hayate gave a smug, self-satisfied sort of chirp. I knew it, it seemed as if the falcon was saying, although the gesture earned him a brief glance from Ingwe that told him in not so many words to behave himself. A very brief glance, at that, for Ingwe was truly fascinated by Cael’s creation.

Origami, was his initial, delighted thought, referring to the ancient Nipponese art of paper folding. But the life imbued within what was supposed to be an inanimate object... they way it stood straighter on Cael's palm and stared Hayate down...

"Wow..." was the only word that Ingwe could manage out loud. Another set of a thousand questions raced through his head... how did you make it? did you use special paper? can he take other forms than that of a hare? is the magic in the paper or is it an intangible entity given form? Ingwe bookishly pushed his glasses up his nose as he resisted the urge to peer closer for a better look, completely engrossed in...

A sharp nibble on his upper arm brought him abruptly back to his senses. Where in the world had his manners gone?

"Pardon me," he apologised profusely, again smiling that sheepish smile and hoping that Cael would understand. "It's just that I haven't seen such a beautiful work of art since I left my homeland."

Come to think of it, the creature only served to support Ingwe's earlier hypothesis about Cael's profession. For had not the onmyoji been masters of such paper art as well?

"This is Hayate," the warrior-mage continued, indicating the snowy gyrfalcon perched on his shoulder. Ingwe offered his arm forward towards Cael, and Hayate took the hint, daintily and with somewhat ungainly steps making his way to Ingwe's wrist. Once there, the bird executed a small half-bow in greeting, wings spread wide for balance. If anything, it was even more precise and polite than Ingwe's had been upon greeting Cael.

"As you've clearly surmised, yes, he's my familiar." Ingwe withdrew his hand and gave the gyrfalcon a fond stroke along the ridge of his wings, allowing Hayate to preen himself importantly. "I daresay he's more intelligent than the usual falcon, but he won't go around attacking everything in sight that moves. Will you?"

There was an answering croon, a gentle noise from the proud bird that was steeped in mirth. Obviously, the answer was no; the subtle twinkle in Hayate's nearest eye put paid to the notion even as it continued to observe the paper hare with undisguised – and now quite professional – interest.

"So..." Did Ingwe dare to ask one of the multitude of questions that were by now rampaging within his mind...? Yes. Yes, he did.

"Does..." - he? she? it? How does one ascertain the gender of a paper creation, anyways…? - "... your familiar have a name...?"

Somehow, that felt almost meek and anticlimactic.

[Inkfinger]

"I call it It." Cael said, dryly, noting Hayate's familiar status even as he returned the bird's graceful bow with dignity. So Ingwe was a magic user, then. Not a big surprise - you couldn't really turn around without running into a magician of some form, these days. "It doesn't seem t'mind, an' hasn't given me anythin' else t'call it yet." And, given how much It loved to berate him, if it had a name that it wanted called by, It would have told him long before now. "An'...I honestly can't even tell y'what it is. T'way I understand it, they-" Meaning paper constructs in general "-aren't supposed t'have personalities."

Or be able to talk, for that matter.

He gave a wry smile. "Though, if y'seen this craft before? Y'might know more of my..." He had to search for the right word for a moment. "...talents than I d'myself." His master was the only other Ink Mage he had met - or heard of - and so far, his search for books on the branch of the arcane had proved useless. The blank stares from merchants and librarians were beginning to be somewhat frustrating - occasionally making him wish he could have been a weather mage or a necromancer or something more common.

It seemed to be enjoying the attention, scratching one jaunty ear with its back paw. Cael rolled his eyes, lifting his hand so the familiar could hop off onto his shoulder, where it continued it's unnecessary grooming. He didn't blame the familiar for basking in the attention - he rather liked it himself.

But Ingwe had mentioned his homeland, and now that Cael's attention had returned to the younger man, he saw the resemblance - Ingwe was at least fifty years younger than Cael's elderly master, but his dark, intelligent eyes were shaped the same, and the cut of his tunic was similar to the tunics Li always wore, though the colors were far different. I wonder, Cael found himself thinking for the hundredth time, whether Tan Li was his true name...

The more he learned about magic - the more he traveled himself - the more he suspected it wasn't, and the more he wondered who, exactly, had been teaching him for all those months. But there wasn't much he could do about that now. His old master's true name (and true identity) would have to be investigated later.

The issue of the familiars resolved, Cael resumed walking, steps measured to keep pace with his companion. He eyed the treeline that stretched out across the horizon in shades of green and brown-black, muddled and blurred by the distances between them. In all honesty, the thought of the forest was a little off-putting - open sky and open lands were so much easier to avoid ambushes in; and recent days had left him...not so much paranoid as more wary of ambushes in general.

Hopefully, he fingered the pens in his sleeve, moderately reassured by the naginata's weight on his back, Ingwe knows how to use those swords. That was one of the things he had always been taught - never carry a weapon you weren't prepared to use. And look at him now - hauling around a weapon he had barely any clue on how to use, other than which end to pick it up with. He let out a silent sigh as It stuck its papery muzzle in his ear again, fighting the resurgence of his doubts.

He shoved the hare back away, looking to his traveling companion. "S'where are y'from, then? Y'don't exactly seem native to Scara Brae, anymore than I am..." And what form of magic do you practice?

Small talk, to keep his mind off the forest.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Then Cael hasn't much idea about his familiar... It ... either?

The notion surprised the scholarly Nipponese somewhat, although on second thought it wasn't quite as unusual as it seemed. After all, Hayate had been a present from his old tutor as well, and he himself still didn't quite fathom the extent of the great gyrfalcon's abilities, so...

Ingwe hazarded another glance at the origami construct, who now seemed to be preening himself quite contentedly. The gesture reminded him of Hayate at his most self-satisfied, and it was difficult to stifle a small half-smile.

"I don't know that much about your magic... or at least, what I think it is. Onmyodo has always been a very secretive art in the land of Nippon. From what I gather, it's a combination of geomancy and astrology, using techniques like paper folding..." - Ingwe indicated It - "... and calligraphy for divination and alchemy."

A fresh breeze sprung up, this time blowing from the mountains to their fore. Instinctively Ingwe greeted it with a tentative mental probe, sensing the manifold different tales told upon the wind. Rock and stone, branch and brook... along with the slightest whiff of a malodorous fear, the barest hint of something rank and reeking that he could not quite place. A small, perplexed frown formed on his brow; the taint was there only for the briefest of moments before it disappeared, which caused Ingwe's forehead to furrow even deeper.

What was...?

But it would have been rude to go off into a scholarly trance in an attempt to decipher the source, especially of something that was most likely of little consequence in any case. Carefully Ingwe tucked away both the frown and the premonition, ready to be analysed at a later time. For now he needed to answer Cael's last question; it would have been equally rude to leave it hanging in the conversation.

"I come from the land of Nippon... it's a small group of islands far to the east, beyond the Great Sea, beyond Araby, beyond Cathay. The land of the rising sun, they call it. It's rumoured that you can head eastwards for all eternity from Nippon, and never come across any other land." Ingwe allowed a small, nostalgic smile to play around his lips at the mention of his homeland, and at the familiar legend - a child's story, for all truly educated scholars knew that the world was really a sphere, but an entertaining one nonetheless. The forested mountains, the picturesque rice paddies, the polite rituals of everyday life... somehow it seemed all so far away now. The smile lingered for a moment longer than Ingwe intended, the look in his eyes gentle and lost.

"My father was a Scarabrian explorer," he added as an afterthought, hoping that it would explain a few things as well as assuage the worst of Cael's curiosity. The warrior-mage remained carefully quiet about his motives... they were personal, as such, and he really didn't want to go into them yet. "Third son of a minor noble family, although it broke up soon after his mother's death... that's what sent him exploring in the first place."

Every word he spoke was matched by a footstep, and each footstep took them that much closer to the forest that had once just graced the horizon. Now, individual trees towered above them like barkhide giants, their thick branches like multiple muscular limbs reaching to obscure the sun high against their backs. There was a light, airy feel to their new surroundings still, the earth a thick loam beneath their feet, and though the trees thickened deeper against the mountains, Ingwe had little intention of travelling that way.

It should be just about...

... there. The trail as marked on his new copy of the Scara Brae Map, Moderne Valeena Edition was fairly easy to find, and thankfully it looked like it wouldn't be that easy to lose it either. Shallow wheel ruts, created by the caravan wagons from the nearby villages, created a discernible path amongst the root-strewn ground. Some of them were quite fresh even to his untrained eye, accompanied by footprints in the muddier parts of the track created by escorts on foot.

Ingwe paused for a moment to gather his bearings - primarily the direction of the sun, since it wasn't as if he'd ever been to this part of the island before. Then he spoke, indicating westwards with an outstretched hand.

"This way, until we get to the river nearby Sess-Teria. Then we turn north and follow the waters until the falls."

He paused again, and then decided that it was his turn to ask a question now.

"What about you?" he inquired, sparing a glance at Cael's robes and at the distinctive naginata upon the man's back. It was always difficult to jump to conclusions, but... "I daresay that you're not from the east..."

Something about the way Cael held himself, perhaps, or the manner in which he spoke. His bow, however, had been immaculate, so there was the slightest hint of a thoughtful pucker upon Ingwe’s features.

[Inkfinger]

Onmyodo… Cael’s thoughts began to wander, listening to his companion with half-an-ear, scribe-training letting him process the twin trains-of-thought simultaneously. No scribe worth his parchment couldn’t listen to someone and think completely separate – not if he wanted to stay sane after the twentieth variation of “Dear mother and father, I am fine here in the city…” Onmyodo. Nippon. The words sounded exotic and elegant, nothing at all similar to the tiny man who taught it. Me, performing geomancy and astrology and divination? Me? Right, and the sea is made of ink. He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the idea, though – maybe next time he looked for books, he’d ask by that.

A brush of new wind in his face drew him back out of his thoughts, sending It scuttling for his collar again, arranging itself between the fabric and the nape of Cael’s neck. Ingwe –in Cael’s peripheral vision - seemed to frown to himself, but by the time he looked the frown was gone. The glimpse wasn’t exactly reassuring, given his own malaise about the forest ahead.

Meh. He tried to brush it off, shifting his pack again. Could’ve been anything.

Ingwe’s wistful smile as he spoke was far more welcome than the frown had been – it made the young warrior look even younger, Cael noted before he looked back to the horizon. His thoughts were already wandering off a little, overlaying what he knew of his teacher with what he was learning. Didn’t Tan always have his tent facing East? Always practically worshipped the sun when we had it…always stayed silent when we talked about homelands, too. The puzzle pieces were…well, not falling into place, but they were mostly face-up now. He almost spoke up, almost asked if this Nippon had kites and firecrackers, but stopped himself from interrupting – for now.

The more he listened, though, the more he realized there was something Ingwe was leaving out, for all his story of origins and ancestors. Cael didn’t blame him – every man was entitled to hide a few things. He sure wasn’t going to tell his whole life’s story to him – mudslinging and libel and whatnot were awkward topics for conversation, generally. He wouldn’t begrudge his companion a secret or two.

I only hope they won’t turn out to be the bad sort of secret. He eyed the depths of the forest again, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. Nobody’d come looking for you, Caelric. Are you still sure this is a good idea? warred with Hey, at least there’s a path, right? for his primary mood – distracting, to say the least.

As such, he started at Ingwe’s question, dragging his gaze away from the looming trees, forcing his back straight, refusing to let himself slouch and slump like a spooked horse.

“East? Me?” He bit back a laugh before he decided against sarcasm, following Ingwe’s glance to the robe. Eh, guess he can be forgiven for the idea, if that’s really where Tan was from. “Not me, I’m afraid. I hail from t’North, from a little fishin’ village in an equally-little fiefdom in Salvar. S’called Gjovik – won’t be surprised if you’ve never heard of it, we’ve never done anythin’ interestin’ t’the world at large.” He shrugged, smoothing down the front of his clothes.

“The robe might be from t’east, though – I don’t know where my teacher got it, he just gave it t’me when I left.” He carded his hand through his hair with a sigh, leaving the golden strands sticking up erratically – the head of an overly-tall dandelion. “There’s a lot I don’t know about what I do, y’know? I thought I was nothin’ but a good scribe ‘til last year, thought I was never goin’ t’be a fighter, never goin’ t’do anythin’ other than write things for a gold piece or two, if I was lucky. And now…”

And now everything’s gone all topsy-turvy. Fighting and conspiracies and cliffs and magic…

It prodded him in the back of the neck again. There were times (like, for instance, now) where Cael suspected it could read his mind. Not precisely a reassuring idea – especially if it was true. If It could, in fact, pick up his thoughts, why did it let him get into trouble so damned much? Sadistic little papery thing.

He shook his head, smiling at Ingwe apologetically. “But now I’m ramblin'." Almost making a fool of myself, as usual. "West, right?" He desperately hoped it was west – though, if it wasn’t? There was an explanation for how he always ended up where he didn’t want to go.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Gjovik...

He had to admit, it sounded like just another small village amongst many... insignificant would have been harsh, but anything more would probably have been equally inappropriate. Although he did remember seeing it somewhere amongst his new maps whilst he'd perused them absently, on the coast of the northern country they called Salvar...

All of a sudden, his ramblings about his own homeland resounded high-horsed and pompous. Ingwe averted his gaze, embarrassed. Had he been just a little too enthusiastic? Should he have tried to play it cool and calm, instead...?

Ah well... he sighed to himself, tucking away in the back of his mind to be a little more circumspect next time.

Ingwe looked back up just in time to catch Cael's apologetic smile, and it was enough to make him warm to the older man a little more. For the first time in the two weeks since he had arrived in Scara Brae, he felt the beginnings of a friendship bloom.

"West it is," he replied, just a little too quickly.

Once more they set off, one foot in front of another in that endlessly repetitive routine undertaken by all travellers. The trees were all around them, but at least they didn't seem to press in on the mismatched duo; like silent sentinels they stood, content to maintain their distance and observe the trespassers amongst their domain... for now, at least. Visibility was good, rays from the noonday sun overhead filtering through the leafy canopy to litter the ground at their feet. The wagon track extended as far as the eye could see in both directions, winding its way like a slithering snake between the great trunks... oak, elm, birch, rowan, yew, cyper, and even the odd rarer tree that Ingwe had yet to recognise.

The longer Ingwe walked amongst the muddy traces, though, the more he sensed that something was wrong within the idyllic tranquillity. The songbirds were tentative, breaking out into only sporadic bursts of hesitant humming. There was little movement amongst the branches and the shrubbery, the forest animals even more timid than usual. The majority of their journey was spent amongst unnerving silence, a thick veil that hung heavily over the land like a funeral pall.

Hence it was that the more Ingwe travelled, the more he remained alert and wary, dark eyes flickering about behind his spectacles as they sought to keep a close tab on his surroundings. From time to time he would stand still for a moment, taking a subtle sniff from the air or licking his lips lightly as he mentally probed the vicinity. For a long while he neither saw nor sensed anything, but it was that very nothingness that caused him to grow steadily even more cautious.

"I don't like this..." he murmured, more for Cael's benefit than his own. "It's... far too quiet..."

One hand inched ever closer to his shoulders, hesitating for a moment near the hilts of his shortswords. Instead it reached out to stroke Hayate's feathers, the great bird echoing Ingwe's keenly observant disposition. A slight rise in the road ahead and an uneven cluster of gnarled grey-barked trunks obscured the next stretch of their route. Barely any light filtered down from the thickened canopy overhead, creating vast pools of impenetrable darkness that no human eye could hope to see into. It was prime concealment territory, the warrior-mage's instincts screaming Ambush!

A rustle in the shrubbery ahead confirmed the worst of his fears.

[Inkfinger]

Cael wasn't a master of travel, the elements or - most importantly - forests, but he was good at reading people. And Ingwe...well. Ingwe was not relaxed.

That wasn't any more reassuring than his frown had been.

Cael twisted an arm back to untangle the Naginata from his pack's straps surreptitiously, catching the tail-end of a block-letter sentence floating across Its’ mouth. ...so sure that's a good idea?

"No," he muttered back in Salvic, feeling the smooth-polished wood of the weapon's shaft against his stained fingers. "But when have I ever worked with good ideas?"

The paper hare seemed to think for a moment, its immobile face somehow giving the impression of eyes squinting. Good point. It conceded, text underlined for emphasis, before retreating again. Cael finally pulled the naginata to a point where it would be easy to slide free if needed, but left it there, not yet ready to admit his disquiet by fully drawing the weapon.

Ingwe's verbal confirmation that something was wrong was the last straw; camel's back broken, Cael reluctantly slid the naginata out, holding it more like a walking staff than a spear. "Joy." He grumbled, tone low - bordering on sardonic - as his fingers rubbed over the haft nervously. "And I don't suppose that's 'coz all t'little critters are takin' a na-"

The shifting in the bushes spun him around rather quickly, cutting his sentence short. Far too big to be any 'little critter,' and quite unwelcome in the otherwise still forest. His first instinct - in all, shameful honesty - was to turn tail and make his best speed back out of the trees. He shoved that instinct away, exchanging a momentary glance with Ingwe before he took a step forward, naginata extended -

Only to jump back with an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp when the bushes exploded in a flurry of motion, ducking back ungracefully just in time to avoid a quarterstaff butt to his windpipe. He thrust the still-sheathed naginata between him and the blur of wood, falling back to the path, careful to watch his back, 'lest he back into Ingwe.

The attack stopped just as suddenly as it had begun, and Cael blinked, eying the bushes. There was a new sound, like the rustling, but one that seemed to suggest furious conversation. He cursed his hearing - someone with better ears (Ingwe, perhaps?) would have been able to pick out the words - and watched the darkness, pale eyes narrowed, muscles tensing as the whispers seemed to stop, preparing for a renewed attack...

That didn't come. Instead, a thin, spectacled, clerk-looking man wielding the quarterstaff to come creeping out of the trees, staff held limp at his side. Cael backed up a few steps, suspiciously, but the three men following the first looked the same, barring the broad-shouldered man in the back. That one was clearly a soldier, and from the look of his face, he had no desire whatsoever to not fight.

This...isn't your typical ambush, then?

"Uhm. Hello?" He ventured after a moment of silence, one eyebrow raised. The man in the lead bowed once, face haggard with worry.

"We're sorry, you're not what we were expecting."

Cael exchanged another confused glance with Ingwe as the man waved his hand back towards the rise. He kept a careful eye on the soldier, but took the last few steps up the path to see through the trees...

And stopped, head tilted, scanning the trees. There was a small group of wagons there, a ragged bunch of equally-haggard looking folk, and a few very tired looking oxen. There was barely a person in the group without injury; the whole train looked as if they had been through a small war zone, bandages and slings, bruises and cuts very much evident.

"Well. Uh."

Gods this was not his element.

"...Ingwe?"

[Flames of Hyperion]

One of his tanto was conspicuously halfway free of its saya, while words of magic danced upon the very tip of his tongue. Hayate instinctively took to the skies for the safety and the advantage they provided, a feathery whisper of wings darting past Ingwe’s ears and beyond the interwoven branches overhead. But Ingwe was not a man known for rash action or impulsive regrets, and his mind was racing through the possibilities even as the bespectacled peasant stepped forth from the shrubbery.

“Goblins…?” he hazarded at Cael’s prompting, following the older man to a position from where he too could see the battered wagon train and the refugees that populated it. The numerous injuries and the muted terror written onto the faces only served to confirm his guess, the warnings of the evening before surfacing once again into his mind. It looked like Corvyn’s drunken rumour mongering had not been completely off the mark… for better or for worse.

“So?” barked the brawny man-at-arms who seemed to be the leader of the motley group, a sharp and harsh retort that echoed angrily amongst the forlorn shivering of the nearby trees. Unlike the quarterstaffs, hunting bows, and rusty farming implements wielded by his comrades, he carried an arming sword of reputable quality, accompanied by a heater shield bearing the heraldry of the local baron, Willian Valeena of Sess-Teria. A ragged, bloodstained tabard was worn over a full-body suit of chain mail, complete with a coif that leaked wisps of shaggy blonde hair. A strong nose that had obviously been broken more than once was perched above a prominent jaw, while an old scar formed a jagged crevasse across one cheek. Every inch of the man screamed “soldier”; it wasn’t too difficult to see how he had assumed command of this group of refugees. “You got a problem with that?” he growled, belligerently.

“Not at all!” Ingwe was quick to reassure him, raising his hands in defensive appeasement. The Nipponese blinked twice rapidly behind his spectacles, conjuring up his best impression of scholarly innocence. Experience taught him that it was never a good idea to get on the bad side of professional military types, since they tended to be both prideful and stubborn about getting their own way. He was rewarded by a dismissive grunt, almost as paternal as it was patronising.

“Well… since you are obviously not greenskins…” the first man began to speak, a faint weary smile creasing his haggard features. It was testament to how much he had been through that he found the notion even remotely amusing. “We hail from the village of Marinil. My name is Kurt.”

Ingwe automatically noted his speech as educated, cultured even. Probably a shopkeeper or a member of the clergy. The words seemed to tumble of their own will out of the man’s mouth, slowly at first but with increasing intensity as the tale went on.

“Four days ago, we received word from the neighbouring village of Taebreth that a large band of goblins had been spotted coming down from the mountains to the north. Of course, we prepared as best possible for the worst eventuality, under the instruction of Bregolad here…” – Kurt indicated the soldier, who gave a curt nod – “… who is in the service of Duke Girard, who in turn commands the local guardsmen.”

A heavy sigh from the largest of the three villagers who had followed Kurt out from behind the bushes. Obviously the story was not going to end well.

The bespectacled man’s voice grew dark and despondent.

“It was the night before last, when old Humphrey and his grandchildren managed to stumble through the hedges that separated our lands from theirs. How they managed to outrun the greenskin scum, I have no idea.” At this point Kurt spared a glance towards the nearest wagon, upon which huddled a grime-covered old man cradling two listless children to his side. “Barely had he managed to give the news that the villagers of Taebreth had scattered in the face of a goblin attack, when our own sentries gave word that the enemy approached. We’d practiced hard… we’d practiced well…”

“… but no plan ever survives contact with the enemy…” Ingwe murmured sympathetically. Kurt looked up in surprise, his pale eyes travelling from Cael to Ingwe and then back again, before nodding slowly.

“Exactly…” he whispered, his voice barely audible now. “Somebody panicked… the evacuation went to shatters... our inexperienced militia cracked under the pressure. I… I don’t know… what happened… to everybody…”

Ingwe remained politely silent as Kurt’s voice cracked and tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. Somehow the man managed to hold them in, wiping his face on a dirty sleeve and digging his feet into the loamy earth as if in defiance.

“We’re the few who managed to make it out. Most of us had to fight our way here. I can only hope… I can only hope…”

Another sympathetic nod was all that Ingwe could muster as Kurt once again fought back the tears.

[Inkfinger]

Cael shifted the naginata in his hands to a position more like a walking staff, keeping his distance from Bregolad and his sword. Professional soldiers made him nervous, without fail – all the more so recently, after Corone and the citadel debacle. The soldier’s growled answer to Ingwe’s simple question only truly made him feel more nervous, his stomach fluttering as if he’s swallowed a score of Tan Li’s conjured butterflies.

He couldn’t stand still during Kurt’s tale, pacing on the path as he listened. Maybe it would help their standing with the caravan – not that they necessarily needed help, mind, not with Ingwe being all charming and sympathetic – if he looked a bit more…alert. A bit more like – heavens forbid – a soldier, less like a scholar. His pale eyes flickered from the shaken, grimy man back to those in his charge, wondering who, exactly, Kurt had been before this disaster struck. He didn’t seem comfortable with the mantle of command, but he wore it well.

And it wasn’t a very nice tale he was forced to tell. Cael glanced towards the caravan every so often, looking at the people peering out of battered wagons, wide eyes fearful and worried – or dull and dead from shock. The exhausted trio on the first wagon – Cael trusted, from the way Kurt glanced at them, that these were the villagers who had raised the alarm. Humphrey and his grandchildren – looked the worst.

Poor kids…

Kurt continued, drawing Cael’s eyes back to him. Gods, but he looks like he needs a month of sleep. “How they managed to outrun the greenskin scum, I have no idea…” Desperation, probably… Cael answered to himself. Poor, poor kids.

It poked its’ pointy nose against Cael’s jaw, nudging him onwards. Cael cast a nervous glace Bregolad-ward before he shrugged his pack off, just enough to slide his notebook free. The soldier seemed more interested in Kurt and Ingwe, so Cael took a few long-legged steps towards the wagon, sitting down a few feet away, still listening to his traveling companion. He winced when Kurt’s story ended, knowing why the man’s voice had gone tight, strained. You can only hope…just keep that hope, sir, things work out so much better if you do. He didn’t stand – the man deserved some semblance of privacy, and he didn’t need another stranger gawking.

Instead, he sorted through his papers, fingers deft and quick, until he found a few sheets of dappled pink and blue. He hazarded another glance towards Humphrey and his charges, hands already working. The younger of the two children had been watching – he smiled, faintly...and she hid her face in her grandfather’s shirt.

Typical. His smile grew before he looked back to his work, ignoring the footsteps coming closer. Would’ve expected that reaction from Hemming or Heidi. The thought of any of his nieces or nephews in this situation stole the smile from his face, and he worked in earnest, even when Kurt and Ingwe and the rest joined him, still talking in tones too low to be heard by the wagons. Crease here, fold there, twist this little other bit…

By the time he finally looked up, there was a miniature flock of butterflies occupying the top of his notebook, and a little girl sitting two feet away, brown eyes wide. Her brother stood behind her in a young boy’s attempt at a fighting stance, eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing, mister?” The boy’s voice was shaky, nervous – not that Cael blamed the child in the least – and high. Cael looked past the boy to the boy’s grandfather, catching just a tired nod before he looked back to the boy with another small smile.

“Magic.” He answered, honestly, pulling one of the pens from his sleeve; pleased that the children had waited until this long (until the easy part!) to come watch. The residual ink on the pen nib was enough to sketch the same sigil five times, once per butterfly. The sigil glowed slate-gray for the shortest fraction of a second before fading away entirely, leaving living paper in its wake. Tiny wings unfurled, tiny paper limbs stretching out to explore the surface of his notebook.

The little girl's eyes went wide. Cael gathered the butterflies up gently, holding them cupped in his hands before he blew into them, sending the butterflies out into the air. The constructs fluttered around the girl, sending her dancing - giggling in delight - back to her grandfather to show him her multicolored halo of new friends. The boy just stared for a second more before he charged after his sister.

Eh, can't win them all, I guess.

Cael shook his head fondly before he turned back to the conversation, putting his pen back into its pocket in his sleeve.

"We were heading towards Sess-Teria," one of the others who had attacked them was speaking, leaning heavily on her quarterstaff. "Hoping to get out of the woods by nightfall, but with everyone so tired..." She had the harried, tired look that Cael usually associated with mothers and grandmothers, one broad hand on her forehead. "I think now, maybe if we're lucky, we'll be out before midnight. Hopefully not later..."

Cael paused, notebook halfway back in his pack, to look around the woods, with all the dark, leafy places; trying not to imagine just how easy it would be to ambush these people - again. He shivered, shoving the book back in, pulling the top flap closed.

Can't say I blame you, miss.

Kurt heaved a sigh, patting the woman on her shoulder. "I guess we'll find out, Livia. One way or another..." He looked to Ingwe, pale eyes hopeful. "I think...I think we would find it helpful, sirs," He glanced down to where Cael sat, struggling to put on his pack without standing. Oh, boy, here it comes. Cael thought, returning Kurt's warm smile though he was fairly sure what was coming next. "...If...if you could travel with us, at least until we're out of the woods?"

Bregolad snorted. Kurt rounded on him, eyes flashing. "What? We need every able hand we can find, and I am not too proud to ask for help when we need it!"

The soldier subsided, grumbling under his breath. Cael sighed - slightly and only to himself - before he reached out and grabbed the broad-shouldered man's belt, using it as a handhold to haul himself upright. Bregolad slapped his hand away with a grunt, but Cael ignored him, brushing dust from his robes.

"We aren't really that far from t'end of the woods." He said, making his uneven way to stand by Ingwe. He thought he felt Bregolad's eyes on him. He looked back at the soldier just in time to catch him look away, face stony. Huh, wonder what's got that one's knickers in a twist... He ignored him, continuing. "'s only a couple hours walk from 'ere, but that's not includin'," he waved at the ox carts subtly. "Injured animals and folk, so it'll probably take a few more hours for y'lot."

And a couple hours was a lifetime in a situation like this.

Bugger it all.

He finally reached Ingwe's side, leaning over the younger man's shoulder to breathe in his ear, words that he would rather not be saying but knew he should be.

"I don't know 'bout y'personal schedules an' whatnot, but I'm game if y'are."

[Flames of Hyperion]

Out of the corner of his eye, Ingwe caught the flock of bright butterflies given magical life. The delighted giggles of the young girl were a soothing balm to his mind as she, for a brief instant perhaps, forgot about the horrors she had just experienced. Even Kurt’s face lightened for a moment at the sound. The sustained scowl on Bregolad’s battered features notwithstanding, the Nipponese warrior-mage breathed a silent sigh of relief.

It’s good to know she can still laugh, after all she’s been through…

The scene brought back memories of wistful nostalgia, of a happier time when he too had been able to make little children laugh. Although, to be fair, even then most of the time he’d only been playing second fiddle to a true master… Yuka had always been more popular amongst the young boys and girls, and he’d been little more than her faithful sidekick. But even then…

Not now, Ingwe, a sterner voice reminded him, and he snapped back to reality just as Livia finished speaking. Even amongst the exhausted villagers, she looked exceptionally tired and haggard, a mere shadow of the matronly mother figure she must have been.

Kurt’s request came as little surprise given the direction of the conversation, and even before the words were voiced, Ingwe’s mind was made up. The young man closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the afternoon air, feeling it tingle tantalisingly at the back of his nose. There it was again, the slight chaotic taint upon the pine freshness of the forest… closer this time. In the skies above, Hayate remained quietly observant, gaze keen as the falcon attempted to pierce the thick canopy for traces of the foe.

Ingwe remained still for just a moment longer, feeling the winds of magic permeate his soul as if it were a paper lantern. When he opened his eyes once more, they were clear and filled with purpose.

"I don't know 'bout y'personal schedules an' whatnot, but I'm game if y'are."

He gave Cael a rueful, gentle smile.

“My personal schedules can lose themselves for all I care,” Ingwe replied in an equally breathy whisper, indicating the endangered refugee convoy with a nod. “If you’re willing, then that’s the last of my reservations gone.”

With a slight delicate bow, the Nipponese warrior-mage turned to once again address Kurt and Bregolad.

“If there’s anything we can do to help, we would be honoured to do so. I’m not a trained soldier, but I do have a few tricks up my sleeve, and I believe so does Cael here. Together we may be able to assist in holding off the goblins until you reach safety.”

Ingwe paused, blinked once in an owlish fashion as he noted the look of blossoming joy upon Kurt’s face, and then belatedly realised that he had yet to introduce himself.

“Please forgive my impoliteness,” he bowed once again, formally. “My name is Ingwe Helyanwe. I have travelled a long distance in search for something very dear to me…”

“You’re from Akashima, aren’t you?” Bregolad interrupted brusquely, giving Ingwe a dangerously perceptive glare. The younger man blessed his luck for his decision to purchase Arkakroth's Cross Continent Travel Journal & People I'd Like to Bludgeon in Scara Brae, and his foresight in skimming through most of the thick tome despite the author’s oft less-than-savoury tendencies. At least he knew what the man-at-arms referred to, and could answer truthfully without appearing confused.

“With regrets, I am afraid not,” he replied, “Although I am told that the customs and traditions of Akashima are very similar to those of my homeland. I hail from further to the east.”

Another brief pause, during which Bregolad’s scowl etched itself deeper onto his chiselled features and Kurt showed a flicker of scholarly interest in Ingwe’s words. The two other staff-bearers – the woman called Livia, and the big man who had yet to give his name – seemed disinterested in the pleasantries. In truth, Ingwe could not fault their indifference after all they had been through. He decided to press on quickly.

“My companion here is Cael Inkfinger. We were travelling together towards the Mountain Tear Falls from Scara Brae.”

Ingwe paused a third time to allow Cael to say a few words of his own in greeting, taking the opportunity to mentally probe the gentle breeze stirring the branches overhead. Benign… he thought to himself, relieved. And yet… just a hint… just a hint…

“We should probably move out as soon as possible,” he spoke up once more when the moment was right. “I do not sense any goblin presence nearby, but there is a strange taint upon the wind that I cannot quite place.”

To a scholar like Ingwe, the unknown was often far more frightening than any nightmare given form.

[Inkfinger]

It was a relief - at first - to be moving again, even if it was in a different direction than the one planned. There had been shivers running up his spine from the moment the little girl ran back to her grandfather – Cael only thanked whatever was watching that they’d waited until he was finished - to the moment Ingwe had said they should leave.

Who really knows how long it's been?

The carts added a new layer of sound to the traveling – the grunts and snorts of the oxen, the creaking, squeaking sounds of the carts themselves, the wordless cries of those in the carts who Cael had not seen, but were clearly injured. The new dynamic wasn’t entirely welcome. It made the chills worse.

They’d split off into pairs, one pair per cardinal wind. Or wind as near as they could estimate it with the sun both almost directly overhead (when they could see it), and the trees blocking it from view most of the time. Cael and Livia had south point, bringing up the rear... Cael had felt a strange mixture of relief and guilt when he wasn’t paired with Bregolad. The career soldier was at the north point, ahead of the caravan, and paired with Ingwe.

At least he’s where I can see him. Cael wasn’t entirely sure if that thought was about Ingwe or about Bregolad. His pack was slung back over his shoulder, but he kept the naginata - with its blade finally unsheathed and ready - swinging from side to side, loose in his hand. Perhaps a bit too loose, he admitted to himself. Livia kept sending him side-long glances when the shaft passed her shins. Nervous habits die hard.

There was nothing to talk about, this way. Livia was too brusque, too businesslike, and too...out of it. Shock, maybe? Maybe you should ask her how she's doing. Cael already missed the low murmurs of conversation from the way into the woods. At least then he’d had something to take his mind off of things. See if she's alright... He glanced over at her again - she was watching the road behind them, carefully, but the set of her shoulders...

"She's focusing so she won't have to think, Caelric," It said, block letters smudging at the edges. It gave the writing a sad tone. "Leave her be."

"Alright." He mumbled back in Salvic, barely over a whisper. "I didn't think my butterflies would work on her, anyway..."

He could still feel them on the edges of his mind: feel the slight buzz of the magic connection between them and him. He’d been assured that, in time, he would learn to hear things as his constructs heard them, to see through their eyes, but right now all he really could do was feel where they were.

The feeling kept moving from side to side of the caravan, like the little girl he’d set them was wandering from wagon to wagon – obviously as ill at ease as Livia was, now that the constructs novelty had worn off. Cael ventured a glance forward, but the carts blocked any easy view he might have had. Finally deciding that the safety of the caravan was probably more important right now, he offered some of the butterflies new instructions.

He closed one eye for a second, mentally peeling away three of the half-dozen butterflies and sending them flitting off into the woods. He caught the briefest glimpse of happily colored paper glowing in a patch of sun, and then they were gone from sight. The buzzing spread first in two - and then in four - directions, fading further into the background.

And so the hours – or at least it felt like hours; it may have, in truth, been less – seemed to pass, as slow as molasses, as long as an eternity. The trees all looked the same to him as they moved back the way he and Ingwe had just come from – he hadn’t taken enough time to really observe the trees, hadn’t bothered to attempt to affix landmarks in his mind, and now he was paying the consequences.

He was trying to decide whether or not he'd seen a particular tree to the side - it looked rather like an old lady with a cat - when one of the four directional butterfly-buzzes fizzled out. He barely noticed its absence in the wake of a flurry of green-brown skin dodging back out of view.

...something just moved. Cael wasn't the most observant person in the world - that he had seen it all was both a miracle on his part and a mistake on the part of whoever (or whatever, he thought grimly) was watching them. And it hadn't been his imagination: It, perched on his shoulder, was staring with its' eyeless face into the depths of the trees. Kind of like a pointer...

Livia had seen it too, he could see it in the way her eyes looked - she kept glancing, without trying to seem as if she was glancing. Cael swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the naginata. "You saw it too, then?" She broke the uneasy silence between them with a grimace. Cael nodded reluctantly. Livia's grimace deepened into a scowl. "Damn." Her voice was dry and steady, none of the fear in her face showing in her voice. "And here I was hoping I was seeing things..."

"Y'not the only one," Cael admitted, glancing off back into the woods. Another of the paper butterflies flicked frantically out of the canopy of leaves, spiraling down to land in a heap on his outstretched hand, one wing torn nearly to ribbons. Any other hint of motion in the trees was gone, its mistake long since realized, but the feeling it left in its wake...

Paper jabbed under his ear, painfully, and he looked back at It. "Tell the warriors." The noiseless words flickered and changed, the paper rabbit's ears raised to attention. "There are more, and they are watching."

Cael's eyes traveled to Livia, eyebrow raised in question. She'd apparently read the words as well, as she just nodded, veering from her normal path to catch up with wagons. "Do what the thing tells you!" She hissed back, catching hold of one of the wagon's tailboards and hoisting herself up with the ease born of habit. "We'll," She jerked a thumb towards the wagon's owners. "We'll keep watch."

Cael, really, could do nothing else. He shucked off his pack, dropped it over the boards at Livia's feet (adding the wounded butterfly, almost as an afterthought) and headed for the front of the caravan as fast as he could manage.

It still took what seemed like a second eternity to weave his way through the moving wagons, barely avoiding getting trampled by bone-weary oxen, feet unsteady on the cart-grooved path. His breathing was ragged by the time he finally reached the front, his bad leg twinging and nagging at the edges of his mind, in the spaces not occupied by magical butterflies. He was going to regret this in the morning.

If I survive that long.

"Ingwe!" He called out, low - loud enough to be heard by Ingwe and Bregolad, but not loud enough to be heard further than that. He was counting on the background noise of the caravan to block out his words to the goblins he now feared were following. If not surrounding. "Ingwe, there's somethin' in the woods, watchi-"

"Get down you bleeding idiot!" Bregolad's roared words were accompanied by a strong, rough, mail-clad hand grabbing his coat's shoulder in an angry fistful of silk, all but yanking him off his feet and shoving him - off balance - into Ingwe.

Cael let out a surprised yelp, dropping his naginata immediately out of reflexive fear - he didn't have the skill needed to avoid skewering Ingwe if he kept a grip on it - and scrambling away, instinctively aware that if there was a fight - Bregolad induced or otherwise - he wouldn't want to be tangled up with Ingwe. He rolled upright, gasping for breath and braced for blows that he wasn't sure were coming - and froze.

Bregolad had a crossbow bolt - crude, ugly-as-sin and black-as-night - sticking out of a ragged hole in his already-bloody tabard. Cael just stared, wide-eyed.

"That," It offered, helpfully, to no one in particular, "Would have gone right through your spine."

Cael found his voice in a weak gurgle, fumbling for his naginata and using it (once found) to lever himself to his feet. Unfortunately, finding his voice wasn’t the same as finding words. "Uhm. Uh. I-I. Uh. Th-"

"Shut it," Bregolad’s growl, if anything, was louder than it had been before he’d gotten shot. The only sign that he even realized that he had a four-inch long piece of iron embedded in his shoulder was the sudden shaking in that arm’s hand. His glare was just as bright as ever, right to the moment that he spun on his heel and charged for the meager cover of the caravan. "Shut it and move!"

The next seven bolts slammed into the ground mere inches from Ingwe’s feet in a straight, near-perfect line.

Cael moved.

[Flames of Hyperion]

A few moments earlier…

“What brings you this way, anyways?”

The words were directed towards a young bespectacled man with oriental features and a scholarly mien, deep blue cloak fluttering in the breeze as gentle dark eyes watched the gyrfalcon doing lazy circles in the patchy sky above. Bregolad had remained broodingly silent for the majority of their watch, preferring instead to concentrate on glaring at the looming trees that guarded their path; his companion had so far respected that silence, not being much of a talkative type himself.

“I mean… you both look like cultured, academic folk, after all…”

Ingwe caught a hint of something deeper in the suddenly spoken words, to the point where he felt he could almost understand what Bregolad was thinking. The man was a soldier through and through, distrustful of those who used their minds as weapons but at the same time somewhat envious of their powers. Why are you here? the grizzled veteran seemed to be asking him. What are your real reasons for helping us…?

“… we were on our way to the Mountain-Tear Falls,” Ingwe replied carefully, his eyes still fixed on Hayate above as the bird darted in and out of sight behind the thick branches. Something… something…

“Why?” The retort was quick and brusque, echoing sharply off Bregolad’s tongue. The leaves around them seemed to wince slightly at the over-loud noise.

“Looking for something,” the Nipponese warrior-mage answered after a pause, briefly looking away from Hayate to give Bregolad his most disarmingly polite smile. Thankfully the older man subsided, seemingly appeased.

Ingwe looked back to the skies, just in time to catch it again. There, he thought to himself as Hayate made yet another erratically random turn, banking hard to retrace his path. Again…

The forest was silent once more… far too silent. Something wasn’t right.

“Outlander!”

Bregolad’s voice was harsh and sibilant, and Ingwe was instinctively on his guard. The soldier hadn’t stopped his line of questioning because his curiosity was assuaged. The shrubbery at the edge of the path had just rustled, in a way in which no natural movement should have made them rustle, and even the inexperienced warrior-mage could not mistake the tip of metal spearhead poking out from one of the bushes.

***

Back to the present…

“It’s times like this I wish I’d taken further classes in woodsmanship…” Ingwe muttered to himself as a harried-looking Cael and his garbled warning joined them behind a fallen tree-trunk. But then she had always been the skilled one in that department, not to mention pretty handy with detection spells as well…

There was a shout, a lunge, and the next thing Ingwe knew, Cael was on the ground and Bregolad had an evil-looking bolt sticking out of his shoulder. Shocked, the warrior-mage chanced a quick glance towards the tree line, catching the barest hint of movement amongst the shadowy shrubbery.

Not good, was his instinctive thought.

A rapid series of seven dull thuds later, his assessment of the situation had clarified somewhat.

Not good at all.

He couldn’t tell if the shots had been intentionally fired to miss him, or if he had been uncharacteristically lucky. In any case, he had no intention of waiting around and finding out.

Cael was prudently high-tailing it for the more secure protection of the wagons, even as the villagers instinctively formed them up into a ragged circle and ducked behind their relative safety. Ingwe only waited to make sure that Bregolad was following the ink-mage before he too broke cover. Briefly, he considered setting fire to the log in order to provide a smokescreen to shield their retreat… but to do so would mean that he would have to let the fire run riot amongst the wood, and in the end that would probably be more dangerous to the slow-moving wagons than to the more mobile goblins. He could only bring himself to do so as a last-ditch resort… there had to be a better way.

Wish I had her running legs as well, was the next thought that ran through his mind as he half-scrambled, half-stumbled across the leafy forest floor, ducking low to maintain a low profile. Once or twice he nearly lost his footing amongst the hidden roots, scuttling along on all fours like some ungainly beast for a few steps before recovering equilibrium. After a heart pounding few seconds that may as well have been an eternity, he finally made it to the nearest of the wagons…

… but not before the next couple of crossbow bolts had fallen around him, one coming close enough to slightly graze his leg. A thin trickle of blood traced where the wickedly sharp head had torn through light cloth before embedding itself in the ground.

“Holy…” he breathed when he finally reached shelter, keenly aware that it had been a close call. His lungs heaved for fresh air, his heart pumping with adrenaline and his legs screaming for a rest. The general tumult caused by panicked loose oxen and wailing fearful children only added to the confusion.

“Keep down,” Bregolad growled unnecessarily, motioning with his good arm so that the rest of the villagers also got the message. The soldier still seemed to be ignoring the piece of metal in his shoulder, and everybody else had been intelligent enough not to point it out to him. The village priest would see to the wound later… for the moment, it was best left well alone, despite the crimson red that was beginning to seep through the tabard.

Ingwe nodded in reply, knowing that the goblins were most likely reloading their weapons and fanning out to surround the wagons completely. Another volley or two in order to force them to keep their heads down, and then the greenskins would probably charge in for the kill.

Or, if they’ve got enough ammunition, they can keep firing away at us until we end up like hedgehogs…

In any case, basic tactics stated that the defenders had to take the initiative… but how…? Brow furrowed in concentration, Ingwe pondered their current predicament.

Thunk!

To his right, wood splintered as yet another crossbow bolt made contact, very nearly punching through the side of the wagon. Similar solid impacts and high-pitched yelps of surprise told him that the same story was repeating itself all down the line, with one or two more concerned screams where metal had come into contact with flesh and a bellow of pain from a badly wounded ox. Only Bregolad’s repeated roar of “Keep down!” held the villagers in position, and even the grizzled veteran was rapidly losing the strength from his voice.

Ingwe knew that they had to do something, and quickly. So far, though, he had only come up with two plausible plans, and one of them involved a nigh-suicidal charge across open ground.

Darn it.

Out of options, the Nipponese warrior-mage turned to Cael, and uttered two simple words.

“Draw something!”

[Inkfinger]

Cael stared at the younger warrior with wide eyes. "Draw someth-It doesn't work like that! It's...it's all little critters an' traps that last mere minutes an'..."

He thought for a moment, looking down at his hands. His naginata was the only thing he had, his pack still in the opposite end of the caravan. He'd have to go in the open air to reach it - no thanks! But the idea of getting shot down while doing something as innocent as getting his pack - or as innocent as living, his mind offered at the newest yell of pain, had his face suddenly harden into something that almost felt strong.

"...an' I don't have paper. Or ink." He pulled the pen from its spot in his sleeve, brandishing it almost as fiercely as a typical warrior might wield his sword. "But if y'can fix that..."

Ingwe paused for a moment, looking as if he was thinking - perhaps a second too long, because a panicked villager shoved a battered, mostly-blank journal into his hands before the Nipponese could really move. Cael nodded his thanks to the villager, flopping down on the ground to peer between the wagon wheels, barely noticing that Ingwe followed, pawing through a travel pouch.

This was truly out of his league, Cael found himself thinking; he wasn't a warrior, for the sake of all things holy, he was a scribe. He wrote things down and sometimes they were true. He wasn't supposed to have to come to the defense of villagers and their livestock! This wasn't right. This wasn't sane, and it really wasn't safe.

It bounded off his shoulder to perch on one of the wheels, ears cocked, head tilted. "What are you thinking?"

Cael returned it's eyeless stare, frowning, as he set the pen down on the ground, carefully, tearing one of the rough sheets of paper out of the journal. "I don't know, y'tell me." His fingers flew over the paper, hurriedly creasing it into a crane. "I give paper cuts and heal things and make shiny butterflies," He glanced over at Ingwe, his voice dropping to a low, desperate hiss. "How t'bloody hell am I supposed t'be any help?" he set the first crane down and started on the next, work a little more haphazard than usual. He supposed it was forgivable. "I shoulda tried t'pick up somethin' else. Been a normal mage, fire an' brimstone an' lightnin'..."

"Ooh." Was It's only reply. "Don't let Bregolad hear you talking like that..."

Cael was trying to think of something witty and biting to snap back at the familiar when Ingwe's waved a hand to catch his attention. He moved his gaze from the impudent paper creature to the other man's eyes, almost flinching at the determination he saw there. "Will this work?" The warrior held out a inkwell with an small, frazzled smile, and Cael felt a pang of conscience. It wasn't like this was Ingwe's fault, and he'd suggested they stay as well...

He took the inkwell, hiding a grimace at the liquid sloshing around in the bottom. It wasn't his inkwell, so the effects wouldn't be as good, but it was better than nothing, and would probably last until they could get to his pack. Maybe. Hopefully. He reached out at grabbed his naginata, pulling it to his side.

"It'll work. I'll just owe you clean ink..." He grimaced again, apologetically, his hands working as he spoke, carefully drawing the razor-sharp steel of the naginata over an old, shallow scar on the heel of his hand. Blood welled, alarmingly vivid against his pale skin, but he looked back to Ingwe instead of staring at it.

"So tell me, Ingwe," he spoke, loud enough to be heard over the chaotic sounds of the caravan being bullied and reshaped into something a tad bit more defensible. "W-what can you do?" He raised his eyebrows as he let the blood drip into the inkwell, ignoring the familiar, burning sting. "I mean, these," he flicked the fingers of his non-bleeding hand in the direction of the unmarked blade-cranes. "Those...I'm not too good at yet. They only cut about...well, like this." He pointed at the incision on his hand. "They aren't goin' t'be much good on their own..."

[Flames of Hyperion]

Musky fear lay heavy in the air, its taint sending the pack animals into frenzy as they snapped their tethers and instinctively broke for the nearest cover. The glades rung with the hollered cries of the goblin war band, interspersed with more human, more frantic shouts as the villagers desperately attempted to mount a defence. Bregolad’s orders were simple and direct and obeyed without question, the black-fletched bolt protruding from his shoulder wound giving his bellows that much more authority. The village priest was by his side now, tutting over the injury whilst simultaneously attempting to keep his brown-frocked frame behind the safety of the wagon.

Ingwe chanced a glance over the side of the wagon, in time to catch faint flashes of movement scurrying towards them through the dense brush. Some from the front, some from the rear, but mostly from the thickly packed trees to his right… he flinched and quickly ducked back down again as another flight of bolts was loosed from beyond.

The heavy thunks as they impacted into earth and wood were enough to convince him that the risk of burning down part of the forest would probably be preferable to allowing the caravan to be massacred.

But what can I…? My magic doesn’t extend to…

He shook his head and cleared his mind. He had to do what he could.

“Hurry, Cael,” he urged, quite unnecessarily, trying to keep his voice kind instead of strained as he poked his head beneath the wagon to where the ink-mage was taking shelter. Ingwe frowned slightly at the paper cranes; they weren’t quite what he was expecting, but with a little luck and innovation, perhaps…

By the time he rose once more above the side of the wagon, arm outstretched towards the tree line and fingers splayed wide, the rough sketch of a plan was beginning to coalesce in his mind.

“Reppudan!” Ingwe invoked, his free hand bracing his wrist as he channelled power into his open palm. A stormy, swirling ball of power answered his call, winds of magic controlled by his mind and projected from his hand. The Nipponese warrior-mage held it there for as long as he dared, guiding as much force into the spell as he could.

Now! his instincts screamed, and he obeyed without question, loosing the arcanic projectile and ducking back down behind the wagon. And not a moment too soon, either, for a black-fletched thunderbolt ripped through the space where he had been standing and embedded itself solidly in the wagon opposite. He was too busy taking cover to follow the well-aimed magic missile as it skimmed across the wavy grass, but a moment later he was rewarded with the resounding crack of splintering branch and faint squeals of surprise from the concealed goblin arbalesters.

Maybe that’ll buy us a bit of time, he hoped. At least, enough time for…

Ingwe turned his attention back towards Cael, wincing at the crimson that welled from the older man’s hand. With power comes sacrifice, he remembered the words of his sensei of yore. It was not the first time he had seen mages use their own blood as an ingredient for spell-making, and no doubt it would not be the last.
“Can you control them somewhat…?” he asked, similarly indicating the paper cranes as they almost languidly awaited their master’s command. “Perhaps get them to move as one, seem a bit more threatening than they are now…?”

The Nipponese reached out to touch the nearest, one finger elongated to caress the coarse parchment. What he needed to do was a simple application of an even simpler cantrip. The small surface area of the origami creation would not make it an easy task, and the large number of cranes would further complicate things, but if he concentrated hard enough…

“Because if you can, then I can do…”

Ingwe’s brow furrowed in focus. And the crane burst into bright flame, flickers of dancing fire that held themselves just above the surface of the paper, close enough to hug the construct’s form but without harming the delicately balanced folds.

[Inkfinger]

“I control them, yeah,” Cael eyed the burning crane with a mixture of suspicion and admiration before he waved his pen at the other ones. “They move as one, an’…well.” He picked up the closest, neatly sketching the conjoined symbols for life and blade on the rough paper, bringing the thing into a simulacrum of life. He felt a tiny pang of remorse as the last butterfly, back with his pack, fizzled out of existence. “They’re a weapon on their own.” The blade crane flapped its wings, taking to the air clumsily in the butterfly’s stead. Cael kept an eye on it, watching it wheel about beneath the cart before he drew the next appropriate symbol on the notebook.

The crane’s wings seemed to transform, elongating into grey glowing lines of light as it picked up speed, flying into the wagon’s wheel and leaving six small slash marks in its wake. Cael nodded, and dipped his pen back in the inkwell. “’s not big, but maybe if we keep sendin’ ‘em out in groups they’ll get somethin’ done. Or, at the very least make t’folk out there,” He nodded towards the woods, “Think we’re jus’ goin’ easy on ‘em or something.” What good, exactly, that would do was beyond his grasp, but it might help.

Ingwe nodded, dark gaze varying between watching Cael work and watching the woods. Cael felt a rush of relief that his stupid plan wasn’t laughed at outright, and set about making as many cranes as he had the paper for. He’d only be able to animate six at a time, true, but he could sure as hell build up a reserve to slap the symbol down on soon as one bit the dust…

He had a pile of twenty-six cranes by the time he ran out of paper. It wasn’t near as many as he would have preferred, and they looked a far cry from his normally precise, patiently assembled constructs of delicate paper. The villager’s journal’s paper was thicker, coarser and harder to fold, and every now and again he had to pick one up and re-crease a wing or two, but all in all he felt rather pleased with himself.

“Alright, I think I’m-” Cael finally spoke, but when he looked up, it was to realize that he was alone again. He could see Ingwe with Bregolad now, huddled three wagons over and debating something animatedly.

Cael gathered the cranes up, stuck his pen in his mouth, the book under the crook of his arm, and darted to join the two warriors; each second convinced he was that very second away from being mown down in a wave of crossbow bolts. Bregolad pulled him behind the wagon, and he had to flail to keep the cranes from getting smashed.

“Ingwe,” the soldier said with no preamble, speaking the name with begrudging respect, “was telling me about this plan of yours…”

Uhoh, Cael thought, watching the only marked-and-complete blade crane flap behind the wagon as well, perched to watch Bregolad talking. It was only then that Cael realized that It had transferred Itself while he’d been working. He frowned at the crane. It just ruffled its nonexistent paper feathers with the general feeling of an invisible grin. He bit down on a stressed giggle, and listened to Bregolad’s grumping about the plan.

The soldier seemed poised to go on forever, but Ingwe interrupted him with nigh-self-deprecating politeness. “Look, I really do believe this will work…you just have to give us the time to make it work.”

Bregolad looked at the younger man – but then looked further, eyes focusing over Ingwe’s shoulder. His sudden stillness made goosebumps rise on Cael’s flesh.

“We might not have that time.”

The question – what do you mean? – died on Cael’s lips as he heard the eerie yells rising from just behind the trees. Bregolad cursed, drawing his sword and waving them into the protective circle of the wagons just in time before the next salvo of crossbow quarrels smacked into the wood.

“Why d’you think they’re doing that?” Cael hissed to Ingwe, crouched beside a wheel. He could just glimpse the treeline beneath the low-slung wagon bottom, and see flashes of green limbs moving closer, slowly. “They can’t honestly think they’re goin’ to be able to shoot ‘round the wagon…”

“No,” Ingwe answered, watching like Cael was, dark eyes flickering, made even darker with concentration. “But they can keep us down that way…” There was a panicked yell from the other side of the caravan, and Cael started to crawl backwards from where they were sheltered. Ingwe shook his head before Bregolad grabbed his arm, holding him in place to growl, irritably.

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

“…won’t they need help ove-”

“If we move from here,” Bregolad ground out, speaking low and slow, as if talking to a child, “they’ll get in from here.” Cael resisted the urge to make a face at him, just to cover his sinking feeling that he really wasn’t cut out for this. “We just have to trust that they’ll be able to hold their side as well as we can.” The last word was said with another doubtful glance at Cael. “Or better.”

Cael bit back an annoyed growl before turning to Ingwe, trying to ignore the soldier’s gibes. “Alright.” He dumped the cranes out on the ground, sorting out the five that had held their shape best and scribbling the correct sign on each wing. “We’re going to have to work fast, these don’t…” He trailed off before grimacing, apologetically. “I told you that already.” He reached up and caught It out of the air, looking down at the familiar. “Do you mind?”

“Don’t do anything dumb,” flickered across the open beak in blocky Salvic letters before the life seemed to fade from the crane. Cael sketched a different sign over the life-sign before setting the crane – now merely a weapon – with the rest. It shifted its wings, but with only a flicker of the animation that It had.

He had just coaxed them into the air when Bregolad tensed again, cracking his neck.

“They’re coming.”

Cael’s thin lips twitched into a wry smile as Ingwe seemed to focus on the cranes. Slowly, in a series of lights that seemed to dance with joy for their very existence, each crane burst into flame. “That,” he said decisively, mentally speeding the flickering cranes out towards the oncoming goblins, “is what they think.”

He couldn’t see the cranes from where he crouched with the others, but he could feel them moving on the edges of his mind. He traced the second symbol, the command for the blades, onto a scrap of paper before instructing them to dive –

He couldn’t see the cranes from where he crouched with the others, but he sure as hell could hear the chorus of startled yells from the other side of the wagon. He could hear the yells – and one loud explosion. He exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Ingwe before they turned as one to look at Bregolad.

The more experienced warrior just shrugged, unapologetic. "They must have taken the powder stores with them."

"Powder stores," Cael returned, deadpan, already sketching the signs on the next flight of cranes, though one or two were miraculously still flying. One of those flickered out at the same time he heard another goblin shriek. "And...you didn't mention it to us why?"

"Didn't think they'd bring it with 'em." Bregolad countered. Cael just shook his head, stuck his pen in his mouth and worked on animating the cranes. Maybe they had a chance now.

Maybe.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“You might have told us about this a bit earlier…” Ingwe muttered, more to himself than to Bregolad. He’d heard of black powder, of course. Who hadn’t? But it was his first time seeing it in person… and who would have expected?

Then it hit him. He was a fire mage. The goblins were making away with the village’s powder stores. One plus one equalled…

“We use them to help mine…” Bregolad was explaining, feeling the need to assuage the dark looks he was receiving from both adventurers, when the same idea hit him as well. Blue eyes went blank as the soldier revelled in all its glorious simplicity. There was no guarantee it would work, of course – powder was notoriously unpredictable and volatile – but with any semblance of luck the cowardly greenskins would catch such a fright that they would flee in terror. “Oh.”

“Cael, cover me please,” Ingwe said, breaking cover to risk another glance towards the treeline. He was able to form the beginnings of a plan in his mind before his body decided that it had waited enough for some enterprising goblin sharpshooter to hammer a three-foot bolt through his head. “If you could distract their crossbows for a short while…” – he indicated the cranes, upon which the inkmage was once more scribbling his hasty symbols – “… I should be able…”

His voice trailed into nothingness, senses alert elsewhere now. Bregolad squatted by him with naked blade in hand, sending anxious glances now and then to the other side of the caravan. From the sound of things, the goblins were getting very close.

But both experienced soldier and tensed warrior-mage caught within the goblin warcries the barest hint of hope… the slightest tremolo of uncertainty and fear, exposed now and ripe for feeding.

The first explosion shook them…

Cael released the next batch of cranes into the air.

… will the second now break them?

Ingwe breathed a few more heartbeats before taking action. Swiftly he darted through the gap between the wagon they sheltered behind and the next, rolling nimbly to his feet and bringing up his right hand, fingers splayed wide open before him. Swiftly he took aim.

No, not them… he decided, ignoring one of the distinctive powder barrels with at least four goblins clustered around it, trying to haul it to safety. His intent was not to bring vengeful wrath upon the caravan, but to scare the goblins away. For that, he had to choose… That one.

The barrel in question had already been hauled to the treeline, and was now sitting pretty under the hungrily inspecting eyes of what seemed to be the goblin’s leader, an obese monstrosity with a paunch that extended to the ground and dragged along behind him as he walked. The greenskin seemed to be waving a long staff adorned with meaningless trinkets, furs, feathers, and other random assorted items at the barrel, cackling with glee at his prize.

Ingwe braced his right hand with his left and sighted carefully. He had only one shot at this before the swarm of goblins caught on and overwhelmed him. He had to make it count.

The trees behind the leader seemed to erupt in agonised screams, and the goblin in question took two steps away from the powder, shrieking orders in unintelligible gibberish at his troops.

“Kaendan!”

A fist-sized fireball erupted out of Ingwe’s palm and streaked true towards its target.

[Inkfinger]

He’d never really felt more efficient, preparing the next row of cranes even as he felt the last flight disappear in a series of sudden, sharp shocks, no doubt sniped out of the air. Paper didn’t stand a ghost of a chance against iron or steel, but it didn’t really need to. It just needed to distract the shots from Ingwe’s infinitely more vulnerable flesh and bone.

And, despite the sensation of the paper-lives winking out, it performed its role admirably.

The explosion that followed Ingwe’s loud cry was close enough to litter the wagon with splinters of wood, twigs and leaves blown from the trees. Cael couldn’t hide the dazed grin that threatened to split his face. Bregolad just stared at him, as if he’d gone mad.

“What’s got into you?”

“Nothin’! Just…” Cael bit back a tired laugh, rubbing at his eyes. “Just now we know why they’re even botherin’ to attack. They want the wagons.”

Ingwe returned in a scrabble of feet on the loose dirt and stone of the path, grinning just a bit. Cael couldn’t hide the return of his own grin.

Bregolad shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why,” he growled, once Cael had repeated his theory to Ingwe, “Is that a good thing?”

“Because,” Cael snapped back, “between knowing what they want and scarin’ ‘em, we might just get out of this without getting shot between the eyes.” He glanced towards the woods, launching the next wave of birds out. A series of eerie, but clearly distressed, yowls rose from behind the trees. “And I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a good thing.”

He shoved his pen between his teeth and hopped up on the cart wheel while the goblins were distracted by the birds, holding onto the supports that held the canvas cover in place and using them to drag himself up on top, balancing precariously to scan the caravan below.

There wasn’t a single wagon without a crossbow bolt embedded in the wood, or a shredded cover, or both, but Cael didn’t really care about the wagons. The wagons and carts were just things. Things could be replaced. He was (in the part of his brain he could wrench away from thinking get your head down before you get killed!) looking at the oxen.

Despite the angry, pained lowing, he could only see three that had been struck. None that had been struck had been hit in vital areas. The rest of the din seemed to be coming from the others in simple, sympathy bellows. Blue eyes scanned the whole of the small group of wagons, but he was already confident that what he thought was the truth.

The last buzz of a crane sizzled out of his mind as he dropped from the support. A crossbow bolt sank into the wood, narrowly missing his hand, but he barely noticed this time. He pulled his pen from his mouth, and muttered to Ingwe.

“They’re not trying to hit the beasts.”

“Well, then.” Ingwe said, standing slowly, “Maybe we should just give them what they want…” The three warriors turned to look towards the back to the caravan as one man. Bregolad finally gave a curt nod.

“Do it. I’ll hold them here.”

-

There wasn’t time to ask permission, really, but Cael felt as if he’d better do so anyway. They slunk through the circled wagons, and picked the cart furthers out from the rest. Ingwe started to pull the few meager boxes of supplies from the back, while Cael crept down the line of defensive villagers.

“’s that your wagon, then?” He asked the first man he came across, a capable looking fellow with a shaved head, a long read beard, and a firm grip of his harvesting scythe. He rather hoped it was. Then he could get back and help…

The man glanced towards it briefly, nodding, before his brown eyes trailed back to the treeline. “Aye,” was all he said, shifting his grip on the rough wood of the scythe. Cael pressed the last handful of coins from his pack into his free hand.

“Sorry about this, then.” And he was, really: it was a nice cart, sides carved in intricate designs – patterns of blessing, invocations of wealth and health and good fortune, carved with skill and polished smooth, the golden wood silky with care.

The coins were shoved back into his hand roughly, the villager glancing at him with a skeptically raised eyebrow. “Naw, keep it. ‘s a cart. I can make another – can’t make another wife, nor kid, nor friend. Do what y’have to.”

Cael shoved the coins back into his pocket with a clumsy startled bow before he hurried back to the now-empty wagon. Ingwe had loosened the reins, but the oxen were fighting him, stubbornly refusing to move. Cael placed his hands against one muscular shoulder and shoved. The massive beast took one step in the direction he had pushed before its great head came ‘round to glare, horns gleaming in the light that filtered through the trees. Cael gulped before the ox turned on Ingwe, taking another step forward and pawing the ground with one dinner-plate sized hoof. It snorted, eyes flashing dangerously, and this time it was Ingwe who took a step back.

The whole situation was ridiculous. We’re surrounded by goblins with crossbows, and we’re going to get killed by an angry cow?

“Hai! Ufstan! Leave ‘em alone.” The voice was calm, but full of authority. The ox stilled, immediately, its yokemate still standing calm, as if it hadn’t been being dragged forward by its more temperamental partner. The villager stood behind Cael, shaking his head. “City boys,” he scoffed, taking the reins from Ingwe’s unresisting hands. “Y’just gotta know how to shift ‘em.” He slapped the larger ox on the shoulder, and the beast obediently turned, lumbering off the path and towards the trees. The original owner only followed a few steps before he let go. “That what you needed?” He asked as the three hurried back into the protective barrier of the remaining wagons and carts.

“Yeah.” Cael said, softly, fingering the loose coins in his pocket. “Are you sure you don’t want paid? Those were good bea-”

“Tell y’what.” The villager stopped, eyes flashing much as the ox’s had, but the smile on his face made it seem more like humor and less like a threat. “If we die, yeah, I’ll hunt y’both down in the afterlife. We stay alive, I figure y’don’t owe me a thing.” He rejoined the ranks of villagers. Cael shifted to look at Ingwe.

“Hmm. Right. Guess that means we better hope they take the cart…”

[Flames of Hyperion]

He could have sworn that a gyrfalcon’s laughter echoed in his ears as he backed away from the suddenly obedient oxen. The villager’s derision stung just a little, but Ingwe was much too concerned with other things to pay his ego much heed. After all, it was true; he was no more than a simple city boy.

By the time he and Cael returned to where Bregolad stood guard, the goblins had regrouped somewhat and crossbow bolts were hailing down thick and fast once again. How the wagons still stood sturdy amongst it all, Ingwe didn’t quite fathom, but he was certainly glad of their solid support now more than ever.

“Done,” the young man indicated, needlessly waving a hand at the unyoked oxen, the immobile carts, and the cluster of villagers shouldering supplies and what meagre belongings they had decided to salvage. Ingwe fought to suppress an inappropriate grin as he noticed that the ox that had given him so much trouble – Ufstan – was calmly chewing on some cud not spitting distance from the treeline that housed all the goblin sharpshooters. “We’ll need to distract them again to buy enough time for an escape, though…”

“’tll need to be something bigger than last time, ‘swell,” Bregolad pointed out, tapping the flat of his sword against his knee and scowling at the metal. Ingwe understood his point almost immediately; it was unlikely that the greenskins, no matter how cowardly, would fall for the exact same trick twice.

A brief pause of thought, punctuated by the whistles and heavy thuds of more bolts and an ever-growing sense of tension criticising their inaction. Ingwe was about to give up and suggest blindly rushing the goblin lines when a sudden thought struck him. If one explosion was not enough, how about…

“Too bad I’m out of cranes,” Cael murmured from beside him, but Ingwe’s mind had already leapt ahead. If he could somehow find a way to cast and manipulate more than one fireball at once… if he could somehow find a way to create both a distraction to draw the attention of their foes and a smokescreen to disguise their retreat…

He glanced down at his palm, frowned and focused. His mastery of the arcane was not yet such that he could cast spells at every fleeting whim, nor could he simply create reality out of thought. But if he concentrated hard enough… after all, a single spark would be more than enough…

“Ingwe…?” somebody spoke, but the voice passed over his pounding head like a breeze skipping past unmoving stone. His peripheral vision briefly hovered and fixed on the faces in the crowd; Kurt, carrying a large haversack of food over his shoulders and gamely trying to remain calm in the face of danger… Livia, marshalling the villagers on the other side of the wagon circle with barked orders remarkably reminiscent of Bregolad… the young girl from earlier, clutching to her chest in a tightly clenched fist the last of the butterflies that Cael had animated for her earlier. In her pale face, so young, so resolute, Ingwe saw an echo of a ghost from his past, something that he had failed to protect and lost as a consequence. Something that, even now, drove him ever onwards.

Reality and memory snapped into place within the confines of his mind, accompanied by the sound of a mental barricade crumbling to pieces. One by one, flickering flames danced into existence upon the tips of the fingers of his right hand, mere droplets of candlelight compared even to the fireball he had cast earlier, but more than enough for his purpose.

After all, even the smallest of sparks can set off the mightiest of explosions.

Sweat trickled down his forehead as he fought to keep the fires burning, his face contorted in agony as unfamiliar power surged through his mind. But by now, Ingwe was certain that he could do this. And that was all that mattered.

“Bregolad, get everybody ready to move,” the Nipponese warrior-mage managed, his voice hoarse and singed from the depths of his throat. “Cael, I need you to go with the vanguard to help break through their lines… Hayate can show you a safe path clear, and the outposts of Sess-Teria should not be too far to the west. Stick together… be careful.”

The young man waited a few more moments while the activity swirled around him, torrents of raging water assaulting the tranquil rock in the middle of the river. He waited a heartbeat longer, until he was confident that he could maintain the form of the small petals of fire even after they left his fingers.

Then he leapt out into the hail of arrows, heedless of his safety as one flashed in front of his eyes and a second struck a shallow trail across his left arm. Bracing his right hand with his left once more, he took careful aim with both body and mind. Then his cry of power echoed throughout the crisp forest air.

“Housenka!”

A barrage of five blossoms of flame left his fingers, darting, weaving, and blazing their way towards their respective targets.

Moments later, a deafening explosion shook the land, and the clearing was buried under a heavy pall of dense smoke.

[Inkfinger]

“…me? Vanguard?” Cael was about to protest, but Ingwe was gone too quickly. Something about the younger man’s stance spoke of trouble. Dangerous trouble.

Cael couldn’t do much about it. He reclaimed his pack from the wagon where he’d had to abandon it, sliding the villager's empty journal into it and drawing his notebook out instead. His pre-cut origami paper beckoned - a few quick folds later, and a non-animated blade crane lay waiting and ready in the palm of his hand.

Bregolad reached out and snagged one of his pack’s straps, dragging him forward, but the action was free of malice. “C’mon, paperboy,” the soldier said, almost grinning. “We’re getting there.”

Lovely, Cael thought, sketching the correct symbol on the crane as he followed Bregolad’s broad shoulders, then – once he was certain that the ink had vanished – he struck one hardened wing into his mouth and bit down, straightening his gloves nervously before taking his naginata back in hand.

Tan Li had been good with this spell. He could have controlled a whole flock, multiple blades of a multitude of colors, a huge dangerous spectacle like juggling massive shards of glass.

His blades…

Well. Best not to worry about that. It looks flashy. That should be enough.

It would have to be enough.

Stress seemed to make time stand still, and the woods spread before them as wide and impassable as they were behind. Cael plodded along wearily, just putting one foot in front of the other, over and over and…this was far less exciting than he had thought it would be. It mostly consisted of what felt like walking forward at what felt like a snail’s pace, jumping at shadows and wondering at what Ingwe was doing…

Someone tugged the hem of his coat, almost shocking him completely out of his skin. He spun on his heel, swinging his pack as a makeshift weapon –

Only to pull up short when the perceived assailant came to he a pair of wide, innocent gray eyes blinking up at him from a grimy, tired face. The little boy from earlier let go of the sapphire silk almost guiltily, though he smiled a gap-toothed grin. “Thank you,” he said again. “My sissy, she’s not easy to make smile…”

“Not a problem, little one,” he had started to turn, to continue forward, when he thought better of it. The little girl and their grandfather were in the back; he could just barely see them through the villagers. He bent down. “C’mon. Up you get.”

He felt small hands close on his shoulders, and he stood, hiding a grin, off balanced now and looking quite mad: naginata in one hand, pack in the other, crane between his teeth, small child clinging to his back like a monkey.

Bregolad rolled his eyes the moment he saw. “Oh, great, drag a child up front…”

Cael wedged his naginata under his arm, and used his free hand to hand the boy the crane, and proceeded to protest with exaggerated dignity, “I didn’t drag him. He came on his own. You know as well as I most of the danger’s behind us…” With Ingwe, he thought, and the strange noises. “He’s probably safer up here than he is back there…”

“Not if you don’t turn ‘round he’s not…”

“Huh?” Cael turned, just in time to dodge a low hanging tree branch that would have hit the boy in the stomach. “Woah!” He had to perform an ungainly, sidestepping dance that culminated in several of the villagers hopping about with sore feet in his wake. He half-caught his balance, opened his mouth to apologize -

And the forest exploded behind them in a wave of leaves and smoke. He never did catch his balance; instead, he faceplanted, hard, feeling hot blood beneath his nose almost instantly. He scrambled upright to let the boy off, shaking his head to clear it.

The sounds of the explosion had barely faded when the goblins took up their keening cry, more a chorus of wails than anything that implied hunting or scaring...

There was a flash of motion, of metal and clean white fabric, from behind the trees. Some sort of knight - no doubt a shining paragon of that profession - appeared on the path ahead of them, mounted on a chestnut mare. For a moment it seemed incongruous, then Cael caught the emblem on his shoulder. It was one he recognized from Scara Brae, though he would have been hard pressed to say what it meant.

"Problems?" The knight's voice was sardonic, and calm, and he sounded as if he were very used to being in charge.

Joy, was what Cael thought, trying to stem the blood dripping from his nose.

"Goblins," was all he said, somewhat nasal, waving behind them. The boy clung to his coat hem and peered around him at the knight. The gesture was strangely heart-warming. "Lots of 'em."

"Right, then." One mail-plated hand went to the horn hanging from his saddle. He raised it to his mouth, and blew. Its clear vibrant tone echoed through the trees, fading into the far distance before bouncing back...

No, not bouncing back, Cael realized. It was a second horn. The knight nudged his steed into motion, charging down the path towards where they had left Ingwe. Cael looked down at the boy, who silently handed him the crane. His gaze moved to Bregolad for all of a second before he again dropped his pack and pushed through the villagers, following the knight towards his friend.

[Flames of Hyperion]

He had vague recollections of stumbling around amongst the thick smoke, trying to make headway in the general direction that Cael and Bregolad had led the villagers clear. The explosion to startle the goblins, and the subsequent smoke pall to disguise their escape, had worked a charm. Almost too well, in fact, as the cloying thickness began to settle in his eyes and clog his throat.

Smoke travels upwards… must get down… His mind swam, along with his vision, behind his over-large spectacles. But he had to keep moving… it was only a few more steps…

The clarion call of the horns failed to register in his pounding ears as he gradually extricated himself from the clearing, his footsteps following the tread of two-dozen others amongst the muddy leaf-strewn path. The thunderous beat of hooves, on the other hand, was relatively hard to miss, especially as Ingwe had to literally throw himself out of the way of the oncharging knight. His eyes barely recognised the blur of the insignia the champion-at-arms wore, the bold crest of Baron Willian Valeena of Sess-Teria.

Their gazes made contact, the charger whinnying mightily as its rider reigned it in at the edge of the smoke. Ingwe managed a wan smile as he sank back against the solidity of a nearby tree, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the events of the previous hours weighing upon his soul. The darkness, thicker even than the smoke that hung over the nearby clearing, was almost comforting as it claimed him.

***

Ingwe awoke again to the pounding beat in his head. It took a while to gather his groggy wits, gradually drawing them to him like a misty veil condensing into solid form. The thunder didn’t only exist in his mind, he realised after a long period of reflection. It was also the rigid marching step of a hundred men-at-arms, returning to camp after a long patrol.

Bleak sunlight filtered through the beige canvas that separated him from the outside world. Shadows danced invitingly upon their outer surface, but there was no movement within their tranquil confines. The air was still and cool upon his bare chest, soothing yet somehow stifling at the same time. He breathed deeply, wincing at the faint pain in the depths of his lungs, remnant traces of his sheer exhaustion.

Ouch.

With a start, he realised that his clothes – tattered and worn from his long sea journey, and dirtied by the long trek from Scara Brae – had been cleaned and patched up expertly. Almost before he had time to wonder who had done such a thing, he had sprung up from his prone position, his mind aflutter. His belongings, had they…

There… Ingwe breathed a sigh of relief, weakly slumping back amongst the hard pillows. His travel-worn haversack sat next to his waist pouch upon the ground at his feet, neatly awaiting his perusal along with footwear, cloak, and swords. His battered spectacles, along with the pendant that he usually wore about his neck, were closer to hand on the chest of drawers beside his bed. Thank the kami…

For a while longer he dared not breathe, the sudden movement having seeped the flow of blood from his head, nausea and dizziness assaulting his exhausted body in equal measure. The over-use of his powers against the goblins had drained him more than he had hoped, and it was a while before his wits were of any use to him again. When at last he regained some semblance of control, it was due to the whispered voices just beyond the reaches of his ears, a faint buzz that he couldn’t quite make out that irritated him beyond belief.

The young man focused on the winged metal that lay at eye level not so far away, and he willed himself to remember what it stood for. How could he even dream of fighting for her if he couldn’t bring himself to deal with a handful of goblins?

Once again, Ingwe forced himself to sit up and look about his surroundings. It was an infirmary tent, judging by the dried stains on the bedposts and the long table of implements at the far end. Four other beds were set in a long line before his eyes towards the entrance to the tent, but the space was unoccupied except for himself.

Slowly, almost painfully, he wormed his feet into his shoes, wincing again as the cracked leather bristled against tender nerves. Thankfully, though, the walk to the entrance was not as lengthy as it had first seemed, and the sunlight that greeted him as he stumbled blinkingly out of the flap not as harsh on his eyes as he’d feared.

Even when he realised belatedly that he’d left his glasses behind.

[Inkfinger]

Cael followed the path, the din of horse-hooves, and the clearer tone of hunting horns back into the forest with no small amount of trepidation. He scanned the sides of the path as he walked, carefully, watching for Ingwe, or for anything the knight may have missed. So far, he hadn’t seen anything but well-stamped mud and leaves still fluttering from above, blown loose by the explosion; hadn’t noticed anything but the acrid sting of the smoke –even here, at the very edge- in his eyes and the bitter taste it left on his tongue.

He saw a flash of colors (midnight blue and vibrant red) and a quavering in the leaves to the side that that seemed to suggest movement. He blinked, swiping the back of his hand over his eyes. The moment his eyes opened, the colors and movement clarified into recognizable images: Ingwe, leaning against a tree with his eyes closed and a small goblin standing on the side of the tree with an equally small –though undoubtedly still quite deadly- dagger raised to strike.

Cael didn’t really think. He simply clawed his hand through the air, breathing out a sharp exhalation. Five blades of thin, ghost-gray light flew from his fingertips in perfect synchronization - three missed their target entirely, slicing through the foliage, but two hit, leaving paper-thin slashes down the goblin’s green arm in their wake.

The goblin let out a yelp and backpedaled into the trees, disappearing before the leaves had had a chance to stop moving. Cael stood still for a moment, the cold sweat of relief trickling down his back. If he’d stayed, you’d have been screwed. His internal voice offered quite cheerfully. You only had one blade left.

He ignored the voice at the sudden sound of footsteps behind him. He spun on his heel, naginata raised, lowering it again hastily when Bregolad crossed his arms.

“What,” the soldier growled, already moving to Ingwe’s side, “did you think you were doing?”

And Cael had to admit he really wasn’t sure anymore.


***

Walking had been boring.

Waiting was all the more-so.

Cael sat at a table, eating something that –for the first time in what felt like years- was a) not costing him money or b) likely to be dog, cat, or horse. It was a nice change, really, even if the spices were odd.

The meal, however, was not taking his mind off Ingwe.

The medic that had disappeared into the tent the moment they’d brought Ingwe in had been reassuring. The younger man simply seemed exhausted, she had assured him, before rambling further, saying something about overexertion and then some medical sounding nonsense that Cael had tried (honestly) to understand before failing rather miserably.

The villagers had left, hours ago, making the short journey the rest of the way into Sess-Teria rather than wait with Cael for Ingwe.

Cael didn’t blame them in the least. It would take some time before the villagers could entirely rebuild their lives from this. He wouldn’t have wanted to wait around either.

That knowledge still didn’t make him feel any less bored.

Tiny paper cranes –none of them animated- dotted the table around his plate; he’d been making them out of the discarded papers and obsolete missives the captain who had come trotting to the rescue there at the end had left piled on the edge.

Maybe after I’m done I should make dragons…

His thoughts were interrupted by the fabric swish of the tent in front of him. He glanced up, and broke into a relieved grin, climbing to his feet, the last of the stew forgotten. “Ingwe!” You look awful! “Good to see you up and about!” He waited a second, mulling what he had just said over in his head for a second. “But…are you supposed to be up?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

The trees in the not so distance were mere blurs and vague outlines to Ingwe’s poor vision, but the makeshift wooden benches and tables closer to hand were at least discernible. There was a figure seated at one of them, intricately folded paper scattered around his fine-boned hands, dressed in the distinctly Eastern robes of his trade. Cael even had the good grace to speak, just to make certain that the unsighted young man could not make any mistake whatsoever about his identity.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ingwe laughed in response, wryly and wearily, his sheepish assurances only half lie. The late afternoon sun was warm and gentle on his face, and as the young man basked in its relaxing light, lines of stress and concern seemed to melt from his brow. “They didn’t restrain me in any way, so I doubt I’m endangering anybody by leaving my bed.” He chuckled again, a mild and amiable sound.

The plate in front of Cael tempted him with its pleasant aromas, and suddenly Ingwe’s stomach growled treacherously, enticed by the promise of food after nearly a whole day without. Thankfully the scholarly warrior-mage was saved from any further blushes, by the arrival of a fresh-faced young squire bearing a second bowlful of the meaty meal, along with a large hunk of bread that looked remarkably fresh and delectable. Ingwe hesitated for all of two seconds, spent eying the food timidly and running through a feeble list of excuses in his mind.

Then he sat down and began to eat.

Only when fully half the meal had been devoured did his senses re-establish themselves, and he realised what a glutton he must have seemed. Embarrassed once more, the young man slowed his pace considerably, taking the time now to savour the tastes and textures of what was undeniably a good meal… almost too good for a field kitchen. At the same time, he began to study his surroundings in greater detail, as best as his limited vision would allow him.

“I guess… everyone’s gone to Sess-Teria?” he asked at length, working his question around a mouthful of tender beef. At Cael’s awkward nod, Ingwe relaxed; the thought of meeting them again so soon was slightly uncomfortable in the least. He would visit them in the mining city on the return leg of the journey, but for the time being, it would be best to let them get to grips with their new situation.

Ingwe swallowed, sighed, then took another look around. A light breeze fanned his features, ruffling his hair gently as it sped from horizon to horizon.

“At best, I guess we’re about a couple of hours east of the city… four or five hours south of the falls themselves.” He turned to face northwards, squinting owlishly at the snow-capped grey of the mountains that dominated the landscape in that direction.

“We could leave now…” Ingwe spoke slowly, gauging Cael’s reaction as he readied another mouthful of the stew for eating. “… or we could wait until tomorrow and a new day…?”

[Inkfinger]

“No.” The word came out sharper than Cael meant it to, simply because his mind leapt at the idea of waiting (or, better yet, at turning back altogether) and he needed to head it off at the pass. Ingwe shoved the spoon into his mouth as Cael took up one last sheet of paper. “I mean, I think…we’re so close now, we should keep going.” Get this over with, before my nerve cracks once and for all. “If we keep moving, we might make it by midnight.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Ingwe replied, a minute later when he’d swallowed his stew. He blinked myopically, looking younger than Cael thought he probably was. Cael lifted his latest creation, a hare again, to his face, sketching the sign to bring it to life. He set it down on the table, right next to Ingwe’s hand, before he stood. It poked at the side of the young warrior’s finger, rustling inquisitively. Ingwe turned his hand over to let the familiar hop onto his palm, almost automatically. “But we’d have to keep a steady pace, or…”

“Hold that thought,” Cael interrupted, standing. “I’ll be right back.” He ducked his head down to grin at his familiar, glad to have it back even after such a short time. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s he gonna do, run off?” There was a distinct air of sarcasm around the familiar’s words. One had to squint to see it, but it was there. Cael snorted.

“That’s the spirit!” He straightened, scanning the quiet camp before he headed back into the tent. He knew he had seen where they’d put the younger man’s glasses when they’d led them here. He knew he’d also seen what was handing from a nail next to them – a ring of keys, worn shiny with use.

The spectacles and keys were exactly where he’d thought they’d be; the specs on a table next to one of the tent’s wooden posts, the keys hanging above them. He picked up the glasses carefully – then took a long, calculating look at the keys. They were the kind of keys used to fasten horse-lines, long and narrow and almost delicate looking, though the delicacy was as deceiving as the thin chains the keys were used to fasten.

The Scarabrian forces that had rescued them, fed them, and treated Ingwe’s exhaustion had been nothing but generous thus far. Surely, therefore, they wouldn’t protest if they were to…borrow a horse, so to speak. Right? And, if the horse let them get to their destination quicker than their feet, then they would be out of the area even quicker, and the forces would have two less people to worry about, right?

Content in his (somewhat fuzzy) logic, Cael reached out to take the keys – and found his hand pinned to the post by the Captain he should have heard coming. The noble man’s face was set in disappointment, his big hand warm and calloused over Cael’s cold fingertips.

“Going somewhere?”

“Uhm.” The disappointment made this worse. If it had been anger or annoyance, he would have been on familiar ground. He was used to having soldiers pissed at him. This, however, made him feel about as low as the dirt beneath his boots. “I was…” What, going to ask you? “I mean…” His excuses seemed to flee his grasping mental fingers, and before he could say another word, his shoulders slumped. “We wanted -I wanted- to get to the mountains fast." He scuffed his boot, raising a small cloud of dust as he searched for the right words.

"Ingwe didn’t know.” He finally said, simply. “He probably wouldn’t have let me, anyway.” He tightened his free hand around the warrior-mage’s glasses, and ducked his head. “Don’t get mad at him.”

The captain studied him for a moment, some (not a lot, mind, but it was a start) of the disappointment fading from his brown eyes. Cael shifted under the scrutiny, staring at his feet. He wouldn’t blame the captain for clapping him in chains and dragging him back to Sess-Teria. That’s what they did to horse-thieves, right? He was only sorry he wouldn’t be able to help Ingw-

“Here.” The captain’s grip released, and by the time Cael looked up he was holding out a beaten looking key. “It’s my mount. She’s strong enough for two, doesn’t shy from strangers, and she knows her way home from the mountains.” Cael reached out to take the key, feeling his mind spinning. “Don’t,” and here the captain’s eyes went hard again, fingers still tight around the key. “Make me regret this.”

“N-no sir.” Cael stammered, shaking his head when the captain finally let go. “I won’t, sir. Thank you, sir.” He pocketed the key, released his deathgrip around Ingwe’s poor glasses (gods, look, you bent the earpiece, you idiot!) and hurried from the tent, still feeling his heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs. Ingwe blinked up at him over an empty bowl, It sitting comfortably on his shoulder. It, somehow, gave an impression of blinking as well, despite its eyeless face.

“What the nine hells happened to you? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Cael just gave the familiar a dirty look, and pressed Ingwe’s glasses into his hand. “I’ve got a way we can get there by nightfall,” he said, instead of answering It. “But we’d need to leave now. You up for it?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Really?” For a moment, the young man forgot all about the weariness in his bones, the slightly unpleasant fullness in his stomach that had resulted from scoffing down his broth too quickly, and the curiosity of the animated paper construct on his shoulder. Quickly Ingwe slipped on his glasses; failing to realise immediately that they hung lopsided across his vision, he peered at Cael owlishly from above their rims.

Speed on the trail implied either powerful magic or a means of transport. The young man wondered whether the guilty expression on the ink-mage’s face, or the faint sheen of sweat that was gradually receding from his forehead, bode well for their safety. Indeed, he wondered what exactly his companion had planned.

My gear…

It would be safe with the Scarabrian regulars, he realised. They would take care of his pack until he got back, and all that was really important to him he carried on his person anyways…

What about…

No, the villagers were safe now, he remembered. He had seen them safely to this garrison, and from here onwards they would be taken care of by the lords of Sess-Teria. It was not as if he could do anything for them now.

What if…

Briefly his mind fumbled with the notion that there might be other goblin warbands out there, surging forth from behind the mountain range where the Scarabrian patrols usually penned them in. Perhaps there were other ambushes waiting for them… and perhaps there were other villagers fleeing for their lives. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he would only know the truth by actually venturing out there. If indeed there was such an invasion in progress, and if indeed there were such people in need, then he could only be of use if he was in the field.

But…

Ingwe realised that Cael was staring at him strangely now, that the paper familiar was nibbling at his neck in an attempt to garner his attention, and that he had spent a moment too long caught up in his contemplations. A sudden burst of late afternoon sun brought with it the realisation that the central issue here was trust.

Do I trust Cael?

The answer, of course, was yes. They hadn’t known each other for long, but there were some things in life that simply precluded such suspicion. Fighting off a marauding horde of goblins back to back was one of them. In which case, his response should have been easy, and he felt ashamed of himself for even hesitating.

“Sure,” he replied, blinking twice to rid his expression of remnant irresolution. Then he grinned, allowing the corners of his mouth to upturn infectiously in a gesture of genuine pleasure. “Why not?”

[Inkfinger]

Cael decided some time later (long enough for the sun to become just the slightest tinge of color over the horizon; ‘before nightfall’ had been a bit of a stretch, apparently) that the reason the captain's horse was not afraid of strangers was simply this: she was built along the same lines as a brick wall, with slightly less imagination, and could probably have bit both of their heads off in one chomp. No reason for fear there!

The mare’s equipment had more than met the eye, apparently. The moment the sun had sank enough to be no use to them, it had (apparently of its own volition) summoned a ball of light from the air itself; it floated ahead of them now, a yard before the horse’s eyes, glowing gold and white and spitting red-orange sparks. He couldn’t see beyond the flame. It made things look as if the horse was running through an inky-black pool, but that was alright. It wasn’t as if he wanted to look down.

They had both fallen silent hours ago. The only sounds in the chill air were the clatter and thud of the mare’s great hooves, the leathery squeak and the jangling chime of her tack, and the heaving snorting of her breath. She was cantering; muscles as smooth as a wave upon the sea, a far cry from the mad gallop she had begun with. The travelers probably would have already reached their destination by now, if they’d let her maintain that pace - it had been necessary to rein her in, though, much to her obvious distaste. This was not the terrain for madcap speed, especially at night.

Cael still clung to Ingwe's waist gingerly, forehead resting between the warrior-mage's shoulder blades, trying to convince his body that no, he most certainly was not getting seasick on the back of a horse. Not now, not so close, and especially not now that they’d actually got the Sway-blamed thing to slow down!

It perched precariously on Ingwe’s shoulder, sticking fast to the cloth of the man’s tunic by some means Cael didn't understand and didn't question, folded ears blown backwards with the speed that left the scenery around them darkened blurs in the gray light of evening. Here, in the foothills, it wouldn't be long before true, complete darkness fell. The moon was already rising; Cael could see it, dimly, over one high peak.

The mountains loomed around and about them; sharp black shapes that cut off the starry velvet blanket of the sky. Their promise of peaks and valleys and narrow winding paths felt oppressive and welcoming at the same time. The path transitioned from well-packed earth to loose gravel that crunched under the horse’s iron-shod hooves as they entered the foothills. Cael tried to keep his eyes on It, or the pattern on his coat, or the weaving in Ingwe’s cloak – anywhere but down. Every now and then, the gravel made…well. It made sounds. Or, rather, it didn’t make them – as if the stones were sliding off the edge of the path and into open air. An awful large amount of empty air…

…another reason to be glad the horse didn’t spook easily. It was all too easy to imagine her running over the edge as easily as the stones, all too simple to feel the falling.

Sway but why do I do this to myself?

“Cael?” Ingwe’s voice floated back, then, strained. The tone sent a lance of instinctive fear up Cael’s spine, even as he dragged his thoughts away from free-fall and doom.

“Yes?”

“That hurts.”

Cael blinked – and then blushed furiously, hastily loosening his death grip around Ingwe’s ribs. He scooted as far back in the saddle as he could manage without falling off entirely, his hands against the horse’s flanks. “Sorry.”

It was surreal to think that only this morning he had been alone; that just last night he had never met Ingwe. The day had seemed so long. The younger man had just…he’d been easy to get along with. It was easy to associate Ingwe with the easy camaraderie he’d shared with Rasmus and Bromwyn – he hadn’t bothered to think that perhaps Ingwe was more like Tan Li in that respect as well. Li hadn’t liked being touched, period.

Granted, the feisty old geezer probably would have made me walk, he thought, and then, You’re over-analyzing. Ingwe was fine until you started crushing him.

Why did that particular mental voice remind him, so much, of his familiar?

He was saved from his embarrassment by that very familiar poking him in the forehead with its papery nose. “Do you hear that?” It asked, Cael only able to read the words by the flickers of the horselight glowing through the paper. Hayate shifted on Ingwe’s other shoulder, restless for a moment before he took off into the air. Cael tilted his head, trying to listen – but all he heard was the regular tattoo of the horse’s hooves against the path and the familiar whistle of his bad ear.

“No,” he admitted, rubbing his hand against the ear. “What am I supposed to hear?”

“The falls,” Ingwe said over his shoulder in tandem with Its words; perhaps thinking Cael was talking to him, perhaps only speaking to save Cael from his still-awkward musings. “I think we’re here.”

The horse slowed to a trot, and then to a slow, bouncing gait that had Cael’s teeth jarring against each other almost as badly as her gallop had. Maybe she only likes the middle. He waited until Ingwe reined the horse to a stop before he slipped off, taking the leads. The horse immediately lowered her great black head, as if in search of something to graze on. There was an almost recognizable whicker of disappointment when she found only stone. Cael patted one sweat-flecked shoulder without even noticing he was doing so – the rest of his attention was on the falls.

He didn’t know exactly what he’d been expecting – but this wasn’t exactly it. The falls before them stretched as far as he could see in the gathering dark, towering above them, the water sparkling with every color of the rainbow, though the bows were pastel in the silvery light of the moon. The sight alone was well worth the trip. The breeze through the peaks made them whistle and moan like elvin pipes, and the falls (now that he no longer heard the horse’s movements and knew what he was listening for) were a constant roar that made the ground rumble, ever so slightly, beneath his feet. The air smelled of fresh water and damp stone, a refreshing change from sweat, smoke and horse.

For once, he didn't feel like a complete rube for just staring. "I almost," he finally said, tired face twisting in a wry smile, "Don't mind the trouble it took to get here anymore." He nodded towards the falls. "If that's the rewards, I mean." He leaned against the mare, rubbing his eyes with one smudged fingertip. "Though, uh. What do we do now?"

[Flames of Hyperion]

For a moment Ingwe failed to answer, still lost in the mesmerising beauty. He’d grown up not far from one of Nippon’s three most beautiful waterfalls, and another had been located within the grounds of the Academy, so he was no stranger to such gorgeous landscapes. However it never failed to amaze him how he could be almost swallowed whole by the simple majesty and splendour of the sight, as if nature herself sought to indoctrinate him to her will.

Simply put, he was filled with wonder.

“… umm…” he hesitated at last, as Hayate settled back to his shoulder. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought much of what to do after they’d reached the falls, so focused had he been on actually getting there in the first place. Although he’d had a vague idea of following the river further into the mountains in order to trace the Dragon Hermit and his possible location, there was little concrete plan… and certainly nothing he could do in the darkness.

All talk, no thought, he belatedly realised, disgusted at himself. So many things I want to ask, so many answers I seek, that I didn’t even bother to think over this little detail. It was a beginner’s mistake, a stupid mistake, of the type that he had sworn never to make again.

“For now, we probably should get some rest,” he hedged, stalling for time. No doubt Cael saw through the act, for the inkmage’s eyes widened in something akin to surprise, and the man’s origami familiar mumbled something that was lost to Ingwe’s eyes in the darkness. “Tomorrow we’ll take a look around, look for signs… head into the mountains a little if necessary. It’s too dangerous to do that in the dark though, and both we and the mare need some sleep.”

Why did his words sound so hollow and meaningless to his ears?

He gave Cael a smile that seemed bleak even to his own senses, then turned away towards the pool at the base of the falls to wash away some of the sweat on his face. Riding wasn’t his specialty, and it had taken all of his meagre skill to guide the mare through the foothills… to the point where he had been certain that the horse itself was doing the navigation, and he was only holding on for dear life. In fact, the only reason he hadn’t noticed the vertigo caused by the sheer height of the nearby cliffs until the end of the journey was because he was already too preoccupied with actually remaining in semi-control of their destination. It pained him to think that of the three of them, the mare was the one with probably the greatest presence of mind.

Perhaps when the new dawn came, he would have a better idea of what needed to be done. Until then… he could do little but sleep... or lie awake, afraid of how his mistakes would come back to haunt him if he were to close his eyes and succumb to slumber.

Silky tendrils of moonlight caressed the surface of the pool, speckled silver that danced across the water and penetrated through its clarity to the pebbled bottom. The occasional light breeze drove ripples from one end of the pond to the other, eliciting faint movement from its depths in response. Magical would have been almost too insubstantial a word to use in description; mythical, perhaps, would have been more like it.

“I should have thought of something beforehand, Hayate…” Ingwe whispered, cupping some of the water in his hand before lifting it up for the gyrfalcon the drink from. Hayate took a polite sip or two before cocking his head to one side and staring his master in the eye, luminously intelligent pupils intent on communicating without the benefit of words. But try as he might Ingwe could not decipher their message, and the young man sighed, watching helplessly as the remainder of the water trickled slowly through his fingers.

I really hate myself sometimes, he almost added out loud, censoring the words just as they were about to leave his throat. Sometimes things were best left unsaid, even if he felt them with all his heart.

He laughed to himself, ruefully. Then, letting the remainder of the breath in his lungs escape in a soft sigh, Ingwe dowsed his head in the crystalline water, seeking solitary solace in the frostiness of its depths.

[Inkfinger]

It made sense, but he still hadn’t seen it coming. Cael stared at Ingwe for a moment before he looked back to the mare, patting her shoulder again. “You’re good, girl,” he told her, quietly. “We’re done for the night.” She looked at him, reproachfully, as if she understood; the flickering light dancing between and before her eyes making them sparkle in the dark. He stared at the light for a moment before he shook his head, reaching for her saddlebags.

There was a feedbag in one, and a small kit with a flint and tinder, and leather-wrapped packets of dried fruit and meat in the other. He pulled the kit out, flipping through it for a second before he looked at It, perched on the saddle horn. “I don’t know,” he said, quietly, “if this is really going to do any good…”

“Nope,” it said back, preening, brushing its nose carefully with one folded paw, “Not enough dry wood ‘round here. It’s all rock and dirt and…”

“I wasn’t talking about that!” Cael protested, shoving the fire kit back into the saddlebag. He fastened the feedbag over the mare’s nose, clumsily, before he continued. “I was meaning this.” He waved one inkblotched hand in an expansive gesture – stones and falls and towering peaks alike. “I don’t know…”

“Well,” It shot back, almost too fast to read. It shifted on the saddle as the mare tossed her head, whickering, and she lowered it again, mouth moving against the burlap, focused on her meal. “The boy is right. You wouldn’t want to search in this darkness. Not unless you wanted a busted skull to match that side of yours.” Cael gave the familiar a dirty look. The familiar gave the impression of blinking innocently, tapping one back paw against the hardened leather. “Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true.”

“…yeah.” Cael was finally forced to admit, watching Ingwe talking to his falcon over the mare’s back, much like he was doing with It. “I know. It’s just…” He sighed, brushing his hand through his hair. “I can’t help but wonder what I was thinking, now that it’s dark. Me, chase after some…mystic? With a complete stranger?”

“A stranger who saved your life,” It retorted, hopping off the saddle onto Cael’s shoulder. Cael had to crane his neck just right to still see the blocky letters. “If he was anything but what he claimed to be, he would have shown it by now.” It fixed Cael with an eyeless stare. “There are worse ways to spend your days than in pointless quests with those who seek nothing more than your company.” Paper rustled, the sound all but devoured by the roar of the falls, as the familiar crept down his sleeve, pausing on his wrist. “Now, if you’ve any more stupid thoughts, keep them to yourself. I’m getting some sleep.” It disappeared up one wide sleeve, apparently to do just that.

Duly chastised, Cael tore a strip off the dried meat, chewing at it thoughtfully. The familiar had a point. Up until a time when he actually had some idea of what he was doing, some goal for his life, wandering the land wasn’t such a bad plan. He could get a feel for traveling on his own; he could search for whatever it was that his former Master had wanted him to go looking for…

…Unless, of course, that whole idea involved jerky. He was still gnawing at the tough strip five minutes later when Ingwe finally seemed done with his contemplations. He ambled to Ingwe’s side, holding out the leather packet of dried meat.

“It’s not beef stew, but it’s better than nothing.” He sat down carefully on the edge of the water, helped himself to a handful of the dried fruit, and dropped the second packet onto the wide stone beside him. The silver of the water seemed to be coming from inside the pool, instead of being a reflection. Cael stared at it as he spoke, mostly just to hear the sound of his own voice.

“My, ah, my sister and I…she’s the oldest, see, and she always liked to experiment. My mother’s a fisherwoman, so we always had dried fish, unless the fishing had been bad.” He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Ingwe fished a piece of meat from the pack and offered it to Hyate, who deigned, nobly, to accept it. His lips twitched in a small smile as he continued.

“We tried to make a stew out of it, once. Mixed sea salt and dried berries and apples in and…” He couldn’t even finish the description, as the memory rose on his tongue. He shuddered, instead, tossing a piece of the dried fruit from hand to hand. “Worst thing I have ever tasted in all my life.” He tossed it into his mouth, relieved to find it chewed easier than the meat had. “I don’t think I could make myself eat it again, even if I hadn’t eaten in a month...”

His sleeve rustled, It popping its head out to, somehow, glare at him. “Don’t say things like that,” it groused, letters edged with irritability. “And please keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep.” It vanished back up his sleeve. Cael looked at his wrist for a moment before cramming the rest of the dried berries into his mouth all in one go.

“Well. It would seem,” he said wryly once he’d swallowed, “that I have just been told off by an irritable familiar.” He paused, eyeing his sleeve, just waiting for the paper hare to stick its head back out and give him the paper equivalent of a sneer. It didn’t happen.

“Sleep well, Ingwe.” He smiled, crooked, and stood, moving a little ways off, but not too far from the liquid quicksilver of the pool. Too far would be too close to the looming darkness, and whatever might lay in wait in it. He shrugged out of his robe, shivering slightly in the chill air – though he’d slept in much worse. His hometown felt like this until summer was half begun – as he rolled it into a pillow, finally sprawling on the hard, stony ground.

Only time would tell if he could actually manage to sleep.

(But he wasn't betting on it.)

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Good night,” Ingwe called out to Cael’s retreating back, softly enough that he didn’t disturb the tranquillity of the scene, but loud enough that his voice seemed to echo the words back at him. He froze for a moment as they faded away into the muted babble of running water, as wearied and as bleak as a zephyr that had climbed to the top of a mountain only to find that it had exhausted its strength on the way.

He appreciated Cael’s kindness in taking the trouble to come over and talk to him. The anecdote had been inconsequential, but it had been exactly the touch of homely nostalgia needed to soothe his troubled soul. The ripple of the waters upon the glistening pond, once so turbulent and violent, now seemed almost orderly and soothing.

Thoughtfully he nibbled on a slice of dried sweetfruit, letting its succulent taste flood his mouth. Hayate had already settled contentedly into the crook of his arm, one gleaming eye carefully keeping a tab on his moonlit surroundings. Ingwe joined his familiar in silent contemplation, his eyes roaming the moonlit scenery with scholarly caution. His legs were folded beneath him in the traditional Nipponese manner, heavy cloak wrapped around his hunched shoulders to ward off the chill, head bowed in peaceful thought.

It wasn’t a matter of planning his every last move days in advance. It wasn’t a matter of knowing exactly what he was going to be doing three days in the future.

There was something that he had to do, and he was going to do it, no matter what it cost him.

Long hours passed without movement from the slumped figure. Only after a while would anybody who had been watching have realised that it was because Ingwe was fast asleep.

***

Delicate pink cherry blossoms floated on a breeze that was only just gaining warmth, garlanding the paved path with a sprinkling of petals. She wore the white tunic of the Academy, sprinting ahead of him with her athletic stride as she led the way to their next class. Her features were wreathed in a joyful smile, and he couldn’t help but feel the warmth of her expression seep through to the very depths of his soul.

The seasons melted into summer, flowers of fire and flash flickering in the night skies overhead. She walked ahead of him in a traditional yukata, engrossed in merry conversation with her friends. Her infectious laugh echoed about the vicinity in between the thunderous booms, causing all that heard it to break out into equally happy smiles.

Autumn came, bringing with it the drifting dance of the red momiji leaves as they transformed the hillside forests into bright blazes of crimson flame. He sat quietly on the sidelines as she trounced all opposition in the running races, nobody even coming close to besting her in either sprint or marathon. The embarrassed beam on her face as the praise came flowing in was enough to stop his heart all over again.

In the deep snows of winter she walked alone, along a muddy path winding through paddies buried in white. Her purposeful tread left neat footprints where the ground sought to slow her movements, the suction painting her white shoes with dirty brown. Her face was averted from him, her fine dark hair neatly parted down the middle and flowing down her slender shoulders. He was frozen in place as she gradually walked away, unable even to call out to her retreating back.

Then she disappeared.

And he had no idea where she had gone.

Only the tears remained.

Only the tears…

***

He awoke with a start at the crack of dawn, cursing himself roundly for having let himself fall asleep. Frozen streaks of damp cold marked where he had cried a trail across his cheeks; he reflexively sniffled once to clear his sinuses, blinking rapidly in an attempt to cleanse his sleep-tainted blurry vision.

Hayate was on the alert in the crook of Ingwe’s elbow, head cocked and keen eyes fixed on something in the distance as the gyrfalcon intently studied the silent stillness of his surroundings. A moment later the young man sensed it as well… the nagging sensation that there was something not quite right with the muffled roar of the waterfall and the soft sigh of a cold breeze through the boughs overhead. A few stray rays of morning light broke through the surrounding hills…

… and a wickedly barbed arrow thudded into the grass at his feet.

[Inkfinger]

Cael dozed; half aware of his surroundings – cold, hard-packed earth that seemed to leech the warmth from his bones, stones, and the ever-present roar of the falls – but not really paying much attention to them. In his mind, he was back in Knife’s Edge, in the gardens that surrounded the Cathedral of Saint Denebriel.

He wasn’t a pious man. Religion in its organized form often seemed pointless at best, and a means to some fat priest’s ends at worst. The Church of the Ethereal Sway was no different, for all that he swore by its gods. But the Cathedral was a place of great and intimidating power; power tinged by the beauty of its gardens.

Cael sat on the bench near the fountain, the same bench he’d always used to bring his studies to. His hands were empty, devoid of paper and ink and weapon as they so rarely were these days, and clean. They still smelled like soap over the fresh scent of pine needle and flowers. Water splashed gently, flickering in small waves against the stone basin.

The aeromancers knew their job, and they performed it admirably. He could see the iridescent, twisting spells dancing in the breeze, holding Salvar’s cruel chill away. The wards made the sunlight scatter into its own component colors, painting the path in soft shades of gold and rosy pink.

Paper butterflies, his own creations, danced in the breeze as he sat, soaking in the sunlight. As he basked, words slowly began to appear – not before his eyes, as they normally did, but behind them; in the space normally reserved for his own thoughts.

“I can almost see why you like this place,” came the voice, the words heard and felt even as he read them in a strange three part harmony. “It does have a certain peace.”

“On its good days, yes,” he returned, stretching out, enjoying the way that motion, here in this dream world, didn’t pull and pop his muscles. “There have been days where I rather wished I would never see it again.”

“And yet, you keep coming back…” The voice was small, wistful. Cael found himself wondering where he pulled his familiar from, every time he inked the markings that bound spirit to paper. “It’s good to have a place to feel loyal to.” Paper rustled, drawing Cael’s attention toward the sound.

There was a heron in the water, a great, leggy bird, that looked folded from paper like his own origami, though this was many times larger than anything he’d ever created. It stood at attention, every now and again ducking its bill as if it were trying to drink from the pool. “It often,” the voice finished, “keeps you sane.”

Cael shook his head abruptly, looking away from the pool and the graceful bird bathing there, looking instead towards the spear-like spire of the cathedral. “If I needed something to keep me sane, I don’t think this would be it.” The words called to mind images of his parents house in Gjovic, the windows hidden behind thick woolen curtains, the fire burning merrily on the hearth, of staying up far past midnight to play cards with Aksel and Ludvik, Halsten and Ida on his visits. “It’s not…not home."

“Sometimes, we can’t have home.”

Cael sensed, rather than saw, something change; like a cutting breeze blowing through a field of new grain. He looked back to the fountain, not knowing what he had felt, or what to expect.

Whatever it was, it hadn’t been this.

The fountain had changed. The water was now as black as night, as dark as coal or, fittingly, ink. The heron was drooping, its long legs soaking in the liquid, its magnificent wings crooked and bent out of shape. There was an ugly sign scorched, edges reddened like an open wound, into its right wing.

The longer Cael stared, the more he realized he knew the sign from years ago; it was one of the sorts that boys training to be scribes research, and giggle about having double meanings. One who spreads, in the blocky slashes and circles of middle-Salvic, a dialect not used in the last three hundred years. It was meant to imply a newsman, a messenger, writer or herald. It had been intended as a sign of respect. It had also been used in recent years, of course, more literally: whore.

Just looking made his hand smart, tingling as if he’d been the one burned. “Holy Sway, It…buddy…” It occurred to him, suddenly, that continuing to call his familiar It wasn’t going to last if they were to have anything close to a relationship like the one Hayate and Ingwe shared. The heron looked at him, dark eyes bleeding tears of ink down either side of its beak, and he felt as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach by the pain in those eyes. “What…what have they done to you?”

“Me?” Its voice seemed to echo, laced with melancholy; humor and deep sadness all rolled in to one. “Oh, Caelric, little one…” There was another rustle of many pages, and a paper crane, eyeless and confidently poised, fluttered into view amid the butterflies. “That’s not me...”

In that second between seconds, somehow, he knew. Knew that he was not supposed to be here, not supposed to be seeing this, and that this was a warning that he didn’t know how to interpret.

“That’s you.” The voice broke, a strange sound in his mind. “I'm sorry, dear heart, but you’re not going to like this next part.”


***

A horrible, horsey scream pulled Cael out of his dream before he had a chance to react. He woke in a flailing tangle of limbs and jacket, and scrambled upright before he was fully awake. He moved the wrong direction off his makeshift bed, however, landing in the water with an almighty splash. He surfaced, spitting and sputtering, just in time to see the mare rear up in the early morning light, whinnying again in the eerie way that sounded like a sentient cry of terror.

Damn it, one of us should have stayed awake! The cold water shocked all sleep and all thoughts of the dream from his mind, replacing it with one overwhelming emotion: get away. He sloshed, crouched low to make himself a smaller target, to the far bank, yelling as he did.

“Ingwe! Ingwe, they followed us! Ing-" He cut off his cry as he realized the scholar-mage was already awake and aware, Hayate resting on his arm. Both man and falcon had a complete air of wariness that probably stemmed from the heavy crossbow bolt sunk into the ground. Damn it to all nine hells...

The horse reared again, bugling to the surrounding hills her fear, her anger at being tethered, and her rage against whatever was coming. She was a warhorse, after all. And, quite possibly, their best way back to civilization. Cael groaned, looking wildly back to Ingwe. "Cover me, I'll get the horse, and then...uh. Then..."

"Then we make for the caves. There's usually cover behind waterfalls," Ingwe replied, quickly, eyes still towards the horse and their as-yet unseen assailants. There was nothing heroic about this, Cael mused, dropping his dripping robe on the ground and shaking his hair from his eyes. He could trust Ingwe to cover him far more easily than he would trust himself covering Ingwe. Paper butterflies, after all, could only go so far.

"Ready?" He asked, mostly to hide the fact that he himself was not.

Ingwe nodded, tightly, raising his hands as Cael braced himself for the mad dash to the mare. "On three. One..."

Cael took another deep breath, ducking into a runner's crouch. He'd had a good form, once, years ago before that fall had mangled his leg. The form was still there. He knew the speed was not.

"Two..."

He could hear animalistic cries above the roar of the waterfall. Another crossbow bolt ricocheted towards their campsite, barely missing the stones Cael'd used as a bed. He drew another breath, willing the tension to fade from his limbs. He only had to reach the horse. Her speed would be enough after that.

"Three!"

Cael broke into a run, heart loud in his own ears as Ingwe, behind him, moved. He could hear the water, hear the goblins, hear the horse through the his rasping breath -

And above it all he heard the muffled shout.

"Kaendan!"

His only thought as he ran almost-smack-dab into the mare's side, clinging with a death-grip to her mane as one hand unsnapped her halter, was that maybe, if he got shot, he wouldn't have to find out what the dream had been warning him of.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The rocky bluffs that soared to either side of the waterfall were alive with howls of anger and chittered warcries. Ingwe’s eyesight was nowhere near keen enough to pick out the scuttling movements of individual goblins on the cliffsides, or to differentiate between those who were actively shooting at him and those who were simply attempting to close the distance. But he could extrapolate the approximate locations of the sharpshooters from the trajectories of the bolts, and his furious fusillade of fiery magic was doing a fine job of forcing them to keep their heads down.

The only problem was that he could not keep up such an effort forever.

“Ingwe!”

The young man wasn’t sure what alerted him first: Cael’s frantic shouting, or the hysterical screams of the mare. He abandoned his position post-haste as it bolted past, scrambling awkwardly on all fours after the horse before somehow regaining his balance into a more respectable run.

Cael didn’t seem to be in control of the mare as desperately trying to urge it in the correct direction – towards the waterfall and, hopefully, the promise of safety there. Hayate seemed to sense the frenetic tug-of-war between man and beast, and swooped in to settle the argument once and for all with a few well-placed scratches on the mare’s rump, deep enough to elicit a near-panicked whinny but not quite drawing blood. Into the water the horse plunged with an almighty splash, Ingwe following more meekly if no less hastily in its wake.

The quarrels were streaming down on them thick and hard by the time they approached the thundering curtain of water, hissing into the lake around them and ricocheting violently from the rocky cliff face. Ingwe thanked whatever deity – or more likely, an entire pantheon – looking over them that the goblins were such poor shots, that the rising mist and the dawning sun were sewing their aim, and that his mind was more preoccupied with the action of reaching safety rather than the fear of what would happen if one of the wickedly barbed bolts were to skewer him… or worse, Cael, Hayate, or the mare.

“Go!” he urged, when the sheer volume of water crashing down from above caused the mare, or Cael, to hesitate. The young man could barely hear his own voice above the ever-present roar, and he could feel the cold water seeping through his tunic and shoes as he desperately trod water. Suddenly he wished that he’d availed himself more of the swimming lessons at the Academy back home, rather than burying himself in his books all the time. One mistimed stroke, and he would be buried beneath the raging torrent, never to…

Then the mare took matters into her own hooves and plunged through. Ingwe only paused long enough to confirm that Hayate was rapidly ascending into the gradually dawning skies before following.

Keep going… keep going…

The suction was incredible as the waters threatened to drag him deep into the abyss of the lake. Somehow he managed to fight through it, desperately kicking for the far side. His shins bumped and bruised against hard rock as he gradually made his way into the unpredictable

They emerged into a sizable cavern that had been eroded over the long ages by the great waterfall… or so Ingwe had hoped. In reality, the cave was barely spacious enough to accommodate the three of them upon hard rocky ground. His ears throbbed from the muted roar of the waterfall, the churning eddies completely cutting them off from the outside. It was as if somebody had created an entirely new world here, damp and cold and eerily hollow, that could only be accessed through the sparkling veil.

Bright flame flared into life upon Ingwe’s palm, a gentle beacon that softly illuminated the dimly lit grotto. It didn’t take the young man long to realise that there was no way out, that the only exit was the same way that they had entered. His hope that they would somehow be able to escape from here shattered into a thousand crystal shards.

Damnit, he swore, the frenzied shivers of the mare echoing near his ear. Cael had dismounted and was making an awkward attempt to calm the poor beast, but Ingwe knew that his magic wasn’t helping. Briefly he weighed the benefits of what paltry light and warmth the flame could provide against the mare’s good graces, before deciding that it really wasn’t worth the contest. His palm snapped shut, and they were plunged into darkness again, with the exception of what brave light filtered through the heavy curtain of water of the Mountain Tear Falls.

As the initial shock of adrenaline wore off, the curse that was his self-doubt returned to haunt his actions. Had he made the correct decision in running for the falls? Perhaps they would have fared better out in the open, or making a run for it beyond the cordon of spears and quarrels. Maybe…

No. Mustn’t. Lose. Control.

The fact was, no matter how wrong his decision might have been in hindsight, he was right here, right now. He could rue his judgement and his inexperience later, but now that they were stuck in the dripping wet chamber with the low stone ceiling, he had to plan out his next move towards survival. If not for himself, then for the others who he had dragged along with him.

I need… more information…

He breathed deeply of the cool air and concentrated. Straining his ears, he could just about hear the chittering of the goblins just beyond the natural barrier as the green-skinned warband probed their disappearance. He did not understand their tongue, and his nose could not pick up anything beyond the frightened musk of the mare. For a brief eternity his dark eyes burned holes in the water veil, lost in thought.

Then he spoke, his voice under firm control as it reverberated softly about the stalactites.

“Cael, can you persuade the mare to hunch down? I’m not sure how well a waterfall stops crossbow bolts, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to want to try it soon. See if you can get her behind that large boulder there…” He pointed, and the ink-mage nodded in acquiescence. Ingwe stood still for a moment longer, trying to discern command from squabble through the roar of the falls, before giving up entirely. “If they come through, we’ll hold them off… if they lay siege, we’ll wait them out. We’ve still got our rations, don’t we… and the water’s drinkable. I don’t think that they’ll bother with us for long if we let them know that we’re not easy pickings. They probably attacked us more out of instinct than with any real intent.”

Ingwe knew that he was blabbering, but the sound of his voice formed a cocooning reassurance about them all that even seemed to be soothing the mare somewhat. He could feel his heart finally deciding to settle into place. With it came the realisation that he didn’t want to kill any of the goblins if he could get away with it, despite having been shot at only moments ago. The knowledge was troubling, and yet somewhat reassuring as well.

“If they try to come, we…”

He paused midsentence, suddenly alert. Over the sound of the water, above the chittering goblins and the mare’s muted trembles, a new voice announced its presence.

“My, my, my. What do we have here…?”

[Inkfinger]

The mare let out a startled snort that drowned out Cael’s equally startled yelp. She minced to the side, the whites of her eyes visible, gleaming, in the muted light. The rocks beneath Cael’s boots shifted and ground together, and he scrambled to the side moments before the mare’s heavy forefeet stomped where his toes would have been.

He was too distracted to really pay the narrow miss any mind.

“Where,” he sputtered, shaking dripping hair away from his face, “did you come from?”

It was not, technically, the most polite way to phrase the question. Cael, technically, did not care. He was wet, he was tired, and he’d just been chased behind a waterfall by a crowd of chattering creatures they’d thought they’d lost. It wasn’t quite fair.

The man – Cael could only see his shadow, tall and slim, a blacker shadow in the darkness – chuckled, reaching out to take the mare’s lines from Cael’s unresisting hand. She tossed her head imperiously, but almost instantly began to calm. “I’ve been here, watching,” the old man said, in a voice that sounded like the stones themselves given life: rough, and aged, and dry. There was something sardonic in the words; teasing, but not quite malicious. “And I would’ve stepped in, too, if you’d not had the brains to get back here.” He tsked to the mare. “Silly young men these days…they never go for the easy way.”

In other circumstances, Cael probably would have made a snappish reply – the old man just had that sort of way about him. As it was, though, his very presence said more than his sarcastic words, said something that sapped his will to argue: there was a way out.

Ingwe shifted beside him. “Are you…” he began in semi-hushed tones, “the…”

“Dragon Hermit?” The old man cut Ingwe off, voice carefully calm, in a way that almost guaranteed he had one eyebrow raised. Ingwe nodded, and Cael almost winced. Something in the younger man’s stance spoke volumes, tomes of hope that transformed him into something bordering on child-like. It made Cael feel, abruptly, very old. Or, perhaps (given the present company) old wasn’t the proper term.

Maybe ‘cynical’ is closer…

“Oh. Oh, dear,” was all the man said, neither answering nor denying Ingwe’s query. “People have been talking again, have they? Well. I guess you boys had better come with me.”

The mare followed easily enough. She was almost prancing, a far cry from her earlier behavior, and Cael glared after her for a second. He was about to follow when Ingwe grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“Wait a moment.”

Cael didn’t move, staring after the man and the horse, disappearing further up the narrow shoal. “Is there a problem?” He asked, once he figured the man was far enough away that the rush of water and crunch of horse-hooves would cover the sound.

“Not as such,” Ingwe returned, carefully. “But he didn’t say for certain that he was the Dragon Hermit. I was simply going to say be careful.”

“Ah.” Cael grinned, dryly. “I, my dear Ingwe, was born careful. But taking care never seems to take care of me.” It didn’t help that all his belongings were not with him, but were, rather, beyond the falls, no doubt being picked clean by the goblins. “But I’ll keep my eyes open.”

That seemed to be enough. Ingwe moved then, steps careful but hurried, determined to catch up. Cael limped behind, content to just walk without hurrying or rushing or running for a change.

There was a bolder ahead, larger than the one Ingwe had advised him to hide the mare behind. The barest strip of solid ground separated the bolder from the swiftly current of the stream, and the mare’s hoof prints were both sunk deep in the damp sand, and filling with water. Beyond the bolder, the current continued on into the dark recesses of the cave. The sandy path, abruptly, stopped. There, at the path’s end, was a doorway carved into the wall. It was open, no true door set into it, and Cael could feel a breeze whistling from it. The breeze was warm in the cool damp, and it smelled: ozone and heat and dry, if dry had a smell.

The mare was no longer prancing now, she pressed against the old man with her head bowed, small tremors dancing over her soggy back. The old man had paused on the bottom step, and was working to tie the mare’s lines around an iron ring set in the door frame. There was light flickering up the stairs, a translucent blue that somehow seemed to match the smell, and it flickered on the man’s face.

From what Cael could see, he looked as old as he sounded; face set in wrinkles, though it was kindly, and his white hair was pulled back into a braid that nearly reached his waist. Cael couldn’t see his eyes, they were hidden behind something that made it look as if he didn’t have any, but his fingers were strong as they tied the leather reins tight. He looked up to see Ingwe and Cael watching him. White teeth gleamed in the cold light.

“It’s the dragons, you see. Horses can’t stand them, unless they’ve been trained to, and this girl,” he patted the mare’s nose, consolingly, “has probably never seen a dragon beyond a stone shrine statue." He sighed, sadly, and turned, heading deeper into the doorway. “Come along, then.”

Cael exchanged a look with Ingwe, who simply shrugged and obeyed.

The doorway opened onto a spiraled set of stairs, lit now and again with the blue crystals that were the source of the cold light at the foot. The stairs themselves changed, slowly, from dark stone to something that glimmered in the light like polished quartz. Ingwe looked to each crystal as they passed, examining one or two crystals per spiral. He fell back after the seventh, looking quietly impressed.

“I think they’re reflecting the light from above,” he whispered, peering after their guide’s back. “They’re getting brighter the higher we go…” They’d been walking a long time, and the old man showed no sign of slowing down. “See?” He pointed to the next crystal. “Isn’t that brighter?”

Sway, Thayne and all gods spare me from curiosity… The light almost hurt to look at. Cael eyed it, critically, before nodding, once. “It does look brighter…”

His words weren’t enough, apparently. Ingwe had to dart back down around the curve. Cael watched after for a moment, bemused, but not enough to protest. He’d take curiosity over being shot at any day. He just kept walking –

He should have paid attention. The light around the next bend was almost blinding. He threw up a hand, quickly, to block it from his eyes. There was almost no comparison. He heard Ingwe returning, and raised his hand to block Ingwe from the light too.

“I think we’re there,” was all he said, rubbing the spots from his eyes. “If that’s any indication.”

The smell had faded away, slowly, but Cael was just as glad they’d left the mare at the front of the stairs. The stairs were wide, she could have fit easily, but the idea of trying to get her to go back down almost didn’t bear thinking. He stood still, knowing that he was no longer in the stairwell even before he could see. There was a quality to the air now that left wherever here was feel bigger. Ingwe brushed past him with a murmured apology, following after their vanished host.

“…Cael, you’ve got to see this.”

“If I ever see again, you mean?” Cael griped, stepping through the doorway – and into pure daylight. The moment he stepped through the door, the muted rumble of the falls returned to a sheer, ferocious roar again, and he could feel the floor vibrating through his boots. He blinked the last of the gleam from his eyes to see their host standing before him, wringing his hands.

“I didn’t think about the crystals,” he said, apologetically. “I don’t have to worry about them...” His eyes were a sharp grey, and Cael almost frowned until he saw the goggles dangling around his neck. That was why he didn’t look like he had eyes! he realized, that small discomfort fading away entirely.

Their host was a strange looking man; taller than Ingwe but shorter than Cael and dressed like a Corone soldier: breeches the color of cream, smudged here and there with dirt, a crisp vest the same color as the breeches, beneath a tailcoat of emerald green. His boots were brown and scuffed, and his hands were covered with gloves that looked to be made of the same leather. They were even more scuffed than his boots. His face was wrinkled, but his eyes were young, and his white mustache moved when he smiled. He did so, at Cael again, before turning to fiddle with something, mumbling to himself.

That was alright, as it gave Cael a chance to examine the room without his scrutiny in return.

The room was huge, apparently carved out of the mountain itself. The front walls looked made of glass, two angled walls with a door set where they would join. Beyond the glass ran the untamed cascade of the falls, white and wild. The water and the glass refracted the light that pierced through into rainbows that played up and down the walls and across the floor. The back walls and floor were quartz, milky white with strains of blue stretched through like veins.

The room wasn’t divided physically, but Cael could tell that their strange host had an area for everything; there was a couch and table that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an upper-class house in Radasanth in one corner, set up over a rug that looked like it had been woven in Akashima. One corner held a pot-bellied iron stove that could have been an exact replica of his mother’s stove back home in Salvar, while the area around it was occupied by an unholy mishmash of books, jars, vials, sketches and objects that Cael couldn’t even begin to name, much less guess a use for. He ventured a glance at his traveling companion.

Ingwe looked fascinated, and almost as if he didn’t know where to look next – the bookshelf that took up a majority of one of the back walls, the door set in the middle of the glass walls, or the…

Well that's interesting...

“Hey!” Cael nudged Ingwe, pointing towards the ceiling. The ceiling towered above them - probably close to thirty feet up, if Cael had to guess - and was constructed of more of the glass. The falls thundered over it, but the open air was broken here and there with thin wooden bars. There were birds there, eagles and hawks and falcons roosting. “Hayate could’ve told us where to come…”

“Hmm?” The old man returned before Ingwe had a chance to answer, following Cael’s gaze upwards. “Ah! You’ve noticed. I study them. You know, birds are closer to dragons than probably anything else on the gods’ green world?” He beamed, beatifically, in the face of Cael’s skeptical glare. “They are, don’t give me that look. I’ve got facts to back it up!”

He bustled away again, and Cael, for the first time, realized that he had three separate colors in his hair – the white shaded to brown about at his shoulder blades, and from the brown it faded to a green the same color as his coat, an inch from the ends. And he had scales braided in! Scales and…feathers.

The look he gave Ingwe this time was a little bit more than bemused. Ingwe gave him a helpless shrug – and both men schooled their expressions into something less like schoolboys when the Hermit turned back around. He had a kettle worked in the shape of a dragon in his hands, and three cups set on the cluttered table. He smiled again, and held it out.

“Tea?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Thank you,” Ingwe replied with a courteous smile. He watched as the hermit poured a careful trickle of the liquid from the kettle, before accepting the proffered cup with both hands. A ginger dip of his tongue told him that the tea was bitter and strongly brewed, no doubt to the taste of the old man himself; he guessed that he would not be able to take more than a couple of polite sips, so powerful was its taste. The steaming liquid smouldered even through the thick clay, but to his surprise, the comforting heat that settled in the depths of his belly was just what his body needed after all the adrenaline-fuelled excitement.

“Um…”

Carefully watching Ingwe’s reaction, Cael was slightly more hesitant, but the hermit was a most insistent host.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have left you to the goblins out there,” he pointed out, almost pushing the drink into the scribe’s hand. “Besides, this’ll help to settle you down.”

Still Cael seemed unconvinced of the thick black fluid, until Ingwe discreetly nodded from behind the old man’s back to show that he hadn’t quite yet died from any poison. Only then did the Salvic inkmage reluctantly accept the tea, although the reassurance wasn’t enough to stop him from staring at it suspiciously as if it were liable to take physical form and strangle him at any moment. The hermit, however, seemed satisfied, turning away from his guests to pour himself his own drink.

Releasing in one long exhalation all the pent-up tension and apprehension that had built up within his chest, Ingwe took the opportunity to once again direct his gaze around the room. He found himself hard pressed to keep from simply gawping at the wonders that surrounded him… each of the tomes on the shelf was no doubt a treasured repository of arcane knowledge simply waiting to be perused, a member of a library of hidden manuscripts that rivalled the rarest of collections kept at the Academy in which he had studied. He wanted to pester the hermit with questions: what was the use of all the outlandish instruments that lay scattered in some unfathomable order about the room, how the mountain fastness had came to be constructed, and perhaps most pressingly, what the old man was doing in such a remote location in the first place.

A familiar squawk from above interrupted his chain of thoughts. Ingwe glanced upwards to catch Hayate’s golden eyes staring down at him from the rafters. The gyrfalcon seemed perfectly happy to preen himself amongst his comrades, occasionally letting out a contented croon to show that he appreciated the company. If the raptor recognised the slightly salty stare that his owner sent in his direction, he certainly didn’t let it show.

If you knew about this place, Hayate, you could have at least…

“So… you must be the scholarly one.”

Guiltily Ingwe snapped back to attention, to find a pair of silvery eyes peering at him with casual interest. They flicked to Cael, still staring at his tea in fascination…

“Or maybe you are…”

… and then back again,

“Or maybe you both are.”

The hermit grinned widely, revealing a full set of pearly white teeth. Setting the beautifully crafted kettle upon a hand-woven bamboo mat that lay on the low table, he quite literally shooed his guests into places on an antique regal settee that felt like it had not entertained visitors in a long while. In stark contrast, the knotted rug that the old man plopped himself down upon seemed a relatively new addition to his abode. Again Ingwe had to consciously keep himself from staring for too long at the pattern upon the piles… it looked so much like something from home…

“Ah!” the elderly voice piped up from his cross-legged seat, noting the young man’s interest. “Do you like it? I confiscated it from one of those goblin bands not so long ago… something’s stirring them up again. Something’s driving them to pilfer and thieve across the mountains. I catch them at it when I can, tell them off to teach them a lesson, but…”

He smiled indulgently, like a gratuitous grandfather who had just caught his progeny doing something not quite safe. Ingwe wanted to say something about the villages that had been burnt by those same goblins, and the crossbow bolts that had come extremely close to putting an end to the lives of those villagers that had escaped, before realising that his words most likely wouldn’t have the desired effect.

“Does that make you the Dragon Hermit, then?” the young warrior-mage asked in order to change the subject and divert it away from more touchy matters. It would be better to bring the most pressing issue out into the open rather than having it hang over their heads indefinitely. Cael’s shock of blonde hair seemed to perk up at the sudden question, his blue eyes refocusing on the subject at hand rather than the depths of his cup.

The older man simply blinked at them benignly. When Ingwe showed no signs of relenting his inquisitive glare, the reply that he was given was an innocent,

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

The young man sighed, feeling the frustration starting to mount.

“I heard the rumours in Scara Brae,” he began to explain, wondering in the back of his mind if the Dragon Hermit – there was no doubt within him that this strange old man was indeed the seer that he sought – had any reason for wanting to hide his identity. To ward off those who sought him, perhaps, so that he didn’t have to spend his entire life prophesising… but the merchant in the Auld Hoose never mentioned anything like that…

“If you need a question answered, or a person found, or the like, ask the Dragon Hermit, and he’ll tell you,” Ingwe quoted, ad verbatim, from what he remembered said merchant, one Corvyn McManus, boasting the previous night in the Scarabrian inn. He gestured emphatically, his hand sweeping the room from the books on the wall to the birds in the ceiling before ending up pointing at the dragon-themed kettle on the nearby table. “I mean… how could you not be?”

[Inkfinger]

“I knew you were the clever one.”

Cael opened his mouth to protest - the old man reminded him so strongly of his mother’s father that outrage seemed the only proper response – before he caught the mischievous glitter in the hermit’s eyes. He was teasing. Of course. Cael subsided back on the settee, enjoying the warmth soaking through the cup and into his fingers, watching Ingwe stand firm in his questioning.

It took a few moments of that constant stare, but the old man finally sighed, setting his cup down on the floor. “Clever and stubborn,” he groused, though there was no actual annoyance in his voice. “Can’t an old man have secrets any more?” The sentence ended so piteously, so plaintively, that Cael’s gaze snapped back to him, startled. Ingwe, for a second, looked as stricken as Cael felt when the man laughed again, refilling his tea.

“Young men these days, always in such a hurry.” He waved at Cael with his tea-cup, raising his white, narrow eyebrows at Ingwe. “That one,” Cael glowered at being spoken of as if he wasn't there, though he couldn't really find the will to protest. “Is especially bad at that. You, however…” he turned to speak to Cael now, conspiratorially, “He is as bad with confidence as you are at rushing into situations you do not fully understand...”

The traveling companions looked at one another as the Hermit sat up straight, taking a delicate sip of his tea. He smacked his lips, and let out a gentle sigh. “And, of course, Corvyn McManus needs to learn when keep his big mouth shut. Yes, yes, I am the Dragon Hermit.”

He maintained a serene expression through the sudden deluge of questions he’d unleashed upon his head.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Cael half-snapped, setting his cup down with a clatter of china that had the Hermit wincing. He kept going, his annoyance a descant to Ingwe’s excited questions.

“How does it work? Do you have visions?”

“We almost died trying to find you, twice, nearly got stomped on by some bleedin’ huge horse-”

“Are you a seer? Do you dream things, or…”

“-nearly got shot, and then you have to go off and argue, ‘No, I’m not, no, you’re crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about-’”

“Or can you actually talk to the dragons?”

The hermit arched a regal eyebrow, and set the teacup down again, waiting patiently for the twin threads of accusation and interrogation to trail off into an awkward, slightly breathless silence. Cael and Ingwe both glanced at one another, embarrassed.

“It doesn’t,” the hermit said matter-of-factly, “Work quite like that, and yet it works very much like that at the same time.” He ran his finger along the edge of the teacup, head titled to listen to the chiming. The look Cael exchanged with Ingwe this time was more confused than embarrassed. “The method depends on the day, and the case. Mostly I read.”

Cael blinked, toying with his cup. It was mostly full; he still couldn’t bring himself to drink more than a tiny sip at a time. “…Read, sir?”

“Yes, Cael, read. I read people like an open book…” He paused, eying Cael reproachfully. “Or, in some cases, like a rather unkind exposé of a well-respected military man.”

Cael coughed, ignoring Ingwe’s questioning glance. “And, uhm. How’d you know that was me, then?”

“You need a better pseudonym, Inkfinger.” The hermit smiled at him beatifically. “Or better soap.” Cael glanced at his multicolored fingers. They’d been stained so many years that he no longer even thought about them. New name indeed… He could even see a pile of newspapers from here, stacked haphazard next to the stove. So…he meant read both literally and figuratively, did he? “That wasn’t a very nice story, you know. Some places you could be arrested for slander.”

Cael sat speechless, knowing a reprimand when he’d heard it, while the hermit drained the dregs of his cup. The old man stood then, each joint cracking noisily as he rose. “I will speak to each of you boys alone.” He waved one long-fingered hand at Ingwe, every inch of his posture that of a displaced king. “You first.”

Ingew stood, almost too quickly, passing his teacup off to Cael. His hand was shaking ever so slightly, no doubt in some mixture of excitement and curiosity. Cael couldn’t hide a smile, watching the sprightly old man lead his friend to the table on the other side of the room, chattering away a mile a minute. The hermit returned the smile before he drew a silken curtain between them.

The room fell almost silent in their absence; the muted roar of the falls outside and the chirps and rustles of the bird roosting in the rafters were enough to block all but the faintest murmurs of conversation from behind the curtain. Cael flopped out full length on the settee, staring up at the birds. Or, mostly birds. There was a flash of sapphire and cream off in the far corner that almost looked like one of the dragonlings the Church back home used to carry messages…

…nah, couldn’t be. They don’t travel this far south…or over the sea. The thought made him uneasy all the same, and he crossed his arms over his chest, looking the other way. This way he could watch the water cascade over the glass, his mind drifting a million miles away.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Despite its outwards appearance of insubstantial delicacy, the curtain was far more secure than any normal wall; like a heavy veil it cut across the room and separated Ingwe and the Dragon Hermit from Cael. Barely had the fragile fringe gathered in a silky pool upon the polished wooden floor than the old man turned to face Ingwe, his weathered features set in an expression of resigned acceptance.

“First, I suppose I need to explain myself,” he sighed, eying the younger man cagily as if wary of what words Ingwe might speak. “Else you probably won’t believe a word of what I say. As I said before, I’m not exactly prescient. Most of what people want to know, what they want to hear, is written on the top of their faces. I’m merely adept at placing a talking mirror in front of them.”

“But still…” Ingwe began, slightly confused.

“That wouldn’t explain everything that I told Corvyn McManus? Knew you were the bright one…” The Dragon Hermit went off on a brief muttered tangent before regrouping with a chuckle, directing his gaze upwards towards the bundles of roosting feathers. “I get a lot of help from my friends… they can be terrible gossips at times. Rarely does anything happen that they don’t notice, and even rarer is the time when they’ll pass up the opportunity to tittle-tattle about it.”

Ingwe suddenly realised the root of the old man’s reticence: the Dragon Hermit wasn’t exactly comfortable with his reputation, and even more cautious about sharing his knowledge freely to all that came to ask. He supposed that such was the fate of all seers, no matter the strength of their powers – to be forever fearful of the effect that their foresight might have on the fate of the world. For a moment he almost sympathised with the solitary recluse.

Lost in his thoughts, the Nipponese warrior-mage almost missed the Dragon Hermit’s next words. Crouched before the fireplace in the corner of the room, ancient eyes lost amongst the glowing embers that had obviously provided heat to the abode throughout the night, the old man’s voice had a hint of weariness to it that wasn’t quite the same reedy teasing tone he had used on Cael earlier.

“And Corvyn… ah, Corvyn,” he chortled again, the brief illusion of tiredness on his features dispelled as quickly as it had appeared, such that Ingwe had to doubt that he had seen it there in the first place. “The face of the merchant Corvyn McManus is well known in Scara Brae. Not necessarily in the best of manners, mind you, but well known. As for how I knew where to find his nephew. Well, he and his lady friend weren’t necessarily quite circumspect with their trysts… and that particular swallow there was quite displeased with having her barn taken over by a pair of rowdy young people.”

Ingwe’s dark eyes followed the imaginary line that the gnarled finger indicated into the rafters, settling upon the brightly coloured bird whose slender form seemed almost out of place next to the bulkier figure of his own familiar. Hayate’s glowing amber eyes met his, and for a moment human and gyrfalcon engaged in silent conversation.

“So you’re not a prophet…?” the young man finally asked, his gaze not wavering from the lively chatter of the roof beams. The Dragon Hermit took his time to reply, before stating simply and matter-of-factly,

“I can tell you what you want to know… no more, no less.”

Ingwe paused thoughtfully, caught up in hesitant internal debate. On one hand, he desperately wanted – needed, even – to know. On the other, he found himself suddenly scared, despite all that he had gone through to get this far. What if he didn’t like what he heard? What if he was told that…?

“I think…” the young man began in a whisper, before marshalling his courage at last. “That will do.”

The Dragon Hermit had not missed one instant of the young man’s indecision, the lack of confidence and self-belief painfully obvious to his knowledgeable gaze. The seer sighed, aware now of just what he had to say. “Fine.”

Steely grey peered deep into gentle black, arresting Ingwe’s gaze by sheer force of will. The young man felt himself been irresistibly drawn into the swirling depths of the vast pool of wisdom they harboured, a sensation akin to drowning – albeit quite pleasantly – in his own consciousness. The shadows danced playfully over his youthful face, glowing embers reflected in dark brown irises; his hair glinted copper under the influence of what flowing lighting sifted through the ever-shifting cascade of water that formed the wall behind the seer.

For a moment, even the birds above seemed silent… or perhaps it was that whatever spell the Dragon Hermit was weaving simply did not allow stray sound to seep through. From nowhere the pleasant aroma of some form of incense wafted past Ingwe’s nose, a distinctively pungent scent that had most assuredly not been noticeable before.

At length, the Dragon Hermit began to intone, a deep and powerful voice that was somehow both gentle and powerful at once. The old man had his eyes closed now, but even then Ingwe somehow felt that every last part of his soul was being observed at once.

“You’ve come a long way from home, Ingwe Helyanwe. I’ll use your pseudonym for now, but it’s not a good idea to keep hiding from your true self, you know…

“You’re looking for a lost friend. I can’t tell you where she is or what she’s doing, but I can say this… you look like quite the intelligent young man, scholarly and all. The land of Raiaera would likely be your best bet… if you can convince the elves of Istien to your side, then they may be able to help you in finding her. They might even know for sure where she is and what she’s doing.

“Also, that bird of yours… you do know that it isn’t natural, right? It’s a familiar… it’s an arcane construct feeding off your powers to maintain itself in this world. Whoever crafted it is an absolute master at his craft… I’ve never seen such skill and precision. Even the birds seem to think that he’s one of their own.”

Abruptly, Ingwe felt himself released from the reverie, jolting back to reality with a bone-jarring bump that nearly knocked his spectacles from his nose.

“Wai… what…?” he began, slightly confused, but the Dragon Hermit merely winked at him and moved to usher him away.

“Think about it,” the old man urged as he literally pushed Ingwe through the silk curtains again. “After all, you’re the smart one, aren’t you?”

Ingwe could only blink from behind his thick glasses. The Dragon Hermit took advantage of the momentary shock to beckon Cael through.

“And now, as for you…”

[Inkfinger]

This feels almost exactly like being called to the headmaster’s office.

Cael rubbed the almost-doze from his eyes and stood, shaking the rumples out of his jacket as he did. Ingwe looked alright, if contemplative and confused, so he obeyed the hermit’s crooked finger calling him forward. The curtain whispered, sibilant, as the old man drew it closed again, returning to sit next to the fireplace. Cael stood for a moment, awkward and unsure, before the hermit huffed irritably.

“Sit down. You’re making me feel short.”

Cael sat down with a thump on the other side of the fire, arms around his knees, the warmth of the stonework seeping through his clothes. The hermit yawned, tugging at his long mustache before he finally spoke. “I think we’ll take a different approach with you, my boy.”

“Pardon?”

“We’re doing this differently from your friend. I could find his answers one way, I can find yours another.” He twisted the silvery strands around his finger, watching Cael carefully. When he spoke again, his voice was teasing. “So how long have you been on your own, anyway?”

Cael blinked. Alright, that’s just uncanny. “I beg your pardon?”

The hermit smiled, wryly. “Your coat. The blue one? Currently out in my waiting room?” Cael winced at the thought. All his belongings were still out there, no doubt being shot up and stolen by goblins. “It’s alright, they won’t venture that far in,” the hermit continued, as if reading his face. “They’re afraid of me. But I recognized the work. He’s been making coats out of that fabric for at least the last thirty years. So I ask again, with clarification: how long ago did old Tan cut you loose?”

“You know Tan?” Cael stared, watching the hermit shift to a more comfortable position, feeling his brain shift gears. Maybe he’ll actually know something, then. “But…”

“You get to be my age, and you’ll know half of creation too. Answer the question!”

“About a month and a half ago,” Cael finally said, feeling the slight taint of bitterness sliding through him again. The esoteric old mystic hadn’t kicked anyone else out of the group when he’d ordered Cael out on his own– only him, the Inkmage’s own apprentice. “And I haven’t a bloody clue where to go now.”

“Understandable. The same old spiel, right? That from now on you don’t need a teacher; you need to find things on your own?” Cael nodded. The old man curled his mustache once again. “Difficult. In this age, everybody wants the flashy things that make people die and earn them a lot of money in the process. There’s not much call for paper cranes…”

Cael shrugged one shoulder, fingering at the clumsy stitching of his shirt sleeve. “So? I didn’t. I didn’t even ask for those. I didn’t even know I could do that. He just…shoved stuff at me and…I knew how to make it work.” He let go of the frayed yarn and crossed his arms across his chest, trying – and no doubt failing – not to sulk.

“I never said you should,” the hermit returned, testily. “So you might want to try…” He drifted off, slowly, staring at the fire as if fascinated. The flames caught in his eyes, made the grey look closer to molten silver.

He almost looks entranced… The idea sent a shiver down Cael’s back despite the warmth of the fire. He was just about to reach out and nudge the old man when he abruptly shook his head on his own, blinking.

“Salvar,” he said, voice a sing-song sigh.

“…Salvar?” Cael shook his head, frowning slightly. “No, see, Salvar’s home. I came from Salvar.” The hermit raised an eyebrow, clearly thinking something along the lines of tell me something I don’t know. “No one there has even heard of – of onmyodo, or Ink Magic, or anything like this, believe you me. I came of age surrounded by paper, after all.” Maybe he’s just…trying whatever he was trying outside. Misdirection. He doesn’t want me to know something. “You don’t have to give me a whole country, see, I just want to know the general direction. Just enough so I know whereabouts I’m supposed to look next…”

The hermit sighed, deeply, and shook his head. Something had changed in his demeanor in the last few seconds, so subtle and yet so profound that Cael couldn’t put his finger on it. “That’s the problem, Cael,” he said, his voice stern. “No matter what you ask me, no matter what I tell you, it’s always going to result in you biting off more than you can chew.” Soft grey that somehow still appeared as hard as tempered steel cut him to the quick, like the hermit was staring into his very mind. He squirmed under the scrutiny, fingers playing with the frayed string again. “You’re never satisfied until you’re juggling seven disasters.”

…and there he’s got you dead to rights.

The hermit let out a short, two-toned warble that Cael would have known in his sleep – he’d heard his brother practicing it for months, after all. The flash of sapphire and dun he’d seen in the rafters reappeared in a streak of glittering scales that pulled up right before it would have dove into the floor. The hermit smiled as the dragonling - a wiry, serpentine thing with a face like a reptile and a lion at the same time - curled around his arm, whiskered head resting on his shoulder. “I believe you know Charlemagne.”

I do not like where this is going.

“Studies, hermit.” He stressed the first word, trying to maintain a steady stare in the face of what felt an awful lot like a railroading. “I just want to know where to go in my studies. If you can’t tell me that, I’ll just le-”

“When was the last time you went home?” The hermit interrupted without seeming to realize that Cael had spoken. Cael let out an annoyed sigh, transferring the glare to Charlemagne. The dragonling just yawned at him, displaying an azure tongue and far too many wicked little teeth.

“Years. It’s not like it matters. The last time I was in Salvar I was almost murdered by a Baron.” He still had nightmares about the cliff, and his body would have the scars for the rest of his life.

“Yes. Baron… Krueger, was it? Of Aronia. North of Knife’s Edge?” Cael nodded, reluctantly, not even surprised by the hermit knowing that; not anymore. “And it was for…something you wrote.” Charlemagne let out a wheezing chirp that sounded almost like a giggle. The hermit clucked his tongue at the dragonling. “I’m beginning to detect a pattern.”

“It turned out to be true!” Cael pointed out. He was starting to feel outnumbered, which was ridiculous. One of them was a messenger dragon, for saint’s sakes!

“Yes.” The hermit nodded, thin lips twitching in a smirk. “But how about our friend in Corone? That was all lies and flimflam. You can’t go around flailing in the dark.” Cael found himself pinned by another steely glare. “Sooner or later, you’ll catch another tiger by the tail, stumble into another Baron.” His bony fingers deftly unwound the strings holding the missive tube to Charlemagne’s leg. “You need to be a little more…deliberate.”

Cael eyed the tube warily. “What is that?”

“Nothing.” The hermit displayed the empty tube with a wry smile as Charlemagne rubbed its head against his cheek. “This, however…” he pulled a sheet of wrinkled, yellowing parchment from his pocket, holding it out to Cael.

Cael took it in cold fingers. It was written on the back of a feed requisition, half of the Church’s seal still visible on the top, and the ink was blotched and smudged in a way that made him pretty sure this wasn’t a fake. No one held a pen just like his brother.

“He needs you,” the hermit said softly, without taking his eyes off the dragonling.

Cael could have cried. The old man was right: the hastily scribbled note was practically begging (no specifics, the way most people in Salvar learned to write these days out of necessity; one never knew who might get the letter before the intended recipient) for him to come home, and soon. And his eldest brother never begged. Cael felt the guilt start forming, accreting like snowflakes on his conscience.

“This isn’t training,” he growled, mostly as a last resort. His protest was met with that calm stare and a shake of the hermit’s head.

“No. It’s your country, and your family.”

Ouch. Twist the knife a bit more, why don’t you?

“I thought you said I was too impulsive already!”

“You are,” the hermit said, the epitome of cool, “but about all the wrong things. Take a look at something bigger than a paycheck, something bigger than your training. You were good with the little girl…think of all the kids in Salvar.”

Cael stared down at the note, trying not to. Suspicions danced at the sides of his brain, narrowed his eyes to stare back at the old man. “What have you seen?” What do you know that I don’t?

The dragon hermit shrugged, fluidly, but his answer seemed a bit too quick for it to be the entire truth. “Bits and pieces of unimportance. I only know that if you’re serious about your ‘studies,’” he drew quotes in the air with his fingers. Charlemagne chuckled again. “Your path leads you right back…home.” His strong voice faltered on the last word, but by the time Cael looked back his face was as mild as ever.

“Home, huh?”

You’re going to regret this…

The hermit nodded emphatically. “Yep.”

Cael hesitated for just a moment longer, worrying the note between his fingers. If he didn’t go, and something happened, he would spend his entire life feeling guilty about it. If he went and nothing happened, he would have the right to ignore everything Ludvik ever said again. He finally sighed.

“You don’t happen to have a book I could borrow, or something?” Anything?

“About onmyodo? Possibly. Probably.” The old man positively beamed, chucking Charlemagne under the chin. The dragonling just looked smug, as if it and the hermit had just won a manipulative battle Cael couldn’t – and didn’t want - to understand. “I can look before you leave.” He was still grinning when Cael stood. “It all works out alright in the end,” he heard the hermit whisper to the dragonling as he headed for the curtain. He didn’t turn, though – he was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to hear. “I promise.”

Promise or not, it didn’t make Cael feel any less worried as he stepped out of the curtain, the hermit close on his heels. “There,” said the hermit, quickly shoving past Cael, the dragonling still wrapped around his arm. “That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

The stars seemed particularly bright late that night as they shone upon the motionless treetops. The cascading sparkle of water about him was the only motion in the scenery with the exception of the occasional sustained breath of wind. Ingwe sat upon an open-air balcony that was largely protected against the spray of the falls – and against an accidental plummet hundreds of metres into the pool below – by a sturdy metal fence, but that didn’t prevent him from huddling with his back against the inside wall so that he wouldn’t quite have to focus on the distance to the ground.

He didn’t know exactly why he’d felt the need to sit outside, to sense the fresh air on his face and to bask in the unwavering beauty of the heavens above. He supposed, however, that it was similar to why Cael had decided to take the winding staircase to the base of the falls to see to the mare… a need to be alone, to reflect in private upon the wisdom that the Dragon Hermit had imparted. Ingwe wondered briefly whether it was a natural human response, or whether it was one that was relatively unique to the scholarly types like Cael and himself.

Yuka would have talked about it… I think. The fact that he couldn’t have conviction in his thoughts suddenly chilled him to the bone.

He wanted to write in his journal, but he didn’t know where to begin. The hermit’s words resonated like haunting echoes within his mind, alternating between making clear logical sense and sounding as complete gibberish. Ingwe simply wanted to be rid of them onto paper where he might actually stand a chance in deciphering their meaning, but he could not understand them well enough to do even that.

Why Raiaera? Why Istien? If what I’ve read is accurate, then I would likely have a better chance in Alerian Ettermire to find out something useful…

… unless the old man knew something that he didn’t. The problem was, whatever that knowledge could be, the hermit certainly wasn’t telling; all throughout the long day, whether haphazardly trying to cook for three or proudly showing off his valuable collection of antique tomes, the recluse had very neatly avoided any and all further questioning regarding both himself and his prophecies. Cael had given up by noon, exasperated, and Ingwe had resignedly followed suit not long later.

“And are you really a summon, and not a real bird…?”

The gyrfalcon that perched on his forearm eyed him steadily in response to the whispered query, bright irises of unyielding gold seeming to question Ingwe’s intent in asking. After all, the pure white ruff beneath the young man’s fingers was as soft and feathery as ever, and the calluses on his fingers where Hayate had nipped him just as hard. It wasn’t as if the knowledge – whether it was true or not – would change anything about their relationship.

And yet… the impact that it could possibly have on his powers…

Yamato-sensei must have had this in mind… otherwise…

“You look like you’re thinking hard.”

Ingwe nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden voice in his ear. The Dragon Hermit’s response was a cheeky grin nearly as wide as the panoramic nightscape that extended towards the far horizon from their aerie perch.

“If you start thinking too hard, your brain boils within your head, you know. Nasty stuff,” the old man advised, eliciting a perplexed expression from the young Nipponese. “Then again, I suppose some people in this world just don’t know any better…”

Oh. He’s teasing me, Ingwe realised a bit belatedly, earning himself a sympathetic croon from his familiar. It had been a long time indeed since he had last been treated such.

“Tell me, scholar,” the Dragon Hermit started to speak again, and Ingwe immediately caught the change of undertone within the old man’s voice. Not quite whimsical, not quite nostalgic, but bearing a somewhat musing quality nonetheless. The reversion to his mystic roots was so sudden that the younger man was somewhat caught by surprise. “When you look out upon the world, what do you see? Do you see the places, the pretty scenery? Or do you see what’s actually happening out there, the events that occur to shape past and future?”

Ingwe paused to think before answering. Was this another test, one of the Dragon Hermit’s games? In any case, he had to choose his words cautiously if he wanted to make a good impression…

“Neither… I think…” he hesitated, trying to compose his thoughts. Similar to his old Academy tutors, the old man certainly had the knack of putting him on the spot with difficult questions.

What do I see when I look out on the world…

“People.”

As soon as the word left his lips, Ingwe realised that this would take some careful explanation. Especially as the treetop vista that was mapped out below him was, on the surface at least, completely devoid of intelligent presence.

“I see people… the people I know, the people I don’t, the people that are part of me, the people who aren’t. Every time I look around me, I’m reminded of why I must continue on my quest. Even if my world is saved… if everyone I care about is dead, then I die too.” Because I wouldn’t be able to live with the knowledge and guilt of my survival. I hope that everybody’s still alive and well after what happened that night in Nippon…

The hermit grunted in terse acquiescence, and Ingwe snapped back to reality with a start, wondering briefly if that meant he agreed.

“You can never flee the influence of others, can you…” the elder’s ancient baritone echoed through the night, lost in thought. “Always drawn towards something or another, never being given the chance to escape from the inevitable… a bit like dying, that.”

Ingwe thought that a touch on the dark side, even for his notoriously pessimistic sensibilities.

“… or living, isn’t it?” he countered, gentle brown eyes challenging his more experienced companion. The Dragon Hermit matched them with stony slate grey for a long moment, considering the young man’s unexpected determination, before slowly nodding.

“Aye, I suppose. The difference being… how do you approach such a life?”

“With your best at every turn,” Ingwe smiled shyly, his reply delivered however without hesitation. He remembered a similar conversation he’d had with Yuka not long before she’d left, only that time she’d been the one doing the convincing. It felt strange to be on the other side of the argument, but that was just how much of an influence she’d had on his life, and one of the reasons why he was determined to do so much for her now. Only one of the reasons, mind, but one of the most important ones nonetheless. “What else can you do?”

“What else indeed?” The Dragon Hermit laughed, low and humble as if surprised by the secreted nugget of wisdom. He paused, then chuckled again, shaking his head to himself. Still reacting as if he had been reminded of something important from the most unlikely of sources, the old man turned to leave, depositing one last phrase in his wake.

“Good luck, son.”

Ingwe was left with the faintest of feelings that the Dragon Hermit wasn’t telling him something, something important. But the young man knew that it was no use to dwell on the subject; Hayate’s golden eyes, glinting gentle gleams in the moonlight, only served to encourage him to let go. With a quick gesture to nudge the gyrfalcon into the skies, Ingwe let his thoughts slip away like a fleeting breeze into the night.

His consciousness followed soon later, leaving the stars smiling upon the figure huddled in slumber amongst the cascading waterfalls.

[Inkfinger]

“You’ll be careful with these, right?”

The dragon hermit all but hovered the next morning, hands behind his back, Charlemagne wrapped around his neck and shoulders like a scaly scarf. The dragonling’s sapphire scales glittered in the sunshine streaming through the skylights. Cael rolled his eyes as he bent over his pack, certain the old man couldn’t see him.

“Yes. Of course I will.” He slid his notebook into its place, shoving crumpled paper, capped pens and trail-dirty clothes out of the way as he did. “I know how to treat books.” He looked down at the bent and tattered cover of his notebook, and amended. “…when I’m not supposed to be pulling pages out of them, at any rate.”

“Good,” the hermit shot back primly, still hiding whatever he was carrying. Charlemagne snorted a tiny puff of air that mimicked the hermit’s disdain. “Only books of their kind, these…”

Cael had seen the large imprint on the one’s back, before the old man had decided to play coy with them. It had been a large crisp imprint, stark black against the varicolored cover; an imprint that Cael knew well. Translated literally, it meant one of five-hundred. In the bookbinding business, it was shorthand for one of more than we felt like counting. He smiled, regardless. “I don’t doubt it!”

The old man had been helpful already. He’d given them a place to sleep that night, while he went through the bookcases. Granted, Cael had spent half of it in the caves, half of it curled up on the too-short couch, listening to the old fellow natter on to the dragonling. Ingwe had yet to appear from the waterfall balcony where he had stayed – and doubtless slept better - but it had been a place to stay.

The hermit finally drew his hands from behind his back, displaying two books. One was the thin, multicolored imprinted hardback, a child’s picture book at first glance. The other…

The other was a thick tome, bound in rich emerald leather, with raised, gold-etched letters marching up the spine. The hermit set the first book down on the table, and flipped through the tome, displaying page after page of onion-paper, each sheet filled with tiny, perfect print and detailed, step-by-step diagrams. Cael’s fingers itched just to reach out and snatch it up, to devour the pages within. He managed an appreciative grin when he noticed the hermit looking at him, white eyebrows raised.

“That is an-”

The book flipped closed with a decisive snap, the hermit holding it between his hands. The next time he flipped it open, the book was empty. The pages were still there, delicate papers two shades lighter than creamy butter, but the writing and diagrams had vanished. Nothing remained but the page numbers. Cael’s sentence ended in a wordless squawk of protest.

“Don’t worry,” the old man cackled at Cael’s dismayed expression. He pulled the second book off the table, drawing it to Cael’s attention. It was tall and thin and narrow, with brightly colored symbols decorating the dust jacket. He handed it to Cael, who read the cover dubiously.

“My First Book of Ink Magic? Are you jokin’? This is a child’s book…”

“Mhm!” The hermit seemed delighted. “And if the words are gone in this one, it means you need that one. The men who wrote these books were clever, very clever indeed, you know.” His thin lips crooked in a wide smile, and Cael suddenly, somehow, knew he’d had a hand in its creation. Somehow.

“Once you master all of the First Book,” the hermit tapped a boney finger on the larger book. Cael craned his neck to read the title. A Complete Compendium of Advanced Onmyodo. “The words in this one will come back.” He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You never were a scout,” Cael muttered sotto voce as he flipped My First Book of Ink Magic open. He had to admit, there were a few things in the child’s book he’d never heard of before – and four or five new shapes for It, though there seemed to be a warning on the bottom of that section. He frowned at the elaborate symbols. Raising a shi…shiki-something…is advised only under supervision…wonder if that’s what It is?

“Eh?” said the hermit, drawing Cael out of his reading. Cael froze for a moment, and then smiled sweetly.

“I said, you’ve really helped us out,” he lied, smoothly, flipping the book shut. He slipped it into his pack, letting the sketchbook protect it from the clothes and ink-smeared missives. He held out his hand for the Compendium, smile almost growing brittle on his lips. He liked the older man, he really did, but something…

Something in their personalities was too close. They were grating on each other’s nerves like misaligned gears, grinding at the edges, and the Hermit – with his age and wisdom and affable personality – was only going to come out on top in any battle of the wills.

The Hermit’s shrewd eyes never flickered, but Cael knew he’d seen the lie. He pushed the empty compendium into Cael’s waiting fingers regardless. “My pleasure, Caelric” he said brightly. “You boys will have to stop in again sometime.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Cael returned dryly, carefully packing the compendium with the First Book. “It’s certainly been…” He searched for the proper word, suddenly painfully aware that he didn’t know the hermit’s name. “…enlightening.”

That wasn’t a lie. And, perhaps, sometime he could come again – sometime when he didn’t have to march back to the homeland he’d sworn to never set foot in again. The idea, however, drew a fresh row of niggling thoughts through his mind. They were reaching the end of their journey. He was going to be on his own again.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be staying for breakfast?” The hermit asked, in a tone that indicated he would, in fact, be highly insulted if Cael said no. Cael opened his mouth to respond – and shut it again, just as quickly.

“I…guess we could?” He shrugged, waving toward the door. “I’d have to ask Ingwe…” The diversion would be a distraction from the thought of parting ways. It may have only been a short while, but he’d grown used to having the scholar-mage around. It had been nice to have actual verbal conversations, instead of the one-sided talking he tended to do with It.

The hermit didn’t answer. He merely shooed Cael towards the balcony, already puttering off towards the stove. Cael watched him banging pans around for a moment before he pushed the heavy metal door open. The sound of the falls roared back through, vibrating his teeth, and the spray dampened his face in a rainbow of diffused sunlight. Ingwe leaned against the wall next to the door, head buried in his arms. Hayate sat perched on his master’s elbow, his eerily intelligent golden eyes fixed on Cael.

“Ingwe,” Cael said, just loud enough to be heard over the falls, reaching out to shake the younger man’s shoulder. “Time to wake up. The old fellow’s offerin’ breakfast, if we’re interested…”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Ingwe woke up uncharacteristically slowly, even with Cael shaking insistently upon his shoulder. The sensation was akin to swimming through a dark morass of incoherent thought, striving for the surface and that all-important breath of fresh air. For a moment all he could think was that he had been dreaming a dream, a warm and soft dream from which he didn’t want to…

“Ouch!”

Hayate, deciding that enough was enough, gave him a good hard peck on the wrist – not sufficiently deep to draw blood, but certainly eliciting the desired reaction from his human companion. Ingwe nearly leapt awake, trying to blink away enough of the sleep in his eyes in order to mumble an inarticulate greeting to a bemused Cael, who himself had ducked out of the way just in time.

“Breakfast?” the ink-mage repeated, and Ingwe nodded in belated understanding, signalling in not so many words that he would be along as soon as he had tidied himself up somewhat. Sleeping on the outside balcony had not been a good idea in more ways than one; his cloak was damp with morning dew and his glasses were splattered with spray from the falls. Not to mention that he had a very bad case of bed hair from lying awkwardly against the inside wall for most of the night.

He waited until Cael had disappeared back inside the cliffside dwelling before removing his glasses and plunging his head into the falls, letting the force of the falling torrent sweep away all traces of sleep from his face and his mind. The water was cold and clean and crystal clear, whispering tantalising hints into his ear as he closed his eyes to try and remember what exactly it was he had been dreaming about. However, he was no closer to discovering the answer to his question by the time he removed his head from the raging river, the muscles in his neck unable to withstand the sheer power behind the relentless rapids any longer. All he could recall was that it had been faintly nostalgic, and very, very bittersweet.

Dabbing at his slick black hair with a towel retrieved from his backpack, Ingwe at last deigned to re-enter the hermit’s abode, almost immediately embarrassed by his stomach growling in pleasant anticipation of the meal. Hayate took the opportunity to join his fellows in the rafters overhead, while the hermit hailed him with a greeting as he danced energetically around the cooking fire and sent tantalising aromas wafting throughout the room. Cael, on the other hand, had found the time to bury his eyes in what looked like a picture book, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

Deciding that it would be rude to interrupt, Ingwe turned his own attention to the rows-upon-rows of books stacked high in the Dragon Hermit’s bookshelves. He’d spent some time browsing them the previous day while the old man had been talking to Cael, and had been greatly impressed by the sheer variety of the selection; there had even been a couple of tomes he’d recognised from the Academy library back in Nippon, and he doubted that even the kami knew how they’d made it so far across the seas. He could have easily spent weeks if not months there, buried nose-deep in the extensive lore and literature contained within such a small and obscure location, but…

“Now’s not the time for that, young’un.”

Ingwe spun on his heels to find the hermit staring at him intently, heedless of the bacon that was beginning to char in the pan he was holding. Cael glanced up briefly at the sound, decided that the words had nothing to do with him, and re-applied himself to his own book; Hayate, on the other hand, crooned gentle agreement from overhead.

“There’ll be plenty of time later, and in far grander surroundings than these. For now, though, there’s nothing…”

The old man sniffed once as he spoke, unintentionally inhaling deeply of the smoke that was beginning to waft upwards from his cooking. Choking exaggeratedly, his words trailed into nothingness as he turned his attention to dealing with the minor culinary catastrophe he’d created, leaving Ingwe to contemplate the bookshelves once again with a vaguely mystified expression on his features.

Not for the first time he wondered how far he could truly trust the hermit’s ramblings, before almost instantly dismissing his worries as he had done on many occasions previously. He had come here for advice, and had received it… what else could he do but follow it to the best of his ability? In the end, Raiaera… and Istien… were as good a clue as anything he’d found since arriving in the west.

On the other hand, he would be sad to have to say farewell to his newfound travelling companion. The thought suddenly hit home that, barring the return trip to Scara Brae, he and Cael would most likely soon be parting ways; it was sobering to realise that within a couple of days, he and Hayate would once again be journeying on their own in their speculative search for his long-lost friends. He did his best to bury the rising tide of solitude beneath a well-practiced litany – I’m used to being alone, this’ll be no different from all the other travels I’ve had… – and ignored the fact that he still had to forcefully quash the insistent little voice in the back of his mind that protested otherwise. If it was one thing that Ingwe Helyanwe absolutely excelled at, it was in the heavy-handed oppression of his own feelings.

Oh well, the young man sighed, rallying to the occasion. The very least I can do is say farewell with good grace. I hope… I hope he can see me as a friend, even after all we’ve been through.

“Ingwe!”

Blinking in surprise, the young man whirled around on his heels for the second time in as many minutes, only to find both Cael and the Dragon Hermit staring at him impatiently. It took barely a moment for his mind to connect their keen gazes with the heaped plates waiting to be devoured in front of them… and at that, his own stomach joined in the anticipation with another, very audible, growl.

Directing an apologetic, sheepish smile at them from over the rims of his glasses, Ingwe quickly hastened over to where they were waiting for him.

[Inkfinger]

Cael almost couldn’t hide the chuckle. The disapproving look on the Hermit’s face was a mirror of the one he’d received just moments ago, when he tried to bring the picture book to the table.

“Do you have any idea what bacon grease does to books?”

“Yes.”

“Then put it back, blast it!”

Once Ingwe joined them, Cael finally picked up his fork, looking imploringly at the old man. He’d tried to start eating the moment he discarded the book, only to have his hand slapped with the serving spoon. The hermit fixed him with a pointedly hard look – and then nodded, the thin line of his mouth softening in a grin.

It was actually surprisingly good. The bacon – once the old man had cleaned up the few pieces he’d managed to burn to a crisp – was perfect, and there was some strange spice in the eggs that made them taste like edible fire. There was some sort of orangey-pink juice, and milk, and water to counteract the heat; and hot buttered toast, and the mushrooms that seemed to be everywhere on this island when he ate. He avoided those. He’d never liked mushrooms.

“So!” The hermit was finished before either of the younger men. He pushed his plate to the side in a scrape of porcelain against wood, and plunked his elbows down on the table. “Where are you boys heading next?”

Cael looked at Ingwe, who gave a slight shrug. He swallowed a mouthful of toast, took a gulp of water to clear his throat – and shrugged back. “Probably towards Scara Brae…then I’m heading for Salvar.” He raised an eyebrow, next fork of eggs poised. “You of all people should know that.” Granted, you also know I want to go back there about as much as I want a new hole in my head.

“Perhaps.” The hermit’s eyes gleamed above his equally-bright smile. “But many are the times I give advice and have it ignored outright, after all the trouble people take to find me.”

“There, that.” Ingwe now leaned forward, curiosity in every line of his youthful face. “People come looking for you all the time. We found you thanks to Corvyn, but…” He paused, frowning just a bit before he finished. “He didn’t strike me as the type to go to all this effort for what seemed like…well, such a small problem…”

The hermit wiped his mouth daintily with his napkin, picked up his plate, and pushed his chair back. “Maybe,” he said, his voice halfway between sly and dry, “just maybe, the path depends on the person.” He winked, stood, and disappeared through the door Cael thought led to the larder, leaving Cael and Ingwe alone at the table.

“Well, how do you like that?” Cael grouched, stabbing a toast solder with his fork and munching on it irritably. “Depends on the person, my foot. I bet Corvyn just made the trip when he was drunk, didn’t notice he was walking.”

Ingwe was quiet, gazing towards where the hermit had vanished. He slowly shook his head, forehead creased. “I…almost think I believe him.” Cael snorted, and Ingwe’s dark eyes flickered to his. “No, Cael, think about it. He’s clearly a magician of some sort…” That was precisely the way Cael hadn’t wanted to think. He knew, deep down, that it really was the only reasonable explanation, but at the same time…who wanted to think there was a magician that powerful? “Can you imagine? The amount of concentration something like that must take…”

Cael shivered. “I’d rather not,” he admitted quietly. “Reminds me too much of the stories back home. The Sway and all that…wars have been started and won over and with that sort of power…”

“No wonder he’s a hermit…” Ingwe breathed, eyes again drawn towards the larder door. “People could ask him anything.”

“Or,” the hermit’s voice rose, snappishly, from the other side of the door, “he could simply say things like that to throw off people who look too far into things. There is more than one path through these mountains. You lads chose the most difficult!”

Cael shook his head, chuckling – and he could tell from Ingwe’s expression that he believed that lie about as much as Cael did. “Of course, sir,” he called back, using the last soldier to mop up the rest of the eggs. “Of course.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Anything?”

An hour or so later, the two young men stood once more in the cave behind the waterfall, Cael holding tight to the mare’s reins as Ingwe carefully peered outwards for signs of goblin ambush. The cascading torrents of crystal clear water made it difficult for him to see or hear, his senses completely distorted by the flowing thunder, but not long after Cael’s shouted question, the young man was satisfied that there were none of the pesky green-skinned annoyances waiting for them. The Dragon Hermit’s gaze bore into his back, half paternal pride, half ‘I told you so’, and suddenly Ingwe found it very difficult to turn around.

He did so anyways, bracing himself for the brunt of the old man’s gloating.

“Nothing,” the Nipponese warrior-mage stated honestly, wincing inside under the sheer triumph of the look the hermit gave him. Cael seemed unabashedly relieved, however, and that lifted some of the guilt from Ingwe’s chest. “Still, we don’t know if they’ll try to follow or ambush us again…”

“They won’t,” the Dragon Hermit interrupted knowingly, back ramrod straight and finger raised as if lecturing a recalcitrant pupil. “They know better than to try to fight you again… you both reek of dragon.”

As one, Ingwe and Cael took surreptitious sniffs. Neither could smell anything out of the ordinary, and the mare seemed happy enough to be near them, but how much of an indicator that was of their vulnerability… The playful gleam in the old man’s grey eyes only served to fuel their suspicion.

“Still, it never hurts to be careful, I suppose,” the hermit smiled, and in that instant Ingwe resolved to be extra vigilant on the return leg of their journey. The weathered face of his host merely crinkled further in appreciation.

One last time, Ingwe took a look around the cavern, committing its splendour – and the splendour of the accompanying dwelling above it – to memory. If he ever had another chance, he would have liked to return at another time, in less of a rush and with more leisure to dawdle amongst the rare tomes and peaceful scenery. Somehow, however, he doubted that he would ever get the chance. He had a vague inkling in the back of his mind that told him the only people who found their way to the Dragon Hermit were those who had absolute need of his services, those who were fated to do so.

I wonder, then, if that was Corvyn McManus’s role in all this… to lead us to this very location… he wondered, only to snap out of his reverie when he realised that both Cael and the hermit were giving him strange looks.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he managed, saving face through quick thinking. Ingwe bowed low in the Nipponese manner to show his gratitude, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose with the momentum of his action. “It was an honour to be a guest in your abode.”

Alongside him, Cael awkwardly duplicated the bow; to their surprise, and especially to Ingwe’s, the Dragon Hermit proceeded to return it perfectly.

“The honour was all mine, young’uns,” their host replied gravely, before once again regaining his mischievous twinkle. “Now begone, before you badger me to death with your questions and eat me out of hearth and home!”

Ingwe and Cael obliged, shouldering newly replenished travel bags and testing well-rested muscles. Only when they paused at the edge of the pool, both instinctively hesitating at the thought of getting newly dried clothes wet again, did the hermit speak once more.

“I suppose you’d like to take the door this time?”

Grinning cheekily, the old man touched a section of the rock face by the staircase… a hidden panel activating some form of pulley system. Before the eyes of the amazed travellers, a portion of the waterfall seemed to part in two like a curtain being drawn, revealing a rocky path that, despite being treacherously wet, was a good deal more inviting than the manner by which they had entered the cavern. Ingwe and Cael exchanged glances of awe that very quickly turned to annoyance, before they whirled as one to confront the hermit.

“What the…!”

“Why didn’t…!”

The Dragon Hermit was already walking away, his laugh resounding powerfully over the deafening roar of the falls; opening the ‘door’ had disturbed the equilibrium of the sound within the cave, to the point that he could safely ignore the protests of the young men. The last they saw of their host was his broad back as he disappeared into the spiral crystal-strewn staircase, the rock slowly grinding shut behind him.

For a breathless moment Ingwe and Cael stood still, unable to relinquish the lingering sensation of belonging that the hermit’s abode gave off. Finally, they exchanged glances once more – this time comprised of a curious mixture of fondness and exasperation – and turned their attention to navigating the slippery path to the safety of the near shore. Only when they were securely lodged once more upon dry land did Ingwe dare to speak again.

“To Scara Brae, then?”

He smiled, and Cael smiled back.

“To Scara Brae,” the ink-mage agreed, and together they set off back through the morning forest.

***

“Sometimes, I wonder if what I’m doing is really okay.”

The old man was seated in front of the fireplace, arms folded beneath his chin such that his beard pooled like grey water in his lap. His stern gaze was lost in thought as it peered into the depths of the embers, seeking a truth there that perhaps even he could not find. The face in the flames, a younger and stronger version of his own, seemed to hesitate a moment before replying.

“That’s not like you, geezer,” it spoke, its ‘voice’ interspersed with the odd crackle of burning fuel. “When you taught me, you never showed or spoke of any regrets.”

“You’re you,” the Dragon Hermit snapped back, sparing a nostalgic smile for his former pupil and the long-lost days they’d spent together. “They’re them. In another life, neither of them would ever have considered lifting a blade in anger, much less going through what they’re about to go through now…”

The face sighed, hot air blasting into the hermit’s face. Although the old man couldn’t see it due to the nature of their communication, he knew that his disciple was rubbing at the bristly hairs at the nape of his neck, a telltale sign of his frustration.

“If it’s any consolation, the boss approves,” the voice tried to reassure, but his words had the opposite effect. The Dragon Hermit had sudden visions of their robed patron not only agreeing with him, but not engaging in her favoured mind games, either; a shudder of sickening strangeness ran down his spine. The thought was a disconcerting one, to say the least.

“Gah! Be off with you,” he responded grumpily, faking cantankerous temper to give him the excuse to wave the face away with abrupt finality. “And tell that dumb dragon that I said hi.”

The face laughed, nodded, and then abruptly disappeared. There was never any need for more elaborate ceremony between master and pupil.

For they both knew full well that farewells were not the Dragon Hermit’s greatest strength.

For a long time afterwards, the old man sat motionless, simply staring off into the night.

[Inkfinger]

The afternoon sun shone down with a clarifying brilliance, reflecting off the sea bright enough to sting Cael’s eyes. The faint breeze carried the sharp tang of sea salt and bilge water with it, a stark contrast to the earth and pine of two days ago and the living bodies and cookstoves of the last day. He stood on the docks, watching the Sway’s Sweet Rose prepare for departure with the typical bluster of a fishing vessel.

His belongings were packed up tight, the new books bound in oilcloth just in case of mishaps. One knapsack, one naginata. It wasn’t a lot to show for five year away from home - if he could really think of Salvar as home anymore. He wasn’t so sure that was possible. He’d seen too much in those years. He had grown too much to go back to being nothing but a scribe.

Paper rustled on his shoulder, and he looked down to see It fold its paper wings tight to its haunches. “You think too much,” it said, letters laden and heavy with silent criticism. “You all do. Stop planning so far ahead, just let life hit you and carry you along.”

“And if I don’t like where it’s carrying me? You told me I might not, remember?” Cael asked, returning the familiar’s stare for a moment before he caught a glimpse of pristine white and red out of the corner of his eye. He never saw It’s response. He was too busy waving. “Ingwe! Over here!”

The Nipponese mage-warrior hurried through the crowd, gracefully side-stepping a fisherman with a laden net to join him. He, like Cael himself, looked worlds better for the night in a real bed, the morning with real food – or, in Cael’s case, coffee.

“I thought I was going to miss you,” Cael said, the moment Ingwe was within hearing distance. He jerked his thumb at the Rose. It was a small fishing boat, not generally given to taking passengers, but it was the first boat heading home, and it would get him there faster than any of the big passenger schooners. He’d had to convince them that a) he knew his way around a fishing boat and b) he could (and would) actually pay before they actually agreed to take him on. “I guess this is goodbye…”

“Yeah…” Ingwe shifted from foot to foot, awkwardly, eyes fixed on Hayate. The great gyrfalcon was wheeling across the sky, white shining brilliant in the blue, tormenting flocks of gulls. The smaller birds scattered around him, screeling back their derision. “You’re returning to Salvar?” He asked, almost offhand.

Cael followed Hayate’s agile dance across the sky as he nodded – amending when he realized Ingwe probably wouldn’t see the nod. “Yeah.”

“And what will you do when you get there?”

That was the question. He might not have been home in years, but the stories coming out of Salvar, the internal strife and threats of all out war… “I don’t really know,” he finally admitted with an off-hand shrug. “I guess I’ll figure it out when I get there.” He looked back at Ingwe. The other man’s dark eyes hadn’t moved from following his bird, and, again, his face held that paradoxical mix of a child’s innocence with a sage’s knowledge and a warrior’s fire. He was going to miss him. “And you?”

Ingwe’s response came with a small shrug as he finally, almost reluctantly, looked back at Cael. “I’m heading towards Raiaera, I think.”

Raiaera. Quite possibly the only place Cael could think of that was full of worse news than home. He winced, wondering how much the younger man knew or had heard, and whether it was his place to tell. But, given the serious look in those eyes, he knew the road ahead wasn’t going to be easy to tread.

“Well, if you ever need…” Cael trailed off with a laugh, voice edged with a note of self-deprecation that made It nudge its pointed nose into the side of his neck in admonishment. “Well. Yeah, if you ever need help, and you can find me, I’ll be there as soon as I can…”

Awkward silence fell, broken only by the ebb and flow of the water beneath the dock, and the keening wails of the gulls. Hayate ceased to chase them, swooping down to alight on Ingwe’s outstretched arm. It was broken again by the Rose’s captain’s wordless call. Cael raised a hand in response, and turned back to Ingwe.

“Take care of yourself!” He ordered, holding his hand out. Ingwe’s return shake was more firm, more confident than the one they’d exchanged right after they’d met. Cael, in return, gave his friend a low, respectful bow.

“You too,” Ingwe said, softly. His bow was more graceful, but no-less respectful. Cael tossed him a lazy salute, picked up his back, and headed for the gangplank. He paused with one foot on the rough-hewn planks.

“You ever get tired of elves, want a taste of the snow,” he teased, with a wink over his shoulder. “You come look me up.”

He climbed the rest of the way aboard without looking back.

May fortune favor your footsteps, Ingwe…and fortune favor mine.






Spoils:
-My First Book of Ink Magic
A picture book of the basics of ink magic. Every spell must be mastered before the Compendium will hold it's words again, and there are three in it Cael doesn't know.
-The Ultimate Compendium of Ink Magic
A medium sized book with directions for a few spells Cael already knows, and a myriad of spells he hasn’t even started on yet. None of the text or diagrams, however, will return until he's got the First Book mastered.

[Silence Sei]

• STORY
.
(18/30)

Continuity (6/10) ~ While I got the gist of the main goals between both Cael and Ingwe, I felt I never really learned much about them on the whole. Inkfinger, your character seemed to do a better job of giving me more background than FoH. You consistently hinted at something bad Cael had done without ever making it it’s own post until the end, which kept me intrigued. FoH, I found that your references to finding your friend kept me hanging on, but I never actually saw why she had ‘disappeared’, if that were the case. Perhaps your character did not know in and of himself, but I was disappointed to never find out much more other than Ingwe was trying to find this woman, and that she was his friend during his studies.

Setting (7/10) ~ You both did pretty well in placing me in your setting. My only real qualm was within the first couple of posts. Despite the fact that I know the terrain of Scara Brae, I couldn’t help but think the two of you were leaving for a desert wasteland to begin with. The forest had just enough details in it to keep me satisfied and I really enjoy how the Dragon Hermit’s home was described. The caravan fight could have been done a bit better (there were times I had to re-read posts to confirm where Ingwe was as opposed to Cael and Bregolad. Since you both seemed to be able to visualize where the other had been placed, I didn’t dock you too hard for that.

Pacing (5/10) ~ You both averaged out here pretty well. I felt that I was learning about both Cael and Ingwe at a decent pace. As I stated in Continuity, I would have liked some more motivation behind FoH other than what seemed to have become a ‘rescue the fair maiden’ type of thing. I did enjoy how both of your characters started off distrusting of one another, but by the end of the quest were wishing each other safe journey. Foh, as far as a non-character development pacing went, you did better here than Ink. Just as I began to get enamored with something as much as Ingwe, you caused someone to jostle us out of out concentration. The bit at the end about the many different paths to the Dragon Hermit was classic. Overall, you both seemed to do what you were supposed to do, but nothing really stood out here either.

• CHARACTER ~
(17/30)

Dialogue (4/10) ~ I found the dialogue in this thread to be about average. Your conversations with one another and your NPCs seemed to really fit the bill, with only one major problem. Ink, I feel that you have to find a better way to refer to It in your writing, as well as his dialogue. Whenever It talks, I had to read the paragraph again to make sure it was indeed the origami familiar. Also the way you carried on the conversations with It took me out of the moment, due to the re-reading. I would suggest you use a colored font next time so the reader can differentiate you from the rabbit. I had a debate with myself whether to dock you here or in Clarity for this. I feel I made the right choice.

Action (8/10) ~ After a dull (but completely understandable) start, the action never really seemed to leave until the end. The paper crane distractions were genius, and using one of them to find the explosion powder was also great. FoH, I thought Ingwe probably should have had more damage done to him than a couple of arrows. After all, he was in the middle of a goblin raiding party at that point. I would have at least thought one goblin would be smart enough to chunck some of the volatile powder –at- Ingwe. I chalked this up to the fact that you both seemed to downplay the Goblins as smart strategically, but not in any other area. It did seem very fitting that Ingwe fufiled a bit of a hero role as he tried to save the caravan. Likewise, Cael’s worry for his newfound companion kept me fearing for the man’s safety as well.

Persona (5/10) ~ Nothing really to particularly talk about here. You both could have done better to convey your emotions. You both played your introductions to one another almost like a shaky truce. I would have liked to have seen both of you play on that until the caravan fight was completely over. It seemed the two of you had a harder time trusting the Dragon Hermit than you did with one another, and you didn’t even rely on –him- to live. What really helped here is the camaraderie you seemed to have with your own familiars.

• WRITING STYLE ~
(30/40)

Mechanics (8/10) ~ Nothing really glaring out here. You both seemed to have crossed your T’s and dotted your I’s.

Technique (7/10) ~ I found both of your writing techniques to be easy to follow and read. With the exception of Inkfinger’s interactions with It which I referred to in Dialogue, you both preformed admirably here.

Clarity (7/10) ~ I noticed that the two of you seemed to jump in post length from the beginning. Given that this started off as one of your first few quests, it’s understandable. There were portions here and there that weren’t very clear, like the first goblin fight and Ink’s dream sequence. I had to read again to make sure that the heron was Cael, despite the fact that It said it was. The familiar being called It became very confusing at times, resulting in several paragraph re-reads. Ink, perhaps you should find another way to start sentences with ‘It’ (the word, not the rabbit) so people don’t think your familiar is doing something that it’s not. See, wasn’t that a headache? FoH. One part after the first Goblin fight really bugged me with you. Hayate seemed to disappear for about three posts, until Cael and Ingwe were riding on the horse. While I understand that you sent him to go scouting, I would have thought an animal Ingwe insinuated he was so close with would have came to check on him in the resulting smoke. I had to double check myself to make sure that Hayate was still around, thinking you were probably planning something with him. When I didn’t see a mention of him, I was like ‘WTF?!’. Perhaps next time you should at least acknowledge the poor bird got out of the fire okay?
• Wild Card (8/10) ~ I know I was very critical of this quest, but I really did enjoy it. Other than a couple of trust issues that didn’t seem to be trust issues, some confusion about an origami rabbit, and a couple of awkward ways of writing strateguic positions around caravans, it was a really good read. I would like to follow Ingwe and Cael on their following adventures as they left one another to do bigger and badder things. Of course, I suppose I have to read the FQ for that, huh? Good job gentlemen. If you have any questions or concerns, my aim is ashtonwise, feel free to IM or PM me. Now here’s your goodies.

Total: 65/100
Inkfinger receives 430 GP and 3,000 Exp, as well as his books, pending a RoG approval.

Flames of Hyperion receives 488 GP and 4,300 exp.

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.