It was just one day.

But one day changed a lot. It turned a [Gunslinger] from a man with a secret to a stranger in strange lands, but not alone. Russell sat with Ylawes Byres as the sun rose, talking.

Not about great and consequential things like the state of politics or even the inn that the [Knight] held behind his eyes, a lighthouse to walk towards.

They spoke as Russell put aside the gun he had held with trembling hands, sitting on the walls with the weary man whose battered armor was his goodness. Talking.

“I never had a dog when I was growing up.”

“Me neither. I always wanted one, but my old man wasn’t a fan. And we didn’t have space in my trailer growing up. That’s…”

Russell fell silent, embarrassed, but the [Knight] just ruffled his hair and listened.

“Oh, I see. A moving wagon. I lived in a manor with plenty of space, or so you might imagine. There were plenty of mountain curs in the village, guard dogs—we live close enough to House Radivaek, and it’s famous for dogs. Beautiful breeds. But my father never let me have one, as much as I begged. I trained so hard I gained a Skill, and I thought a dog would be my reward, since a beagle had just had puppies. He gave me my first set of silversteel armor instead.”

“Really?”

Russell watched Ylawes swallow some water and wipe at his mouth. Then sigh and gaze at the battered metal gauntlets. Twitch his fingers, then glance away with a rueful smile. A Human’s face. A person’s expression that spoke of something small and sad he’d never mentioned to anyone before.

“It wasn’t like it ruined my childhood. I just thought I’d be best friends with one, that’s all. Later, my father told me my mother didn’t want the dog tearing up all our carpets and heirlooms. And that my two sisters had objected to one.”

“Huh. My mother was living in an apartment, so even if she’d wanted one—wait. Is there more?”

Ylawes’ lips had twisted unhappily. He took a longer drink of water and passed the flask to Russell, who took a swig. Just water tasting faintly of metal. But good. Civilized, for all the wall they sat on was packed dirt and they were far from the cities the man spoke of.

“I thought those were the reasons for ages. It turned out that both of my sisters had wanted a dog. And my mother? She’d grown up with pets. They got a cat after I left, and it was a nightmare for shedding and sharpening its claws. It seems…my father was worried I’d get a class like [Beast Tamer] or one with a focus with a dog as a companion instead of a [Knight].”

“That’s…”

Familiar. Familiar and utterly different. Russell searched for a word.

“…not fair.”

Ylawes shrugged once.

“I suppose my father thought it was for the good of House Byres. He apologized to me about it the last time I visited. I forgave him, of course. A [Knight] is traditional. Even if I don’t think…you do a lot in the name of House Byres. My sisters don’t swear by our house anymore or carry the crest as openly on their gear. I think I understand now.”

His earnest blue eyes turned to Russell, and the [Gunslinger] was neither so open nor so good. He scrubbed at his own black hair and then he spoke.

“I think I was supposed to enlist. In the army. It would’ve paid well. I was in a school that would have made me an officer. Good prospects. You do twenty years and you have a pension—”

Ylawes was nodding. Not asking for clarification. Picking up what was not said. And Russell sipped from the flask before handing it back.

“…I was picking up work, though. Hunting. That’s what I was good at. I’m a decent shot. I know the swamps like the back of my hand. Turned out I was good and reliable enough that even adults wanted me to guide them. You get a few vets—people who’ve come back from serving. And they’ve got stories. It comes out at night. So I dropped out of school. He stopped talking to me after that. My dad put a lot of money into getting me into the right school.”

Ylawes nodded.

“I never thought about the expectations he had of me. It just seemed natural. What was good, honorable, or mattered to House Byres was what I cared about. Then, one day, I saw both of my sisters sitting in an inn. And I realized they didn’t really like me anymore. I thought it was them. Then…it wasn’t like I ever really disagreed with my father. But it’s as if we were both following the same road, and now we’re just a bit off. Two arrows aimed in the same direction, but diverging. Strange how bad that feels. I feel like I’m letting him down.”

“You get used to it.”

The [Gunslinger] half-turned, and he met Ylawes’ gaze. For a second, the two half-smiled at each other until Ylawes’ stomach rumbled and he invited Russell to have some breakfast. The [Gunslinger] reminded Ylawes he was on guard duty, so Ylawes went down and brought some up to eat together. And both men wondered who had had it worse.

Fathers.

New Lands.

People from different worlds. Different classes. Russell sat on the battlements and smiled wearily. When the day dawned, he smiled genuinely. Wondering what was coming next.

——

Nailren was annoyed by the dysentery outbreak. Firstly, because it took all the Earthers out of commission, so he couldn’t talk to them; Russell and Lenora were too guarded. Secondly, he was annoyed at himself for not figuring out the danger.

Idiot. He could have saved a lot of people from trouble. The illness was going to tax Woll’s Waystation, and it could kill. Dying of diarrhea…it sounded like a joke, but the fluids and energy you lost would kill you, and it smelled bad.

He was no [Healer], though, and even his shamanic training didn’t give him anything to help with this. There was only one amusing thing in this entire affair. It seemed like Spoony really didn’t like floating around and seeing everyone’s distress.

She had freaked out when he visited the latrines and steadfastly refused to even get close. He wondered if you could repel ghosts with enough foulness…well, it probably wouldn’t work, but it was funny.

The Gnoll was standing on the walls of the keep, debating going hunting to just get away from the stench for a bit, and wondering if he should explore the New Lands; the Earthers would be laid up for days by the sound of it. He was gazing over the place that Woll called Kishkeria’s Grasslands.

“His Ancestors, but that Drake does know how to pick a good view.”

The wind blew, and the yellow grass rippled for a hundred miles ahead of Nailren. As if he stood before a sea no one had ever dreamt of, and he could leap into the waters and swim through the yellow grass.

Nailren inhaled a fresh breath of wind and grinned. Who needed Earth when this was in front of him? He realized that someone else was on the walls when Russell halted, mid-patrol, and turned on his heel.

The young man had a spear today. Not whatever he’d had last night. Nailren supposed he’d gotten it from one of the Drakes who was now sick. Russell was visibly wary of Nailren, and he went patrolling back down the walls.

Why are you so secretive, Human? If you killed that Cericel, then you should have taken credit. Unless you’re carrying something truly dangerous. And if you are…what?

This man was like the person that Nailren had gone to Liscor to investigate. He’d been eying Erin Solstice as a possible person of interest, a threat or even a Drake prop. He’d found someone cheerfully independent and seemingly good-hearted, but Russell…

The one thing Nailren thought he could tell was that the young man wasn’t a warrior. He had never killed someone. But he seemed dangerous.

The two glanced at each other and locked eyes for a second. Nailren took another sniff of the air and regretted it. Then his eyes fixed on something else. Past Russell. And he forgot his suspicions a second.

“Incoming. You’d better sound an alarm.”

The young man’s head turned. And then he stopped still on the walls. His head rose, and Nailren’s head craned back. Then, after a second, he shaded his eyes and grunted.

“…Or not. Not ferals, then. But Woll will want to hear about it anyways.”

“Is that—is someone riding—”

“It’s a Wyvern. And those look like Drakes. Must be from the cities.”

Ever seen a Wyvern before? Strange if you haven’t given that they’re on the news? Nailren was about to add when he saw Russell’s face. The Human stood there, eyes wide, gazing at the distant, pale blue Wyvern flapping towards them.

He looked like Nailren’s team had when they first saw the New Lands with their own eyes. Ecstatic. Disbelieving. The Gnoll gazed at Russell, then peered away.

He supposed even Humans from another world were allowed to find his world beautiful. Then Nailren shaded his eyes again. He hadn’t seen many fliers at all, and Woll had suggested the skies were dangerous. But these two…

Well, interestingly, they were almost as short as Woll, despite being Drakes.

How…odd.

——

A lot could happen in a short amount of time. The world could change, if only just for you.

But they knew that. No one would ever truly know, or perhaps, care what had happened to them. That was fine. That was normal for Goblins.

However, this time…it felt like something had happened. They were truly different. So even though the route was the same, they followed it like new people.

The pilot, flying at the head of the saddle on top of the Frost Wyvern, kept turning his head to his passenger, who was mounted near the middle of the Wyvern’s back, between the wings. Her gloved hands were holding the Thunderbow mounted to Coldcream’s back, but she wasn’t gripping the turret hard. She was just…staring down at the New Lands.

Chickenruler, the Goblin [Wyvern Rider], and Coldcream, the Frost Wyvern, both kept glancing at their sole passenger, Fightipilota. Then her head would rise, and she’d catch them peeking.

“Hey. Eyes on the air. We’re diving.”

“Oops, you right.”

Coldcream turned his head forwards, and Chickenruler pulled up on his reins, correcting the Frost Wyvern’s course. But then he couldn’t help it. He peeked back at Fightipilota. And she was different.

Maybe…a bit taller? Certainly, her ‘flight suit’ was different. She had on long pants and a shirt that ran up to her black gloves, but she also had what she called a ‘bomber jacket’ on top of the uniform. It was a splash of red on a plainer blue; a slash of red that had splashes, like paint. It tickled his sense of aesthetics, and her gloves and boots were the same quality as the fabric.

Not cotton nor silk, but something else that wasn’t actually as pleasant to the touch, but seemed to resist stains and was warm enough; the inside of her jacket was padded. Not with feathers or fleece, either. Something else.

Something from another time. A place that Fightipilota had gone to and come back from.

Another world. Now…it was over. The [Palace of Fates] was closed. Chickenruler hadn’t seen what was in there. He’d just been flying Chieftain Rags and Student Rags around and was there when the Goblin Lord they called Ragathsi of Civilization had killed an army.

Madness and insanity, even by Goblin standards. Then it was over, and they continued. But, Chickenruler had to believe—

It was all different.

Fightipilota had levelled. Her class had changed. She was now the thing they’d joked about. A miracle that the Goblins had believed in because they wanted it to be true, becoming a reality that shocked even their wildest dreams:

[Fighter Pilot].

It was the reason the two of them were even flying in the New Lands. Chieftain Rags was not exactly minded to draw more attention to her tribe. However, they had her Skill.

[Guise of Neutrality]. Add that to the fact that Chickenruler and Fightipilota had relationships with groups in the New Lands and that Rags wanted to head there next to relocate Goblinhome, and she’d approved their flight.

Plus…Fighti had just had to get out of Goblinhome. Everyone had been pestering her to show off her Skill, and while she’d spent a lot of time with their new aviation team, she’d begun snapping at other Goblins who wanted her to tell them stories. Chickenruler had proposed the flight to get her out, and it was working.

He just…

He really had questions himself. But he kept his mouth shut. A Goblin didn’t get to his ripe old age of eleven, or learn how to rustle two hundred chickens in a night, without knowing when to keep quiet.

——

Fightipilota wondered if it was a dream. It felt like it. Flying over the New Lands was surreal. It was so…peaceful.

One second, she was flying in the skies with explosions all around her, chasing the Goblin King and Mrsha. The next, the [Palace of Fates]. And then…

Here. Now she was supposed to pretend none of that happened. That Mrsha hadn’t died, and that, perhaps, it didn’t matter.

Her claws twitched on the trigger of the Thunderbow. Fightipilota took her claws off the controls. But it was real. Her class. Her Skill burned in her mind and…

“Hey. You think he okay?”

Chickenruler and Coldcream jumped and peered ahead, but Fighti didn’t mind them looking. Or even asking, to be honest. He was like her only friend in the air. The older Goblin scratched at his leather helmet.

“Who?”

“Rianchi, duh.”

“Oh, him. Yah….he probably okay?”

Chickenruler remembered belatedly and shrugged. Fightipilota stared back the way they’d come.

“He’s probably just lost or something. Chieftain Rags had someone else going to sweep for him.”

“Yah, he’s fine, Fighti. He a Redfang.”

“He is, but—he’s also Rianchi, you know? What if he runs into an Eater Goat? Just one could kill him. And I dropped him off by the Bloodfields. What if he cycled into it while he wasn’t looking?”

“He fine, Fighti. Other worlds not kill him, this won’t either.”

“Yeah, maybe. I should have stayed.”

She leaned over the Thunderbow, moody. Chickenruler snorted.

“You needed to go flying. Chieftain Rags was right. I was right. In fact, you saving Rianchi.”

“From what?”

“From putting your boot up his ass when he come back so hard he never sit down again.”

Fighti grinned at that. Fair enough. She shook herself out of her funk, then turned around in her seat.

“Nice weather today.”

Even Coldcream rolled its eyes. Fighti jabbed the Frost Wyvern’s flank with a boot.

“It’s nice weather.”

The New Lands rolled over them, a patchwork of different areas slowly becoming one huge, familiar plain of yellow. Chickenruler breathed out.

“We close to the big grasslands now. Hey! I told you that little place was gonna be there. See? It even has a roof now!”

He pointed at the little structure they’d passed before the [Palace of Fates], and Fighti grunted.

“Fine. I owe you dinner.”

“Yas. And Coldcream.”

“Hell no. I’m not paying for his meal!”

The Frost Wyvern whined, and Fightipilota hesitated.

“I’ll pay for four steaks.”

She felt a rumble go through the Wyvern’s body as he purred. Fighti peered down at Coldcream.

“Are you sure he should be doing that? I thought it was only cats that purred.”

“Eh, if they can do it, so can he. How much gold you got?”

Fighti checked her side and grunted as she counted coins.

“Well, some of it’s my pay. But most of it’s for buying supplies or trading. Or buying favors. Though Rags said to leave it to ‘experts’.”

She and Chickenruler weren’t considered savvy, diplomatic Goblins. Chickenruler grumbled.

“What, we gotta bring some landfoot all the way out here so they can smooch and schmooze with other people? They know us. We even went to Nombernaught!”

“You were the one trying to talk us out of it last time.”

“Yah, well, that before I realized they had good seafood.”

“You didn’t realize Drowned Folk had good seafood?”

“…Shut up, you owe me seafood when we get to Nombernaught! It’s gonna be days, though. What’s for dinner?”

Fighti sighed as she checked the Chest of Holding strapped onto Coldcream’s back. It was technically behind her since she was facing rearwards.

“Let me see…uh, well, there’s plenty of eggs.”

“Yum.”

“Oh, wait, you’re not allowed to eat those. It specifically says ‘for trading only’. Huh, half are in-cu-bated. What’s that mean?”

“It mean they gotta chicken in them. Gonna grow up! Or you can eat them while they’re in the egg. All crunchy and meaty.”

“Gross.”

“Gross. Gross, she says. You so not Goblin.”

She glared at him.

“Give me any more sass and I’ll throw your sandwich away.”

He paused.

“…Sandwiches? That our meal?”

“Yup.”

Two sandwiches on top of six more sandwiches. Fightipilota stared at sixteen cured hams in the neatly packed-to-bursting Chest of Holding and closed the lid.

“Ever since Calescent gone the food has gotten worse.”

“You telling me! Those Kraken Eaters not good at cooking either! Okay, they make decent roasts, but they not know anything about spices…and the future Goblins have some [Cook] classes, but they go, ‘where my automated Super Mixer 1000?’ Goblins these days.”

Chickenruler was very upset, and Fighti sighed.

“I knew we should have gone to the inn and had him pack the lunches. Chieftain Rags really screwed us over this time.”

“…What else in there? I know I saw a ham. Ham and eggs is good dinner.”

Chickenruler began scheming, and Fighti glared at him.

“This is for trade, Chickenruler. Most groups are starving!”

“Yah, and so am I. For good food. They can have my sandwich. Chieftain Rags, she pretty good, but she not understand what it like being a normal Goblin sometimes!”

“Fair enough. She’s sleeping on her silk pillows and blankets.”

“With her own room. Eating the best food, going to the inn, while we gotta fly all the way here. And she thinks this is fun. She try sitting on a bony Wyvern’s back all day. Don’t sulk, Coldcream, it mean you very thin and svelte. That mean sexy thin, not starving-death thin.”

Fighti grinned.

“And she can’t even pack us a good damn sandwich! And you know she knew what sandwiches we were getting packed because she never misses any details. Which means she just didn’t think we deserved good food.”

“Yah! She so busy cloning herself and fighting the Goblin King and exploding in a ball of fire and killing all of Pallass’ army…”

They fell silent. After a little bit, Chickenruler cleared his throat. Fighti stared back down along the Thunderbow’s sights.

“Do other Goblins believe it all happened, Chickenruler?”

“…Let me put it like this, Fighti. They not not believe. New Goblins appear? Makes sense. Goblins have special Skills and faith? All makes sense. We saw the Goblin King. We saw Goblin Lord Ragathsi. But when I tell them my friend, Fighti, she a [Fighter Pilot] now from the future? They have to see it. Even then, it’s hard to believe.”

Fighti nodded and watched the ground moving slowly beneath them. They weren’t high up; it was harder for Coldcream to fly high with the mana drain sapping his energy each night. But they were high enough they were out of range of most of it.

Otherwise, the Chest of Holding would explode. As it was, they’d been told by Prixall it would hold until Nombernaught with a few days’ grace. Enough time to scout or change routes slightly, but not long. They had to charge it up or they’d lose it, which would mean she’d pull their ears off. That was the only magic they had on them. Thanks to Rags’ [Memo] Skill, they could still communicate with Goblinhome daily. Fighti murmured.

“Maybe I should have been nicer. It’s just…hard to talk about and believe myself.”

She would have gone on, but Chickenruler chuckled.

“That not the only reason, Fighti. The real reason it hard to believe? Who ever heard of a Goblin getting anything nice? That the hardest part to believe.”

He turned and gave her a grin with all his teeth, and Fighti snorted as she sat back in her saddle.

“What, that we survived, that the tribe is stronger and we have Troll allies and the Kraken Eaters are fighting with us? That we’ll actually live?”

“Argh, what this Goblin talking about? You spitting fairy tales, you snorting Dreamleaf! She mad! She mad, Coldcream!”

They laughed, and the Wyvern purred again as Fighti’s spirits lifted, despite herself. Then she shook herself and stared down over the New Lands again.

“Everything’s changed. I’ve changed. And you know what? Sometimes that’s good. At least for me. Hey, Chickenruler. You want a sandwich for lunch?”

“…No? But if we gotta save the good food, we gotta.”

He lost his smile, but Fighti kept hers. She pointed down.

“Well, what do you say about a pit stop? You wanted to know what they were building. Let’s see if we can buy some food.”

She jingled her coin pouch, and he and Coldcream turned to eye her again. Chickenruler licked his lips.

“Wha…you sure? This not on our list.”

“I’m changing the list. What’s Chieftain Rags gonna do? She wants us to build connections, and they might have stuff to trade. Let’s land!”

But what if we’re found out, even with her Skill? That was Chickenruler’s second objection. Then he glanced at Fightipilota and remembered her class. Her Skill. The [Wyvern Rider] hesitated, then he laughed.

“Okay, you crazy, we all crazy. Uh…how do we tell them we’re friendly and not a wild Wyvern or something?”

Fightipilota scratched at her head.

“…You know, I have no idea. Do you have a flag or something?”

“I got my pants. You want to fly that?”

——

The Wyvern strafed Woll’s Waystation as everyone stared at it. Woll was waving his claws, shouting.

“Come on down! We’re open! We’re—are those pants?”

A flapping article of clothing was tied to the Wyvern’s tail, and the Wyvern circled the Waystation. Nailren heard a shout from a female voice.

“Hey—we’re friendly—can we land?”

“Yes, please!”

Woll screamed back, and the Drake in the back, with crimson scales and a bright red-on-blue jacket, gave him two thumbs up.

Nice clothing. That’s not a Walled City’s uniforms. Nailren knew them all, and he frowned. An independent city’s [Wyvern Rider]?

It made sense, but only one? Scouting? Woll was striding down.

“Someone get some tea going—this is huge! They’ve beaten even the Walled Cities’ advance into the New Lands! They’re either high-level or brave to be flying alone! I swear it’s the same Wyvern we’ve seen flying back and forth.”

Nailren’s ears perked up. He joined the throng waiting for the Wyvern to land.

“You’ve seen the Wyvern before, Woll?”

“That’s right. Well, we saw a lot of fliers coming through a bit ago, but they thinned out. The last group flying were the Wings of Pallass and half of them landed here—looked like someone had kicked them to pieces. They said their captain was still out there. I hope she’s alive. As I said—there’s predators in the air. But this one’s the only Frost Wyvern I’ve seen. The others have been different variants. I can’t pin down which city has Frost Wyverns. I thought Pallass, maybe? But that’s not their colors.”

Indeed, as the two leapt off the Wyvern, Nailren felt like the duo were very odd. The clothing on the female Drake was iconic, expensive, and utterly foreign to him. On the male? More traditional flight gear, but the moment they spoke, little bells began ringing in Nailren’s mind.

“Hey! This place open? We flying—I mean, we were flying in and saw this place! Is very—it’s very amazing to see!”

The male Drake waved, then pinched at his snout.

“Though that place there? It stinks!”

“You landed near our latrines! So sorry, we’re having a crisis! Welcome to Woll’s Waystation! I’m Woll, and what can I be for you? [Trader]? [Host]? Where are you from?”

The two Drakes halted, a bit wary, but Woll dashed up and shook their hands. The Frost Wyvern was snorting plumes of frost, and everyone backed up, but the female Drake shook Woll’s hand with a huge smile.

“Don’t mind him, he’s grumpy. I’m Fighti, and this is Chickenruler. And that’s Coldcream.”

“What names! Hello, hello.”

“Eh, it’s a nickname.”

The male Drake mumbled, and Fighti jerked a thumb at the Frost Wyvern.

“We’re from up north, along the High Passes. A town close to Yolden called Horrisbel.”

“Horrisbel? I’ve never heard of it. And you joined the New Lands rush? I swear I saw you passing over weeks ago, and I thought you’d stopped or landed…”

Fighti grinned toothily.

“We’ve been doing deliveries. Our leader, Lilbrasi, she wants us to trade before she heads down this way. Say, you got anything good to eat? We’re starving, and we have food to trade—we’re just not allowed to eat it.”

“Except sandwiches. Blech. You want one? I’ll give it to you, only one silver.”

Chickenruler waved a sandwich at the audience and was startled when half the crowd stepped forwards. The plain sandwich with tomatoes, grilled chicken, a dash of mayonnaise, and some lettuce was poor fare for the two who were tired of the same sandwich after two days of flying—but for the people of the New Lands?

Nailren watched as Chickenruler handed over the sandwich for a silver coin without even haggling, even when Woll told him he could sell it for far more. Chickenruler’s only comment as Oregg wolfed it down was—

“He looks hungry. Gotta eat when you’re that hungry. Say, there anything to buy here?”

And Nailren thought—no, there was no way. But that naming convention wasn’t like any Drake he’d ever heard of. His [Clandestine Chieftain] class was buzzing at him.

He still didn’t quite understand what was off about the two at first. He suspected they were [Mages] and was having to fight to concentrate on their backgrounds as being odd.

Woll was clearly doing the same thing. He was smiling, but he had a tiny crease on his forehead. That of someone fighting to pierce through a foggy veil…

Nailren followed the two Drakes, ignoring the tugging on one ear. He’d talk to Spoony in a second; she probably wanted to check out the Frost Wyvern. But these two…

——

The first thing Fightipilota did when she surveyed Woll’s Waystation was to peek inside the unfinished two-story building. She strolled over to the well, saw a very artistic warning to boil the water, observed the people lying in some distress along the walls, and noted the Human on patrol along the low earthen ramparts, staring at Coldcream. She eyed Chickenruler as he walked over and hand-signed to him in Goblin.

“Hey, this place sucks!”

He grinned and gestured back with the expressive body language only they knew.

“Yeah, but I love it. Why’s it smell? Bad poos?”

“Bad well.”

She jerked a thumb over, and Chickenruler’s brows rose as he read the sign.

“They not boiling their water? Damn. That how they get you.”

He clicked his tongue; as someone who handled chicken eggs regularly, hygiene was very important to Chickenruler, especially given where eggs came out of; the same chute as poo in chickens.

It seemed rough. To Fighti, who imagined any non-Goblin settlement as being loaded with nice things, this was shocking. It was like, well…a Goblin encampment.

Not even a good tribe. Chieftain Rags would have set up a better fort within three days, but she was a high bar to clear. When Fighti heard about the dysentery, she began to nudge Chickenruler. He rolled his eyes.

“Okay, they’ve got unlimited death-poo-death. But they got water, food, and they have levels. They not dying. Only some. Maybe.”

She nudged him harder.

“They’re right on our flight path to Nombernaught, and they’re important or might be…”

He folded his arms.

“Chieftain R—Lilbrasi gonna give you that boot for Rianchi.”

She spun on her heel to face him.

“So you’re telling me not to help?”

He grinned at her, shoving his hands into his pockets. She saw him, a short Drake standing in the keep, but she knew the real Chickenruler had to be grinning so hard his ears were nearly falling off.

“Who, me? Nah, I just saying—I’m just saying, damn, speaking is hard—all the things Lilbrasi would. Now I’m done. Let’s do something fun.”

She rubbed her hands together, then they dashed over to the Chest of Holding. Woll was hovering around.

“If I can get you two anything—we have some fresh Corusdeer venison, and I was thinking I could prevail on someone with [Basic Cooking] to whip a meal up? It’s not fancy, but—”

“How about we sell you food? Or anyone who wants it? And, uh, you want chickens? We have eggs.”

The two Goblins came out with armfulls of food and Woll’s eyes popped. The next second, someone charged at them.

“I’ll buy all of—”

A screaming [Merchant] ran at them, and only Coldcream rearing up in alarm prevented a storm of people converging. Fighti stopped, arms full of food, as she saw people come running, and she realized—

Oh. Oh, wait. Maybe we should have done this more covertly or officially. It was just—

She’d never been the person with all the food before.

——

There was a reason Chieftain Rags made Goblins eat in shifts and line up and enforced strict limits on how much you got to eat. Someone had to be a bastard or there was chaos, and the scrum that nearly overwhelmed the two Goblins and the Frost Wyvern made that clear to Fightipilota and Chickenruler.

Thankfully, that bastard was Woll, and he shouted everyone back and then had them queue up. After a brief conference with him, Fighti and Chickenruler agreed to trade food—with him and with any interested party.

No one got everything, and their Chest of Holding was big, but hardly a storehouse’s worth. They had more places to be, so they only sold a quarter of what was in there.

It was still enough to have people lining up to buy a ham sandwich—which Fighti quickly realized she should sell in halves—a bag of flour, salt—

Everything they were willing to sell was gone within twenty minutes. Gold? Fighti’s eyes were popping at how much they’d gotten.

Remember, gold’s not as important as goodwill. Anything useful, especially artifacts, information, we want that. No one had anything like that to sell so far, but Fighti thought they’d earned some goodwill.

“Remember, Lilbrasi and, uh, where are we from?”

Chickenruler turned to Fightipilota, then shouted.

“Horrisbel! Dead gods, we calling ourselves that?”

“I don’t know, I made it up! But see how many hungry people there are, Chickenruler!”

Or at least, people hungry for fresh food or more to augment their stores. It worried Fightipilota, and she said so.

“Without crops, they can only hunt. Lots of people might starve.”

“True…”

Chickenruler sombered, but at that moment, Woll came over.

“Fresh ham and bread. You two are always welcome here, and if you need a place to sleep, any time, come on back! In fact, if you’d make this a part of your route, I’d be most grateful.”

“If you’re still around in a month. You’re going to starve without crops.”

Fightipilota faced the Drake head-on, and he blinked, unaccustomed to such directness, but she was worried. Chickenruler nodded.

“Yah, no offense, but this? This is gonna get bad real fast. The moment one person gets hungry, they get stabby.”

Woll hesitated.

“Fairly said. I suppose I’m used to city life, but as Salii would say, listen to experts. I should bear in mind Captain Ylawes’ warnings…but there is good news there! Had you not heard a fix for the salted ground problem was in?”

“Huh?”

Fighti had not heard that—they’d been a bit busy of late. She stumped over to the illustration and announcement, and her jaw dropped.

“What? Archmage Eldavin fixed it already? What, is he some magic super-guy?”

“He does seem incredibly capable. Suspiciously so…well, I’m twenty levels too low to make that my focus. We had a [Mage] who brought the news who can still communicate with the outside world. Over there. Miss Falene.”

Fighti was going to tell Rags about this. It made her shoulders ease a bit, and Chickenruler scratched at his head.

“Falene. Ylawes. Feel like I know those names somewhere. Not in a good way.”

“Probably common. I dunno. I feel like I’ve met a ‘Falene’ too. Ooh, look, there’s lunch.”

Fighti turned and promptly forgot about silly people’s names; she saw a pair of armored women waving her over and smelled that heavenly scent: fresh bread.

Part of Fighti’s negotiations had been for lunch. So, in exchange for some food, she’d been introduced to a group that could cook. Thker was groaning instructions at Styrvi as she snapped.

“I’ve made your damn bread before! Go lie down!”

“But I want some good food!”

“You’ll shit it out. You can have broth.”

“I can smell…eggs…”

Evor had poked his head out of his tent and was drooling as other people began to indulge. Rigalde patted him on the head with a grin.

“Eat your shitty broth, boy. Eggs are for men and women who don’t shit their drawers.”

The curses and begging from the other Cenidau warriors was drowned out by the chortling of the two fliers. Fighti pointed at the bread and cooking ham.

“Now that’s a sandwich. Chickenruler, you fry some eggs up.”

“I’ll do that. Hey, you mind if I fry eggs? I’m good at eggs.”

“Be my guest.”

Styrvi watched Chickenruler crack three eggs one-handed and blinked. He winked at her.

“I’m the best at eggs. How you like yours? One side? Mixed up? Boiled? All fry, but runny inside?”

The Cenidau warriors began making requests when they saw Chickenruler executing a triple-flip of a fried egg without breaking the yolk on one pan, and Fighti rolled her eyes. But the other Goblin was enjoying being, well, popular without being a Goblin as much as she was.

And he did have, like…four Skills completely devoted to eggs. He had a problem.

She was just preparing a real sandwich—after washing her hands because like hell she was getting what everyone here had—when there was a plaintive voice.

“No. Did we miss it? Rigalde, was there someone here selling fresh food? I was helping dig the latrines and—”

A tall, blonde man was standing in the courtyard, dripping with sweat, and a half-Elf had come hurrying out of the keep.

“I smell fresh eggs! Ylawes, Woll just said he bought a bunch of supplies from a [Wyvern Rider]! Quick, buy the—”

Rigalde coughed.

“Er, you missed it, Captain Ylawes. Sorry. These two are the [Wyvern Riders]. From the High Passes. They sold out their stock.”

The duo sagged, and Fighti waved with a guilty expression. She almost said they had more, but that seemed like a good way of getting robbed. The only reason Chickenruler and she even left the Chest of Holding unaccompanied was because it was on Coldcream’s back, and he ate things he didn’t like. Then spat them out in pieces.

“Excuse me, Miss…”

“Fighti.”

“Miss Fighti, is there any way we could purchase some food? We’re a Gold-rank team, and we can pay!”

Fighti’s smile slipped as the Human man strode over, and she shook his hand, but exchanged a look with Coldcream.

Oh, hey. Even in the New Lands, it was sort of good to be reminded there were people they hated. After all, if there was any group that Goblins were predisposed against…it was adventurers.

Damn adventurers. She gave Ylawes a cool smile.

“Sorry, but we’re out. Next time we fly by, eh?”

“How long would that be?”

“Oh, you know, maybe a week, two? We’ve gotta resupply. And we might not come this way.”

She savored his face falling, and Falene closed her eyes. Then she put on her best smile.

“Miss, I’m a [Mage] from Wistram Academy. Could I trade with you for any magical services?”

“A [Mage]? Well, we’ve got some back home. I’ll see them in like a week, so…”

Chickenruler was munching down on his sandwich, relishing the schadenfreude like a sweet side dish. Falene tried to talk Fighti into it.

“I see you have a Chest of Holding. If it’s not upkept—”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ve done this before. We’re good!”

But the ham. The haaaaam. The two adventurers stared at Cenidau’s warriors, but in this, friendship had come second place to the warriors stuffing themselves. The [Knight]’s head bowed, but he heaved a huge sigh.

“I understand. Come on, Falene. We should get a lunch together. Can we have that soup if you’re not eating it, Rigalde?”

They stared at the cauldron filled with well water, ready for boiling, and Falene groaned.

“Oh—fine. Help me lug it over to our camp.”

She tried to carry it, and Ylawes ended up doing most of the carrying as they approached a camp of downed people. Fightipilota saw one of them straighten from ministering to a short Human woman with a beard. Maybe she was a Dwarf?

“Captain Ylawes, did you get any provisions? I didn’t hear until—”

“No, Anith. They’re out. Soup it is.”

Fighti frowned. Ylawes, she swore she knew that name. Not in a positive way either. More like someone cursing the name. She shrugged, and Ylawes cast around.

“How’s Infinitypear doing?”

“I can’t honestly tell, Captain. He’s groaning and saying ‘even the paste didn’t make his stomach hurt’, which…I’ve heard legends of Antinium food.”

“Damn. Infinitypear. That a cool name. Who knew anyone had cool names here?”

Chickenruler commented, and Fightipilota nodded. Then she saw Ylawes opening a tent flap.

“Infinitypear? Are you okay?”

“I am not happy, Captain. Also, my brother is pestering me.”

A complaint from within. Ylawes hesitated as someone argued in denial.

“I can see he’s a bit…it’s sometimes hard to be around someone who’s sick, Rasktooth. Even if you’re being helpful. We need help making a soup. How about that?”

A brief argument as Fighti commented.

“Rasktooth. That a good name. Solid name. Who these people with such nice names? Maybe it is a Drake thing?”

They watched as Ylawes entered the tent, rummaged around, and then came out with someone clinging to his shoulders. Chickenruler took a bite of his sandwich, then began choking.

“G—G—Goblin—”

He pointed as he clutched at his throat, and Styrvi slapped him on the back.

“Easy, easy, it’s just a small one, and they’re adventurers! The Antinium too!”

Fightipilota was also coughing on her food. She pointed, bug-eyed, as a Cave Goblin slid off Ylawes’ back, sniffed the air, then stared at the soup pot with clear disappointment.

“Captain, I never say this, but even I like good food sometimes.”

“I’m sorry, Rasktooth. We missed it. What can you do with what we’ve got?”

Fightipilota and Chickenruler exchanged a look of silent incredulity, and then something clicked in Fightipilota’s head.

“What did you say this team was? Which Gold-rank team?”

She whirled, and Rigalde lifted her hand.

“The Silver Swords, and they’re our friends. We’ve come together well and traded words and food, so I would like there to be no violence or threats of it, Fighti, Chickenruler.”

The two Goblins regarded each other as the Cenidau warriors watched, concerned for completely the wrong reason. They gazed into each other’s eyes, communicating silently.

We have to do it.

Oh, we must.

Then Chickenruler raised his voice.

“A Goblin? Here? Eugh, I cannot even! Damn Goblins, I am so upset!”

He slapped one knee, eyes laughing, as Fighti folded her arms.

“Puts me off my sandwich, so it does. Darn Goblins…”

She shook a fist at Rasktooth, who sniffed the air, frowned, then shook his fist back.

“Hey, you not want that sandwich, you give it to me! It smells really nice!”

The two had fun for all of…well, as long as it took for Rasktooth to stare down at his feet after Fighti threw the sandwich onto the ground and Ylawes to turn, a thunderous frown on his face. Then Fighti felt bad.

Yeah, this isn’t fun. She picked up her sandwich, dusted it off, and turned to Chickenruler. Rigalde and the other Cenidau warriors were frowning like a storm, but the [Wyvern Rider] just hopped up.

“Okay, yep. Let’s go.”

They walked off towards their Wyvern.

——

Still, Nailren couldn’t place them. He was fighting something. Some kind of information-denial Skill, but whomever had placed it was higher-level than he was.

Level 40? Great. They’re agents or something. Woll’s figured that out, but neither of us want to roil the pot while it’s filled with stew.

Nailren just wanted to know, though. The fact that he could even tell Fighti and Chickenruler were being guarded by a Skill was a product of training, experience, and his own countermethods to being deceived. It was hard to fight this kind of effect.

He was so busy concentrating it was only when Spoony gave his ear a damn hard tug that he yelped and growled. His earring had pulled at the fresh hole.

“Spoony, stop that! What? I’m busy fighting a Skill here!”

He explained, briefly, what was going on and heard a faint tapping sound. From…

Oh, right, his ouija board. He pulled it out and watched the ectoplasm marker skim the board. A passing Human stared at it.

“Dead gods, is that magic? Here?”

“Nope, just a Skill.”

Nailren absently replied, adding up letters. Then his fur stood on end. Because Spoony had just written:

“G-O-B-L-I-N-S.”

His head rose slowly.

“You don’t mean Rasktooth.”

Left ear tug.

‘No.’

He turned his head and tracked the two Drakes who’d gone out to their Frost Wyvern. One had fed it part of his sandwich, and the other was walking back, arms full of something.

“That’s a…”

‘Yes.’

Then he blinked, and the illusion vanished for him. Nailren barely recoiled; he kept his features calm, but his heart began hammering in his chest.

Dead gods.

Under his very nose! And it had beaten him—but not the eyes of a dead woman. He began walking forwards.

“It has to be. There’s only one way—”

Spoony was pulling at his arm, and he realized she was afraid, worried. But he? He was grinning.

“Spoony, I might have to catch you up, but trust me. There’s only one place so silly and Goblin-friendly that they can come from there.”

Sure enough, the female Goblin with the bomber jacket had halted in front of the Silver Swords. She had eggs, ham, flour, salt, everything, and she put it down as Ylawes and Rasktooth stirred from their pot.

“Hey, turns out we have a bit more supplies. Want some?”

Ylawes Byres licked his lips at the bounty, and Falene turned like a hawk, but after a second, the [Knight]’s chin rose.

“Excuse me, Miss…Fighti, was it? But although I’m sure my team would appreciate the vittles, I must refuse to trade with anyone who disparages my teammate.”

Rasktooth sniffed again and gave Fighti a puzzled peek. Nailren realized even the Cave Goblin couldn’t tell it was another Goblin. He poked Ylawes urgently though.

“Captain, Captain, I okay with being disparaged if I get to eat good food…”

Ylawes Byres hesitated, and Nailren saw Fightipilota chuckle. A true, genuine bit of amusement from someone who liked a [Knight]’s stubborn pride on a Goblin’s behalf.

That only made him frown harder, and then it was Fighti’s turn to hesitate. Because—and this was funny to Nailren and no one else—she was playing the anti-Goblin Drake. And now she had to resolve the situation while maintaining her cover for the watchers.

But she didn’t know how. Fighti blew out her cheeks, then paced left, eying Rasktooth as he sat cross-legged outside his shared tent, and Ylawes half-pivoted, putting his body between her and his teammate. Fighti’s eyes flicked to him and his half-outstretched arm.

“I think you should leave, Miss.”

“Hey…wait a second. Maybe I was too hasty. I mean, Goblins. I know Goblins aren’t all, uh, monsters. There’s that inn on television, right? Hey, Chicken, you know that inn?”

“The Wandering Inn? Sure, everyone’s heard about that! Don’t want to get on its bad side, do we?”

The other Goblin bellowed back, and Fighti turned to Ylawes.

“And you’re a bunch of adventurers? The Silver Swords? I swear I’ve heard of your team too. C’mon, we’ve got great food. Hams, eggs, all the good stuff.”

Ylawes’ arms were folded with the pride of House Byres.

“I believe my teammate has been insulted, Miss.”

“Hey! I’m sorry! I’m—Rasktooth, is it?”

Fighti made a show of looking the Cave Goblin over with some hesitation, and then she waved at him.

“He’s fine. Small. What’s he gonna do, sneak up and slit our throats? We’re flying off anyways. There’s no problem if he’s an adventurer. It’s just one. Not all Goblins are bad, eh?”

Something about what she was saying seemed to be sticking in Fightipilota’s throat, because she coughed a few times, then drank some water from a flask. Rasktooth was nodding.

“Yah, sure. I fine, Captain. Food, please?”

“As long as you’re okay with it, Rasktooth.”

Ylawes was hesitating because his stomach had launched a vociferous campaign to forgive and forget. Fighti smiled, then stepped forwards. Because she should shake this Goblin’s hand. Just to prove she was a reasonable person after all.

Rasktooth pushed himself up onto his knees, and Fighti bent over as everyone watched.

“Hey, so…we good, little Goblin? You one of the good ones?”

“Sure, Miss Drake. I is not upset. I hear stuffs like that all the time. You sell us food now, please? I not even be out here if it bother you. All forgiven!”

He smiled up at her, and the older Goblin, growing into a Hob herself, just stood there a moment. She didn’t take Rasktooth’s hand as he extended it, and the Cave Goblin froze, licking at his teeth.

Okay, can we jump them, Captain? And steal their stuff? Nailren’s [Hear Whispers] caught Insill and Ylawes talking.

Don’t cause a fight. I’ll handle this.

Ylawes was moving forwards, a thunderous frown on his face as Dawil got up casually—but both warriors were blocked by Nailren. They glowered at him as he stepped in front of them, but he just smiled at both and put a finger to his lips. They hesitated, and Dawil pulled Ylawes back. Watching.

Fighti squatted down for a second in front of Rasktooth, and her voice was soft. To others, just a Drake awkwardly having a conversation with a ‘good’ Goblin. But her voice came out roughly.

“Hey. Kid. You’re a kid, right?”

“Who, me? I is a big adult. Or young master! I old for a Goblin in my tribe!”

Rasktooth puffed out his chest indignantly, and Fighti half shook her head.

“Nah, you’re just a…a big kid’s just a kid. I’m still—listen. I said a lot of harsh things just now. And my apology wasn’t great. If I were you, I don’t think I’d accept that and forgive and forget.”

Rasktooth’s face scrunched up in confusion. He sat back on his bum.

“No one ever told me not to accept apologies before. This new. But you got lots of food, yah?”

“Yeah. We do.”

“Then we all good. My team very important. They not have rumbly stomachs or bad poos—that more important than me get all worked up over some words. We good?”

He held out his hand again, anxious, and Fighti half shook her head. Ylawes partially turned to Dawil, and the Dwarf was tugging on his beard. Eying Nailren, who just…listened. Fighti’s voice trembled.

“No. We’re not. You shouldn’t take that, kid. Sometimes, you have to. I mean, that’s what they say. We say. You’re the ‘Good Goblin’, I guess. You’re not big enough to cause trouble. There’s more of us than you. Because of the inn, because we want something, we’ll overlook it just this once. You know that means if you didn’t have your team, and you were alone—it’d be different, right?”

The Cave Goblin’s uncertain smile went out. He looked Fighti in the eyes and shrugged.

“Well, yeah. That obvious. But this better than being stabbed in face. Okay? That what you want?”

“No. You should demand more.”

“That sound like a good way to get me killed. You want me to die that bad?”

Rasktooth squinted at Fighti suspiciously, as if suspecting this was some long-form plan to get him killed via super-racism after all. But Fighti’s lips were trembling, and her eyes were too bright.

“Not you. Just—I used to think it was enough too. I did. But then you get to wanting more. More and more. I don’t want to have to ignore the looks or pretend I can’t hear the whispers. I shouldn’t have to justify myself. I want to walk into a store and no one even blink. That’s what you should fight for.”

The Cave Goblin’s mouth opened and closed, then he reached out and patted Fighti’s boot.

“There lot of mean people to Drakes too, huh? That very nice, Miss. But I have a good memory. Last year, I die if I sneeze too loud and the Raskghar get annoyed. Or get killed even if I have my team. I a big Goblin, but I can wait. Sometimes, you very hungry or want to get nice thing from treasure pile. But pushing to the front of line gets you killed. That wisdom.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. But someone’s gotta push. I know you’re right. Not here, not—”

Fighti’s head swivelled, and she took in the Silver Swords, Nailren, the guests of the Waystation all eying her. Then she wiped at her eyes.

“I just want to see it someday before I die.”

The Cave Goblin glanced around for help as he patted Fighti’s boots, and Ylawes leaned over.

“Dawil, either anti-Drake racism is a lot worse wherever they came from or…”

“Yeah, lad. Falene’s giving us a look.”

But then Fighti just shook Rasktooth’s hand and stood up. She walked back over to Ylawes, wiping her eyes, and nodded to him. Shamefaced. Embarrassed. But appearing oddly relieved. She stuck out her gloved hand, smiling faintly.

“Maybe we try and say ‘hello’ again, Captain Ylawes? Turns out we do know each other. I’m Fighti. Fightipilota.”

Rasktooth recognized the Goblin name, and his eyes flickered as Ylawes held out a hand, uncertain. Then he sniffed, squinted at Chickenruler, and suddenly grinned. He gave Ylawes encouraging motions, and the [Knight] grudgingly shook Fighti’s hand.

Fightipilota shook Ylawes’ hand up and down, then let go. But she didn’t lower her hand. She made a fist, and Ylawes peered at it.

“Captain, Captain, you copy her.”

Rasktooth encouraged the [Knight], and the man hesitantly did. Fighti bumped it with her fist, and he blinked.

“Excuse me, if this is some kind of greeting, I don’t get—”

“You shush. You know this one. Hands!”

She held out her hands, as if going for a handshake, but palms flat. When he copied her, she slapped his right with her left and copied it on the other side. Ylawes’ face was the most amazingly nonplussed that Nailren had ever seen.

“Um, I still don’t know—”

Dawil was swaying as he held his stomach, but now he frowned at Fightipilota. Vuliel Drae were similarly lying there as Infinitypear rolled over to beg for some good water, but all of them had seen Fighti’s conversation with Rasktooth. They glanced up.

They all saw it. A curious Woll watching from the keep windows, people eying the mysterious Drake…Fighti made Ylawes do it all again.

Handshake, fist bump, palm slap—then she completed the move by stepping back. Fighti spun around on one foot, twirling, and finished with the only thing that fit. She lifted her fingers and flicked Ylawes a pair of finger guns.

The blank [Knight]’s face changed. His blue eyes widened, and Falene dropped a soup ladle. Because that—

“Wait. Wait…”

There was only one silly [Innkeeper] in the world who did that. Ylawes Byres blinked down at Fightipilota, who was grinning fit to burst. And then…he exchanged a look with Rasktooth. Dawil’s head rose slightly, and he began to grin.

They knew each other. They were from the same place. So, sick or not, for a moment, the Silver Swords, even Nailren, felt it. Like a breath of fresh air in the sick, poo-y keep. A chill upon the skin. A leaping in the heart.

A bit of wonder and magic. The [Knight] stared at Fightipilota, then cast around. A smile was creeping onto his face, but…he hesitated, and Nailren saw it in the [Knight]. But then he bit his lip, stepped back, and copied Fightipilota’s twirl.

He shot her the weakest, most embarrassed pair of finger guns Nailren had ever seen in his life, turning beet red. But Fightipilota’s eyes bugged out, and then she was laughing. She jumped forwards and threw her arms around him, then grabbed Rasktooth and swung him around.

“Hah! You are as dumb as they say! You’re great!”

She was laughing in delight as she kissed the Cave Goblin on the cheek, and that must have broken the spell for Ylawes and Rasktooth, because they recoiled. A watching Drake spat out all of his food at the sight, but Ylawes just turned, saw Fighti as she was, and blinked.

No one else had any idea what was going on. The Cenidau warriors had gotten to their feet in alarm when Fighti grabbed Rasktooth, but then they were just dumbstruck. Fighti didn’t care. Nailren realized he was grinning too. Ylawes blinked down at the pile of food, then he rubbed at his eyes.

“Did she send you?”

“Nah. We sent ourselves. But friends? Friends show up all over the place. Hey, Chickenruler, this lot gets the Goblin discount!”

“Sure! How much for a handful of poo? Eh, we’ll waive the poo this time!”

Then everyone was talking amidst the Silver Swords as Petia and Homle gaped at each other, utterly dumbfounded how Ylawes knew two random Drakes. Nailren came forwards because like heck was he going to miss this.

Also—he was wondering if he could get a sandwich on sale.

——

Who knew being friendly with Goblins would ever have an upside? Not Ylawes. He had always thought Erin was crazy. And then, when he’d begun to change his mind more and more, thought she was still crazy, but doing the right thing no matter how hard it was. Which was why he respected her.

But these Goblins—well, they were a sight for sore eyes and hungry stomachs! It actually seemed to take Fightipilota back how much the Silver Swords ate.

“You guys are sort of thin. You, uh, okay?”

“We only starved a bit. Damn [Merchants].”

Rasktooth was licking his lips over some eggs that Chickenruler was frying for him, and Nailren was sitting with the Silver Swords, eating Fighti’s sandwich.

They were the only people allowed near. A few others kept coming by to ingratiate themselves with the ‘Drakes’, but Chickenruler and Fighti had suddenly lost all interest in anything but the Silver Swords. Fighti raised her eyebrows.

“What, [Merchants] are bad guys all of a sudden? We love them.”

“What, your…people?”

Falene was still blinking rapidly, and Fighti grinned at her.

“Sure! They deliver tons of good stuff all over Izril! All for free!”

“For f—oh. Of course. Well, in this case, these [Merchants] were rather shortsighted. They ran into the mana drain, the salted ground, all the problems you could imagine…”

“Eh, and I bet hunting was hard. Hunts go bad for a bit and you’re eating your chickens and sheepies and pigs.”

Chickenruler shook his head, then eyed the Silver Swords as they bit their lips.

“…You did bring chickens, yah? This the New Lands. There beetles everywhere. This like…chicken paradise. This Khelt for chickens.”

He was so appalled when they told him they’d taken no grazing animals aside from horses that he tried to hand them a bunch of fertilized chicken eggs.

“We’re actually searching for work. We can’t raise chickens.”

“You sure? You very sure? Argh, take more food. Ch—Lilbrasi is gonna want to hear this. Don’t worry, she’ll be happy with us giving you this. Hey, you want metal?”

“…What, just metal?”

Fighti jerked a thumb at Coldcream.

“We’ve got food, but that’s only half the Chest of Holding. The rest is other things Lilbrasi thought was worth something. So, steel ingots, nails, even wood! We have just pieces of wood in here!”

She rolled her eyes at her silly Chieftain until Ylawes sat up.

“We could use wood! Can we get enough for our tent poles? What kinds?”

“I, uh, well…sure! Damn. How does she do that?”

Fighti came back and found Chickenruler had Rasktooth in a headlock and was rubbing the younger Goblin’s head.

“You little kid you! All the other kids gonna be super jealous when they hear where you’ve been! And levelling! Only Gothica higher level than you are.”

“Really?”

“Yah! You doing great. Aside from the dysentery. That actually really bad.”

Rasktooth’s ears wilted.

“I didn’t know you needed to boil water.”

“Eh, maybe we can help. Good food and clean water better. Fighti wants to see if she can get medicine.”

Everyone turned to Fighti, who blushed and jabbed Chickenruler.

“It’s both of our ideas. Might be we can find some. We’ll ask. But, uh, where are you going? Just working while you avoid [Merchants]? Want us to hit any we meet?”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble, but—yes, we’ve got work, and we’re stuck here for a while.”

Ylawes indicated Dawil, who was groaning.

“The food’s so good, and I want to chat, but I’m sick! Damn you, well! Lad, lad, ask about the Goblin King.”

Fightipilota and Chickenruler went quiet as everyone turned to them. Chickenruler’s eyes darted to Fighti, and Ylawes cleared his throat.

“We know it came from the inn. Was it actually…?”

“Yup.”

“Really? A Solstice event? Even without her? And it was actually—”

“Yep.”

Fighti poked at the ground with a claw, and her face was blank. She added after a moment.

“He’s dead. The rest…happened. No one’s dead. At least, no one you’ll miss. Things are okay. Really.”

“Truly?”

Ylawes’ skepticism met Fighti’s calm eyes, and she took a gulp of some tea.

“Yeah. I was there. This time…Mrsha started it. And Lilbrasi. It went—well. Well as it could have, I guess.”

She gazed past them into the cooking fire, and Chickenruler interrupted hurriedly.

“Maybe it better to speak of other things. So, New Lands, huh? No one dead yet? Great, great. Starving happens. You eat some, it’ll all work out.”

Nailren broke into the silence.

“I’m surprised that you two are still flying. Woll told me it was dangerous. You might not know this, but an entire Wyvern wing got chewed up. Only one survived; it might be untenable for you to keep doing deliveries, grateful as we are for them.”

Fighti’s closed face opened slightly, and she smiled as Chickenruler shot her another glance.

“We know. There’s a big warning from Fissival about it. Apparently, they lost Wyverns too. Bad things up there; we’ve seen them.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Other Wyverns. Saw an Acid Wyvern—that was nasty. There was this storm of flying things that we avoided—”

“Bats? There was a huge nest of them.”

“Hah! We know bats. That lunch. No, far bigger. In that big canyon. Hm, there those annoying Wyverns, that creepy centipede that stretches up and tries to eat you, the flying fishies—”

“And you’re still flying?”

Falene was incredulous, but Fighti sipped her tea.

“We have a secret weapon. It’s risky, but we’re confident we can still fly.”

The [Mage] eyed Coldcream.

“What’s the secret weapon? It’s not anything magic besides the Chest of Holding or I’d sense it.”

“Me.”

Every eye focused on Fightipilota, and she did not elaborate. What was crazy was that clearly, most of the regulars of the inn believed her.

Petia and Homle were whispering to each other.

“Did that Drake kiss that Goblin? And they all know each other from Liscor?”

“I think so, Homle. They must be mad up there, or very, very odd.”

“They did say they were next to the Yoldenites.”

“True. That explains a lot, actually.”

——

Another stranger came over as Fighti and Chickenruler were furnishing the Silver Swords with some of their best supplies. Russell had been gazing at the Frost Wyvern nonstop, just…admiring the way its scales flexed and articulated with every subtle movement. Even watching Coldcream poop and once again affirming that this could not be any animatronic from his world.

He hadn’t known what to make of the two Drakes. And he was still a bit—shy after last night. But when Ylawes turned, the [Knight] instantly strode over.

“That’s right! Fighti—this young man is a friend of ours. Russell, meet Fightipilota, a very trustworthy, very capable representative from the spot I was telling you about.”

The inn? And that name—Russell’s instincts pricked at him again, and the strange Drake woman eyed him, sniffed, and seemed to put her guard up at once. Russell’s free hand twitched, and for some reason, the two tensed.

Then Ylawes, with all the subtlety of a drunken hippo tap-dancing on a table, leaned over and whispered.

“She’s a Goblin, Russell. Her tribe is a friend of Erin.”

The [Gunslinger] recoiled as the illusion vanished. Fightipilota blinked up at him as his jaw worked.

Lenora, Arnie, Chester, and Honarai hesitated as they came over, but Ylawes just turned to Fightipilota with such a genuine smile that Russell’s understanding of this fantasy world had to adjust again.

Our classic hero of heroes is friends with Goblins. Just like Erin Solstice said. It wasn’t an opinion shared by many, clearly, but Russell was receptive to the idea. Any time observing Rasktooth and Infinitypear, overhearing their dialogue, and Russell had a hard time thinking all Goblins were like Orcs.

Plus, if you knew anything about the behind-the-scenes of the Lord of the Ring’s writing, then you knew that Tolkien, a religious man, had often worried about the Orcs not being redeemable. When Fighti introduced herself to the Earthers, they all jumped, but Drakes and Gnolls were so outlandish as to make Goblins actually more relatable to their notions of fantasy. Arnie put it back.

“So it’s World of Warcraft instead of Lord of the Rings. Got it. Do you all serve an Evil Emperor or Demon King? How many evolutions do you have?”

Chickenruler and Fighti eyed him. Fighti had just as quick a reaction to meeting the Humans.

“These the new Earthers?”

Falene nodded, and Fighti rolled her eyes.

“Oooh, fun. How about we come back in three months when they’re all Coach Josephs, not Drunk Josephs? Unless—wait, we’re not doing passengers back to the inn!”

She glowered at Ylawes, and the [Knight] protested.

“They landed in the middle of the New Lands, and they’ve been wandering around for at least a month, Fighti! We were giving them directions back to Liscor, but we can’t go there ourselves…”

She was rubbing at her face as Russell eyed her, still wondering why she put his guard up. But Fighti was grumbling.

“We didn’t bring enough seats or belts! We have three. We could maybe tie a fourth up, but you don’t want to do a harness with rope. It snaps and then—”

She made a gesture, and Russell paled at the implications. Chester went dead white. He backed up a step, which already told Russsell the [Candidate] was highly acrophobic. Besides which, Russell shook his head.

“I reckon we should go on foot, anyways. A bunch of Humans flying with two Drakes stands out. Maybe some of us—”

But I’m not riding all the way to Liscor. Russell wanted to see Izril’s south. Instantly, Honarai began arguing for a ride, but Lenora turned to the Silver Swords.

“I’d stay too, if we could learn from the Silver Swords.”

The first group of people they’d ever met were adventurers and trustworthy. After Russell’s meeting with Ylawes, everyone was glued to the Silver Swords. Arnie himself agreed.

“You don’t leave the trainers and the tutorial group. They’re going to teach us magic and swordplay!”

“I’m not flying.”

That last part came from Chester, and Fightipilota put in drily.

“We’re not flying anyone back to Liscor, anyways. We’re headed to Nombernaught, and unless you want to go there…we’ll figure this out on our way back. Especially since a lot of you have the [Poo Explosion] Skill, and that’s not going away anytime soon.”

That did settle that. Russell stood there, asking questions of Chickenruler about his Frost Wyvern. He actually even got close enough to feed Coldcream a piece of ham; the Wyvern licked it out of his hand, and the barbed tongue reminded Russell of a cat.

“How does it stay aloft? And those scales—how tough are they?”

Not that he had any inclination of tangling with a Wyvern, but the more Chickenruler explained how Wyverns had some kind of internal balloon that made them almost weight-negative and how they hunted from above, the more glad Russell was that he hadn’t gone anywhere near a nest.

If my bolt-action even goes through their scales, I’d need to hit their heads, and there’s no guarantee I’d kill them even if I had a perfect shot. The idea of Wyverns just dropping at you out of the sky…he’d have to keep his head up.

Beautiful, though. Coldcream nuzzled Chickenruler’s hand, and the [Wyvern Rider] grinned—right up until Arnie came over to ask about whether or not you needed a crystal or collar or something to tame the Wyverns. He seemed exceptionally disappointed when Chickenruler told him he had to capture a Wyvern then win their trust and affection.

“Is there like a gauge or stat you can see? I guess I’ll have to pierce the veil first before I can play around with the internal mechanics of the world.”

Chickenruler eyed Arnie as he went over to keep asking Falene for magical lessons. Russell shifted on one foot.

“Sorry about that.”

“Yah. You definitely new here. Don’t talk like that to actual Drakes. Or anyone who has animal friends.”

The Goblin appeared vaguely offended, but Russell bent his head to whisper as he patted Coldcream gingerly on the mane.

“I was advised to be careful about other factions. Should I be worried about Drakes?”

“You want my opinion on Drakes?”

“If you have one.”

Chickenruler’s face screwed up with novel amusement, then he sombered. Looked Russell up and down.

“Yah, I heard they snatchy with you people. You watch out for the Walled Cities. And normal Drake cities. They pretty bad too. Killed lots of Gnolls, so why not Humans? Gnolls okay…some of them. But Humans! Peh! Worst of the lot! Tons of nasty ones. House Veltras, any Reinhart not called ‘Magnolia’—”

“Wait, slow down. Walled Cities. Gnolls…who have tribes? All these are different powers, right?”

“Oh sure, tons of powers. Other people know more.”

Chickenruler was airy as Russell reviewed some notes he’d made with the others about the state of this world. It confirmed his suspicions: there was a need for some paranoia, if not towards good men like Ylawes Byres.

“But we’re just a group of Humans. If we obey Drake laws, we should be able to pass through their lands just fine, correct?”

The Goblin eyed Russell once as he scratched Coldcream delicately along the eye ridges.

“Sure, maybe. Safe as Humans in Drake lands get, I guess. But you not just any Humans. You Earthers. All them groups I name? They all collect you. Like, uh, shiny rocks. They snatch you, you not get free. They try that to even Erin, the [Innkeeper] everyone knows.”

“They do? Who tried that?”

Russell’s heart began to beat faster, and Chickenruler replied in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Pallass sort of tried I guess? I dunno, I not know politics. But Roshal definitely tried. Put her on a ship. Then she got free. That was a big fight at sea. Now she not at the inn, just so you know.”

“Where is she?”

“Eh…Baleros? She not able to come back. Because she knife that [Prince] in the heart. Awesome stab.”

Russell stood there as he realized the young woman who had met him was not just a simple person in this world, but deep in it. So famous that any random person he met might know her name or have an opinion about her.

That, of course, made him like her more, even if it made him warier of her. And some of her friends.

——

Fightipilota poked Ylawes as she leaned against one wall of the waystation. Nailren was frowning at Russell, who was engaging Chickenruler in talk.

“Hey, Captain Ylawes. Sorry about all the racisms. Quick question…who’s that?”

She nodded at Russell, and Ylawes explained how they’d met. Fighti’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s what it is. He’s got a gun.”

“You know what it is?”

“Smells familiar. He’s dangerous. Not sure if he recognized me—you really are a lucky idiot. If he shot you, you’d be very dead, armor or not. Well…Chieftain will want to get what he’s got, but we’ll see if we want to bring them back. Goblinhome doesn’t need more trouble.”

On that, they could both agree. Now that she understood who he was, Fighti relaxed a bit, though it interested Ylawes to notice Russell glance at her now and then. As if she disconcerted him.

Some kind of shared sense they had? At any rate, he was conferring with Fighti as well over their situation, and she was shrugging.

“If you want us to carry you to Liscor, we can. Not right now—but I’ll tell Chieftain Rags, and she could send Wyverns. Might take a long while—we’d have to go back, then I need to run escort for them. Three weeks?”

“That’s a long time! It’s tempting—I don’t know how well we’d fly, and we’d still be in trouble in the north, I suspect.”

“Well, you spending one week pooping here. So think about it!”

She slapped his arm, and he winced. At this, Nailren sidled over.

“Ylawes, I hate to interject. But it seems like you and this young group of Humans have become quite close.”

“Earthers.”

Fighti helpfully supplied, and Nailren exhaled, looking mildly gratified, but also annoyed.

“I thought so. Well, that takes the fun out of that mystery. I’d love to know more—then again, I don’t have any tribe nearby. What is that young man carrying?”

He indicated Russell, and Fighti again supplied.

“Gun. Wait, who this guy? We friends?”

Ylawes nodded, and she frowned at Nailren vaguely, as if trying to place him. For his part, the Gnoll’s ears twitched.

“…Some device from Earth?”

“A dangerous one, apparently. Russell claims it’s how he’s kept his team alive so far. Fighti agrees.”

Ylawes didn’t know what the device did, but he had felt his [Dangersense] going off. Nailren hmmed, appearing unhappy.

“You’re sending them to the inn, though?”

“Yup.”

“Then it’s not my business. We’re deep enough in the New Lands as it is, and the Meeting of Tribes has all the information it needs, I suspect.”

Nailren dusted his paws as if literally to absolve himself of the problems, and Fighti nodded.

“They too much work for us too. Plus none of them have Kevin-energy, so we don’t really want to make friends. That guy, Arnie? He got anti Kevin-energy. Even if he figured out how we evolve. But he make it weird. Honarai cool, and Lenora good at drawing. Chester…Chieftain Rags might like him.”

She shook her head, and both she and Nailren turned and favored Ylawes with a smile. And he realized, much to his indignation, that neither one wanted to help the Earthers. Yes, they were innocent-ish children from another world, lost and stranded.

But they were kind of a pain in the ass to deal with.

——

After a while, Fighti decided it was time to go. Fun as this was, they had to fly, and the Silver Swords were restocked.

“We’ll come back if we find a cure. No promises. Drink lots of water, eat some salt; it helps with the pooping. Hey, kid, you take care of yourself. Got it?”

She saluted Rasktooth, who stared up at her and nodded as Chickenruler hopped on the Wyvern’s back. Woll was back to give them more tea and remind them to head here again, but Fighti stopped.

“Hey, Ylawes, those Earthers you got…is something wrong with them? Did they eat some brain-maggots? The one called Arnie is creepy. He’s just staring at me.”

Ylawes eyed the young man, and turned around with Fighti.

“They’re, um, awkward. The one called Honarai is just as random, but the others are quite decent. Russell seems like a good man, just very worried.”

“Honarai? She’s cool. Reminds me of the future.”

What did you say to that? Ylawes coughed.

“Er, yes? We do want to get them to the inn, and maybe it would be best to arrange transport on foot. We could get them an Overnight Carriage and some gold. It’s just hard to arrange. Mrsha hasn’t been calling regularly…”

Fighti inhaled, and he grew anxious.

“Is she alright?”

“What? Yeah. Sure, sure…but, uh, no wonder she hasn’t been calling. She’ll be back. But maybe in a bit? You could tell the inn. Maybe they don’t want more drama, though. You could, I dunno, take care of them?”

He fidgeted.

“That’s, ah, quite difficult out here.”

Fighti pulled a face.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just that Drakes do pay attention to who’s flying, and Lilbrasi’s Skill won’t work on them. I’ll ask. It’ll be her problem. And we’re not keeping them. My man Kevin’s the only Earther who has a free pass in our base. Everyone else walks there and back.”

She grinned. Ylawes’ face clouded, and he shuffled his feet, then spoke.

“Kevin’s…dead, Fighti. At the Winter Solstice. I don’t know if you…”

He trailed off, and for one moment, her head turned and that strange impossibility shone into his eyes. She peered around, then shook her head.

“Nah.”

“But I was told…they were sure of…”

Her eyes glittered, and she put a finger to her lips.

“You gotta go back and ask. Like I said, a Solstice event for the records. Not while we’re being watched. Too many eyes, even here. Like that guy. Who is he, again? He’s with the inn or he’d better be if we’re talking around him.”

She jerked a thumb at the Gnoll she didn’t recognize, and he blinked. Ylawes pivoted.

“—That’s Nailren. He’s from Liscor too. I mean, he was a Silver-ranker who went to Erin’s inn sometimes.”

“What?”

Fighti whirled, embarrassed. She’d never met Nailren! She waved at him.

“Sorry!”

“Not at all. I should have introduced myself. Nailren, formerly a Silver-rank Captain. Now [Explorer]. May I compliment Lilbrasi on her fine work? Though I think you could raise your prices.”

Fighti shook his hand and then saw him make a fist. She performed The Wandering Inn’s new, secret handshake, and he did a twirl and offered her finger guns. That made her like him. She grinned.

“It’s goodwill over gold. Or artifacts or important stuff. We’ve got lots of food right now, actually. Things are good.”

“Very sensible.”

“So, uh, what’re you doing here?”

Chickenruler was almost ready for takeoff, but Fighti was hugely embarrassed by not knowing this stranger whom she had a connection to. Nailren produced a scroll from his belt pouches.

“Working on a map, actually. It’s hardly detailed, but…”

“Ooh! Lilbrasi’s going to want that. Hey, great detailing! I recognize some of this!”

[Basic Cartographer] or not, Nailren calculated how far he’d ridden per day and done an actually extremely thorough job of mapping out each area he’d crossed. Fighti tapped the map.

“I didn’t know there was an inn. We might have to stop there. Get a drink. Heh. Looks right to me.”

“Really? It’s so patchwork until we get to the grasslands.”

Ylawes was frowning at the almost checkerboard-like way the Coral Lands, the grasslands, and other areas were scattered around, and Fighti shrugged.

“That’s how it looks close to the edges. I think it’s like…spread out. Maybe the magic got weird near the edges? When you get further in, you get big areas like this. Nice name too.”

She jerked a thumb at Kishkeria’s Grasslands. Then pointed.

“There’s some weird icy area that moves in the center-north, and that gorge is huge. You get some very nice canyons that way—we had to dodge Wyverns there. Even the Coral Lands stretch out for ages. You just have to keep riding.”

“I’m going to need to ride for a month or more to cover that ground. Or just take what I can map and trust others to do the rest. I envy your bird’s eye view.”

Nailren sighed, not too unhappy, but she saw how his eyes lit up at the places she mentioned, and they were only a few. Fighti peered at him, then glanced at Ylawes. He seemed super-honest, so she spoke casually to the Gnoll.

“So you really were at the inn? When was this? The Horns, when Rags was still with her first tribe?”

The Gnoll scratched at his chin.

“No, I’m after their era. I don’t know the inn’s history that well—I’d be after the Horns went to Albez, when the dungeon was opening. I was just hanging around; not nearly like a regular. I saw the Face-Eater Moth attack and fought the Raskghar, but only that.”

“Oh, oh, you were with the Redfang Five era! Headscratcher, Shorthilt, Rabbiteater, Badarrow, Numbtongue. The legends.”

Even among the Redfangs, they had attained a kind of immortality. A moment when five Goblins had all become Hobs and been…at the inn. Nailren smiled.

“I was. It was a shock to see them.”

“Eh, you didn’t try to kill them, it’s fine.”

She tested him gently, and he coughed, abashed.

“Well, I’d never be stupid enough to try and test five Hobs who were clearly good fighters. But, well, you see and hear a lot of things if you travel far enough. I knew there was a precedent. Baleros and the Isle of Goblins. Seafolk have a different relationship with Goblins. Cenidau too.”

“I was surprised by that. Evor accepted Rasktooth quite quickly.”

Ylawes remarked, and Nailren shrugged.

“You have to see it how they do. Northfolk would probably kill Goblins, but they’re low on the priority list. There are some tribes in the north, and they likely are as dangerous as bandits. After seeing them on television? Evor might have talked to Rasktooth if he’d met him and Infinitypear alone. One can only hope. The trauma from the Goblin King is fresh in Izril, Ylawes. There were points in time when Goblins didn’t evoke the instinctual fear and hatred they do now.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“Trust me, Gnolls have made alliances with every species in our history. I used to pester my [Shaman] for the strangest tales as a cub, and they have some oddities! Remind me to tell you about the Gnoll who shaved himself and masqueraded as a [Prince] for four years before getting found out.”

Fightipilota snorted, and Ylawes gave Nailren an incredulous smile, but she felt like the Gnoll was quite capable.

“Anything you need? Or we can help with? A friend of Erin’s is a friend of ours.”

Nailren thought a moment and shook his head.

“No, but there is one thing. I told Nanette about these sea gardens, as I call them, where you can grow plants. If you were to spot them—and I have a warning for you, actually. About ghosts.”

Ylawes slapped his forehead, and Fighti’s jaw dropped. She’d neither known about the sea gardens or the ghosts.

“You serious? This isn’t a joke you’re playing, right? Because I’m gonna tell Lilbrasi, and if it’s a joke, everyone’s going to laugh at me. And that means I’ll come back and throw a ham on the ground in front of you.”

She warned them, and Ylawes assured her seriously it was not.

“I ran into them myself. Actually, I have something we found—or we could give you as a thank-you…let me get it.”

He headed off, and Nailren folded his arms.

“As we casually stand here, I just would like to assure you it is true, Fightipilota, and you can laugh or nod or not react at all. Because at this very moment, I do have proof and even an example—a friendly ghost I met. Spoony will now poke your shoulder, and you hopefully won’t make anyone try to listen in on us…if they are, they are. But adult Gnolls tend to have to focus and give themselves away when they’re isolating sounds.”

And then there was a poke on Fightipilota’s arm, cold and gentle, and she managed not to leap up and shout. She gave Nailren a wide-eyed look.

“You took one?”

“Well. I thought it was interesting.”

He was crazy. He really did come from The Wandering Inn! Fighti shook her head.

“Lilbrasi is going to be all over this. Where’s Numbtongue when you need him? Probably seducing, I dunno, some half-Giantess or something. I have seen the sea gardens you mentioned. I think. But we had to fly fast and keep an eye out for trouble. This time, I could land and check them out.”

Nailren’s eyes brightened.

“Feel free to share it wherever you go, but if you’d credit me, I’d be very grateful. Just a bit of vanity. The ghosts…I think it’s important people know that, too. But it occurs to me it might be better to not tell people that. Let justice sort itself out. Or maybe telling prevents…no, nothing would prevent it, sadly. But if you’d map out some sea gardens or anything, I’d love a copy of a map if you leave it with Woll.”

He peered wistfully at the Frost Wyvern. Fightipilota had a crazy idea, even by her standards, as Ylawes came jogging back.

“Fighti, I have a gift for you. It’s not much, but…what’s your preferred weapon?”

“Me? I’d love a flare gun. Right now, it’s just a hand-crossbow because of my Skill. I use a shortsword with it, but I don’t have one I like.”

Fighti tapped her side, and Nailren’s brows rose. Ylawes didn’t get what she meant either, but he fumbled and handed her a long blade of…

Fighti almost dropped the Mithril blade. She blinked at it, then her jaw dropped when he leaned forwards and whispered what it was.

“You sure?”

“We have a number. We’d send them with you, but they’re useful as, well, bartering objects. Not that I want to make a habit of that.”

“Can I have another? And, uh, do you have like two hundred pounds of it? Got an axe?”

Ylawes handed an axehead over then eyed Fighti.

“…Why two hundred pounds?”

“I think they’d make great wings for a project I’m working on. No? Damn. Next Solstice event, then. So…we’re heading off now.”

Fighti jerked a thumb at the Wyvern waiting for takeoff and resolved to get Ylawes something nice. Mithril sword. No one had better try to confiscate it back home! She glanced at Nailren, who sighed.

“I might be gone, but if Captain Ylawes’ people are sick as we think, he might be around. I may ask you to leave anything with them.”

“Yeah…about that. I don’t like drawing, and I don’t like drawing on Wyvernback. Hard to do that and aim the Thunderbow. And there is bad stuff up there. Can’t be distracted.”

Nailren blinked, but nodded.

“Of course, practicality first. It was just a thought.”

Fighti smiled tightly.

“Well…if there was a third person, they could draw a map and hand us crummy sandwiches. Damn, we should have made some! Oh well. If you want to map the New Lands so bad, no one’s flying solo but us. It’s sort of dangerous, but we have a trump card. Wanna come with?”

Nailren blinked at Fighti in true, genuine astonishment, and Ylawes’ mouth opened.

“Nailren? Fly with you?”

“I…don’t know. I’ve never flown.”

“Eh, it’d only be a week. Less, really. We’re going to Nombernaught and back. We can’t fly all the New Lands, but you can see a lot. Just an offer.”

But who’d fly with a pair of Goblins? Only a crazy person would. Fighti held her breath even though she didn’t know if this was a good idea. Rags would kill her.

If she found out. It was crazy, funny, Fighti had a trump card, and the Gnoll was from the inn. He hesitated, glanced back at the keep, and for some reason, sniffed.

“How long did you say dysentery lasts for?”

“I dunno. Week or more if it’s nasty.”

He paused, then Nailren turned away.

“Let me arrange for my horse to stay here. Ylawes, can you see to it? I’ll get my things.”

“Nailren? Are you serious? You want to fly?”

The Gnoll turned, and Fighti saw a smile almost as fearless as hers, and Nailren began to stride off.

“It’s a new era, Ylawes. We already know Gnolls can fly. Why shouldn’t I?”

And that was how Fightipilota found herself with a new guest, and Nailren found himself seeing the New Lands as few people had before. He couldn’t tell if that was the wonder—or Fightipilota.

He really, really, wondered what had happened at the inn this time.

——

[Memo: Fightipilota].

“Fightipilota, check in. We’ve established where Rianchi is. He’s fine. All nominal here. Progress and sitrep. (I’m using your silly language.)”

You got twenty-five words with Rags’ [Memo] Skill, which Woll and Salii would have considered short, but it was still powerful. Fightipilota’s reply took twenty-five minutes, which already told Rags something when she sent it.

“Hey, Chieftain. Not silly language. Got to Woll’s Waystation. Nice place. Dysentery though. Met Silver Swords and Rasktooth. Also Nailren. He’s flying with us. Later!”

Twenty-five words exactly. Because Rags could only use that Skill a limited number of times per day, Fightipilota had probably twenty-four hours before any trouble came her way. She put her feet up on the Thunderbow.

Heh.

In truth, her new friend did have her checking her six now and then because it was strange to have any non-Goblin flying with them. Chickenruler thought Fighti was crazy, obviously, but they got bored on the trip.

And Nailren was interesting, even if he didn’t talk much. For one thing, even though he could see them as Goblins, he seemed more focused on staring down and working on his map. He made conversation, of course, but it was all so…normal.

“There’s a Sea Garden. And another. Looks like this area is rife with them. It might be a splendid spot to settle. Do you think your tribe’s aiming for a spot like that?”

When they hesitated, he glanced up.

“Don’t answer me if it’s secret. I just thought it was obvious they’d relocate after the incident in the High Passes. And the New Lands is the perfect place to go, isn’t it?”

Fighti coughed.

“Maybe. Chieftain Rags isn’t keen on the mana-drain stuff. Which is why she’s moving slow. Also, she’s gotta kick the new Goblins into line. But since there’s that magic ritual, we don’t need the Sea Gardens, right?”

Nailren scribbled on his map as he glanced at her.

“Not necessarily. A few things struck me about Archmage Eldavin’s magic. He came out with it very fast. Which might mean that he knows the issue or he’s just that talented, but in my experience, [Mage]-magic is famous for being refined. [Shaman]-magic is spontaneous but tends to be the best result if you put the effort in.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t know that. Why that matter?”

Chickenruler frowned, and Nailren gestured back the way they’d come. Woll’s Waystation was already a dot on the horizon, if that wasn’t Fighti imagining she could even see it. And the New Lands kept going. The grasslands were just the first step; they’d come to some rocky terrain, but those Sea Gardens were like vibrant specks amidst the harshness. No one on ground level would think something like that existed, and but for Nailren, they wouldn’t have known what it was either. He went on, thoughtful.

“Well, has anyone tested the quality of the soil that Eldavin’s spell creates? My guess is it’s average, or even below-average, for quality at best. I know [Farmers] put a lot of stock in the value of soil. These Sea Gardens sprout with life. Either the soil’s magic or just the highest quality. And the mana to perform that ritual is not light, even if it’s within reach of other casters. Settling in a place like this might be worth not having to deal with the soil issues.”

Dead gods, he sounded like, well, Chieftain Rags. She had thought the soil ritual wasn’t refined yet. But mostly…Fighti stared at Nailren until he glanced up.

“Do I have anything wrong? I’d love to be corrected. I don’t know Goblin tribes that well, so this is all extrapolation.”

“No, not that. How…how do you know how Goblins think?”

Nailren smiled briefly at her dumbstruck expression.

“Goblin tribes and Gnoll tribes have a lot of similarities. Even if we’re different species, I can still guess. I’m pleased to know I’m not that far off base. With that said, I’m not at home in the air.”

He peered down, and Fighti saw him shudder.

“Thankfully, I’m not that afraid of heights, but if there’s anything I should know…”

“Don’t fall. Never take your seatbelt off. Um…if you see something coming in the air, shout. Oh, and Frost Wyverns don’t like flying in rain, so we avoid that.”

He nodded, peering around alertly.

“How dangerous is it, flying closer to the ground like this?”

Fighti shrugged.

“Better than clouds.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Clouds hide things. Also, Coldcream gets tired flying higher and maintaining altitude.”

“Truly? I thought he’d glide along on hot air like birds do.”

Fighti snorted and patted the animal affectionately.

“Not Wyverns. They have something in them that inflates and deflates. Makes them light. It’s how they dive so fast; they turn it off and boom. Super heavy. But it means it takes energy to keep going high. Easier to stay low-ish. Mana drain gets Wyverns too, and if something does come up, eh, we usually have a minute at least.”

Nailren nodded.

“The Thunderbow’s your first offense?”

Chickenruler called back.

“First offense is [Burst of Speed]! Or [Bond: Noxious Fart]!”

He cackled as Coldcream huffed, embarrassed, and Fighti whispered.

“That’s his actual Skill. I’m second-offense. I shoot, we dodge. We might go upside down or something. You a good shot with the bow?”

“I’m better stationary at long ranges, but yes, I can ride and shoot.”

“Good. Aim for wings.”

Nailren glanced around.

“Most [Wyvern Riders] would have similar precautions and gear and fly in a full wing. Your trump card that you think will keep you safe…let’s say something bypasses all of our defences. How fast can you activate it?”

She grinned.

“Very fast. Then I have five seconds.”

He paused.

“To activate or…”

“To kill or hurt whatever’s coming at us. Chickenruler runs, and I attack, then catch up. If I fall, I stay in cover until you find me. Fly off if you have to.”

Nailren blinked at Fightipilota, and she bared her teeth.

“Not sure if it’s a good trump card?”

“Just wondering if I’ll get to see it.”

She hmmed as Chickenruler glanced over his shoulder with Coldcream.

“Maybe. Maybe. You good at keeping secrets? We are trusting you.”

Nailren smiled.

“I’m the best at keeping secrets. If we’re on the same side or not opposed, rest assured, they’re kept.”

“Which side is that? Your team’s?”

“Gnolls and Goblins.”

“Oh. The big sides.”

“Yes. Some might say that we’re not obliged to be on those sides, and that’s fair. I’ve chosen that point of view.”

Fighti nodded, resting her feet up for a bit.

“I think those are good sides. I like yours. I think Chieftain Rags does too. Well, we’ll see if I need to use it. Like right now if you two don’t stop staring and pull up!”

They were diving again and nearly hit a tall hill of rocks before they got over it. Fighti sighed.

——

The first night’s camp with Nailren was pleasant; the Gnoll pointed out those coral tree patches and helped set up a fire and tarp for Coldcream to sleep under and hide from other predators. Everyone was keen on not finding out what preyed on Frost Wyverns.

Nailren even broke out some honey to eat with the Cenidau bread, and a little pot of gumbo from the remainder of fresh food that the two Goblins had brought filled the stomach nicely.

There wasn’t much to do at night other than keep an eye out. Nailren offered to, but Fighti waved it off.

“We’re fine. There’s a reason Chickenruler is the one who flies New Lands. It takes a bunch of Redfangs and two Wyverns without him. He’s a [Paranoid Sleeper].”

“Super paranoid. I have lots of Goblin Skills. Good at staying alive. Eleven years. I’m like 88 in Human years.”

Nailren’s brows rose, but he nodded.

“I also have Spoony. She’ll alert me if there’s trouble. You can guard, right, Spoony?”

“YES.”

She pointed on the board, and Fighti shivered. He really was crazy. And practical! He even set up a little rope trap; just some rope strung around with heavy stones that’d slow anything coming their way. That done, they settled down.

Aside from lookout and conversation, once you were done with that, it was time to rest. You tended towards early mornings and early sleeping in the wild. Unless you had some business at night.

Fighti fidgeted as they were lying down. She coughed.

“Eh, Chickenruler.”

He had a sleeping mask on his eyes, and he lifted it as Coldcream wore a huge version of the same.

“Wat.”

“Um, well, we’re sleeping and obviously it’s very bad if we jumped, but it’s not long till midnight. So…do you think we’re mostly safe?”

He gave her a long, studying look, then eyed Nailren.

“Sure, with our Gnoll friend.”

“Okay. Well, then, maybe I’ll…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Chickenruler waved her off. Fightipilota went hopping out of their shelter excitedly, searching for an open spot. Nailren’s brows rose.

“It’s dark out there.”

“Dark better be afraid of her right now. You look up, maybe you see her.”

That was the enigmatic comment from the older Goblin. Nailren was stepping out of the shelter when he sensed and heard something—strange.

A roaring sound like nothing he’d heard before. He flinched back as wind struck his face, heart pounding, and aimed a bow up. He saw—something—soaring upwards, saw the flash of moonlight on a metallic surface, and his nose smelled something foul and acrid, but not quite like what he’d noticed around Russell.

“What was—”

Five seconds. For five seconds, something split the night, silencing bugs, fading away as it went up, up, up—so high he couldn’t imagine the velocity. Then it stopped, and a hush fell over the world.

Nailren stared upwards, but whatever it was was gone. When he walked back into the camp, Chickenruler’s eyemask was off his face, and he and Coldcream were staring up.

“What was that? Is it a secret?”

Chickenruler glanced at Nailren and sat back in the little hammock he’d strung up.

“Eh, she probably didn’t want to show you in the dark. If we see trouble, you see it. Sure, it secret. Everything secret. What you think?”

“I…don’t know what to think. I’ve never heard that or seen that in my life.”

Nailren sat, shaken, wondering where Fighti was. Had she sent something up?

Chickenruler just smiled as he lay there.

“Good. That means it all ours.”

“Where’s Fighti?”

“She coming down.”

Now, Nailren went out again, and he had to stare up for a while before he saw the odd, oblong shape in the air. He watched as the parachute steered itself towards their camp, and then she landed amidst the coral foliage.

“Fuck. Ow. Damn.”

She crashed down, and he went to cut her out, but then the parachute vanished and Fighti strode back into camp. She was breathless, eyes bright with delight, and innocently walked over to her hammock as he stood there. Chickenruler was already snoring, or pretending to. Nailren saw her catch his eye.

“What?”

There was mischief in her grin as she lay back down. Nailren just exhaled and sat down.

Dead gods. He had to stop smiling every day or he was going to make a habit of it.

——

Fightipilota’s great Skill, the one that had taken another world to create, made her one of the deadliest things in the sky…for five seconds.

Actually, five point six seconds, she was fairly certain; she’d hit Level 18, and it seemed to be pushing her Skill higher. She could use her Skill every day, and it was…powerful.

There was no other word for it. Her Skill was the only reason she and Chickenruler were allowed to fly solo, or at all, in the New Lands. With that said, it was far from invincible.

5.6 seconds was a long, long time for anything she didn’t like. But her Skill was balanced by a few factors, and the time limit was actually the least of her concerns. Fighti saved her Skill for nightfall as a treat if she could, but it was far from guaranteed.

She knew it probably scared Nailren. She knew it scared Chickenruler and Coldcream to some extent. It…okay, everyone who saw and understood what her Skill did treated her like a monster.

It was weird to go from being the silly Goblin with dreams of flight and a funny name to one of the Flooded Waters Tribe’s biggest weapons. And that was what she was, wasn’t she?

A weapon.

True, she was good at flying the New Lands. Fighti thought she had a good personality, could crack jokes, put in her fair share in any task, and so on, but she was battle now. She had been a flier.

There was a difference. Here was that difference: Naumel, the Kraken Eater’s [Chieftain], and Redscar.

Naumel was a beast in combat, able to regenerate, with amazing tactical abilities, and he had thrown down with even Named-rankers. He was unquestionably the Goblin you wanted when there was blood and danger.

Outside of danger, Naumel was no one’s favorite Goblin, even among the Kraken Eaters. He was lazy. He didn’t train, he had bad hygiene—

“And he farts.”

“He does? I thought he just stink.”

The conversation as the trio flew over the Eternal Grasslands tended towards gossip. Fighti and Chickenruler had to holler at each other normally, which precluded long conversations. But Nailren had offered to try and man the Thunderbow, which let the two Goblins gossip.

He was still getting used to flying, and the revelation about Fighti’s abilities, but he sat, able to hear them, if disinclined to join their conversation. Fighti thought he was paying attention, though. Their eyes roamed the sea of yellow grass, and she could well imagine how Russell’s group had been stuck here so long.

Coldcream flew fast with Rags’ and Chickenruler’s Skills, and it’d still take at least another full day of travel to get out of this area. On foot, where you might go in a circle? She wondered if there was anything to eat here. It didn’t look like it, nor did it have many of those Sea Gardens that Nailren talked about.

You either have to hunt, have your own provisions, or have something that eats grass or you’re dead or eating the grass yourself. Dark. Anyways—she leaned on Chickenruler’s seat and shouted.

“No, he has farting competitions! His Fomirelin? Some are clean. Others are gross. So big they say, ‘why bother cleaning when it all get dirty’? Yuck.”

“I not hang out with them.”

“Yeah, well, I have to since they respect me. Naumel sucks. No one likes him. Even his Kraken Eaters like our people better.”

“Really?”

Chickenruler was close to an original Flooded Waters tribe Goblin; he hadn’t been from Rags’ first, tiny tribe, but he’d been absorbed before the Redfangs, so he had a lot of pride. Fighti felt the same and nodded importantly.

“Snapjaw is very popular because she’s a Fomirelin. Also everyone knows her teeth are sexy.”

“Oh yah. Nothing like someone who can eat half a Corusdeer in a bite. But she and Badarrow are very nice.”

“True…she had to kick a few idiots who didn’t care. There’s also Prixall.”

“Everyone like a good hat. And mask. Let me guess, Poisonbite not very popular?”

“Hah! She tried flirting with a Fomirelin lady and got laughed at. Very hilarious. Everyone likes Student Rags, and Kraken Eaters really like Gothica.”

“Ergh. Glad they working with us if Naumel not that popular. They really not like him?”

“His tribe eats green meat. Once he got his butt kicked by Chieftain Rags, they decided they can fight with us and not eat spoiled food. Besides, all Naumel does is laze. He doesn’t train since he thinks you should fight at least once a week in a life-or-death struggle. Chieftain Rags has him killing monsters and he’s still bored. So he just sits, complains, eats, watches the scrying orb, or has sex.”

“…Sounds like a Redfang. Stop kicking my seat! Stop kicking my—”

Fighti stopped. She folded her arms.

“He made like sixteen babies already.”

“Arcsinger’s arrow in my eye. That way too many!”

“Yeah, well, he stopped when Chieftain Rags said he has to help raise them. Kraken Eaters love making babies. Lots of them kept bugging me about it. That’s how they think. ‘If you’re strong, babies gotta be stronger’.”

She harrumphed. Then sat there and gave voice to that feeling.

“It’s just…that’s Naumel, you know? Everyone tolerates him because he’s a good weapon. Not a good person. But Redscar, he’s all good. Everyone likes Redscar.”

“Eh, he okay.”

“No, you know what I mean! He’s teaching Goblins all his lessons from the [Palace of Fates]. For fun, he’s experimenting with swords, training, trying new techniques out—Goblins want to be him. He’s the reason the Redfangs aren’t just…part of the Flooded Waters tribe. He’s keeping us alive. He’s a weapon and a person. And I’m more like Naumel, I guess.”

She said that quietly, but Chickenruler twisted in his seat.

“You not. Everyone know Fightipilota, everyone knows you brought back good stuff from New Lands. They say to me all the time, ‘that Fighti, she crazy, but she good! Now she got her class that’s great.’”

“No one says that. Don’t lie, Chickenruler.”

“They do! They do!”

“Name one person who said that.”

“Uh, well, Gothica.”

Fighti didn’t dignify that with a response. She just stared down at the grasslands and saw Wyverns falling from the sky. Little crosshairs dancing over their [Riders] begging her to stop, screaming at her as she shot their hearts out from under them.

Skies filled with smoke and flaming planes plunging down and the Goblin King howling. Her fingers twitched as Chickenruler glanced at her. What she didn’t say was that the reason Rags made her liaison with so many of the new Goblins was because Fighti could boss everyone around.

Kraken Eaters, future Goblins, even Naumel would eye her and listen. They had all seen what she carried.

A bit of Ragathsi of Civilization’s madness. A piece of her burning, mechanical heart and the death it spat across nations. A weapon from the future was what Fighti had stolen from the [Palace of Fates]. She didn’t regret it; they needed her power.

But she had just wanted to fly. Chickenruler was pursing his lips.

“So, uh—glad Rianchi okay. Fightipilota, hey, you know, not every newcomer is bad. Many of those Trolls, they’re deep thinkers. Not big on talking until you get them going. And Cazmaw, well, he dumb as his Chieftain, but we got to talking one time. He sort of admire you. Maybe when we get back he gives you a watermelon and you show him around?”

“Bleh.”

“Well, okay, yeah. He only into you for your Skill, and he huge. But, uh—”

Fighti leaned over the Wyvern’s wing and pointed down.

“Hey. There’s another group. Let’s say hello.”

She was grateful for the interruption. So was Chickenruler, and they banked downwards. It wasn’t hard to see a group if they were flying over them in the grasslands. But most that Fighti had seen were not doing well.

——

[Merchants] looking weary, underfed, and pushing wagons through the unpaved terrain. Exhausted adventurers asking for a lift. Colonist groups begging for a landmark, anything—

And a very cheerful group of smiling Humans. Fighti almost told Chickenruler to fly the moment they saw all the smiles. It felt like a trap.

“Hello, hello and welcome to Frontier Caravan #4! We’re settling this outpost in the name of House Reinhart and Lord Calidus! Can I offer you a cup of rainwater? Peanut? Almond? Dekac? Treepopper?”

A slightly dishevelled man with loose clothing was part of a rather worn caravan on the leading edge of the other expeditions. Not because they had more protections or Skills than anyone else; far from it.

They didn’t have high-level [Guards] or a good leader. But they had been marching with a will, and hunger hadn’t killed them. Their fast pace was odd, as were the smiles. Fighti held out a gloved hand, ready to run like spit for Nailren and Chickenruler, who were sitting on the Wyvern’s back.

She insisted on putting herself in danger, because, well, she was the danger. But this Human man had too-wide pupils, and despite the lines on his face and even a bit of grey in his hair, he had been almost jogging along.

“I’m Fightipilota, er, a [Wyvern Rider] doing deliveries across the New Lands. And you are…?”

“Where are my manners? [Caravan Leader] Mulhot. Well, I’m new to my class, and here I thought the New Lands would be joyful. Ha. HAHAHAHA.”

He threw back his head and started laughing, whereupon a young woman and two men did likewise. They were wandering around, eating, drinking water they’d collected in buckets—very practical.

And they were all quite, quite…there was a strange smell in the air. Fighti eyed the food they were eating. She saw a young woman pour a cup of…nuts.

Nuts of every shape, size, and color. Peanuts. Walnuts she had to crack with one hand. Macadamia nuts. Bobble Nuts, round fat ones that floated across entire seas—

“You, uh, you like nuts, I see.”

Mulhot’s face froze up at the casual comment. He took Fighti’s gloved hand and squeezed it with sudden, frantic strength.

“We killed a rabbit the other day. I nearly ate it raw. Just a bit of oil—nut oil, ha. Hahaha—it’s not hard to make oil if you squeeze the nuts—and the meat! Oh, the meat. So tender. So juicy! Not like nuts. You need water with most nuts, unless they’re container-nuts, in which case they have water inside. That’s how you survive, see? Bocca nuts for when it’s dry. Macadamia nuts for energy. And Zicca nuts forever!”

He threw his hands up, and there was a cheer. Fighti backed up a step.

“…So you don’t…?”

Mulhot’s face went from joyous insanity to desperation in a heartbeat. He pointed a trembling finger at the caravans.

“All we have are nuts. I don’t know how it happened. We—we had regular rations, we thought. All pre-packed, and I even had a storage Skill! That was my job, see? I was hired ‘specially because I had [Storage Crates]. Thought it was odd when I was interviewed since Lord Calidus passed on over a hundred men and women. Then our magic died, and I thought we were lucky. But then I realized—there’s lot of nuts in our provisions. Good! Stores well. But then we ran out of flour, and meat ‘n eggs were long gone, and that was fine. We had nuts! Plenty of energy. But we started opening the provision crates. Bit of food on top of each crate. The rest? It’s all nuts.”

For some reason beyond Fightipilota, this caravan had enough provisions for their journey into the New Lands—but all they had were nuts. Which was good! Nuts were nutrient-dense, could be used in many different ways, and heck, might even grow! They had a few little saplings they’d actually planted in the soil.

“That’s a Kilka nut. Grows in the harshest terrain—volcanic. And we said, well, if it can stand that, why not salt? It’s growing. See? See? Traded some of them to other groups for fruits. Delicious fruits.”

They were very, very not well. When Fighti offered them one of her bad sandwiches, they tried to give her armfulls of nuts. Well, some of Caravan #4 were mad for anything but nuts.

The others? They ate their nuts with a joyous, even relaxed atmosphere. Mulhot pointed at the young woman crunching down nuts.

“That’s Lesile. My daughter. She’s gone mad, I fear.”

“M-mad?”

Fighti didn’t think he was one to talk, but he hissed at her.

“She loves to eat nuts. [Flavored Nuts]. It’s a Skill she got. Along with her class. [Nut Lover]. Don’t laugh. We laughed. Until more of us started getting the class and Skills. You eat nuts for months on end, day after day? Turns out there are nut-Skills. Makes them taste good. Makes you stop going insane over eating them day after day. There’s more. Our arrows were rusting in all that rain. So you see that [Archer] there? Bagbel. He’s got [Craft: Nutshell Arrow]. Makes them out of acorn nuts.”

“…And what’s with the ‘sane’ members of the group? Your eyes look bad.”

Mulhot realized he was cheek-to-cheek with Fighti and drew back, patting her shoulders.

“My mistake! My mistake! I’m so sorry…it’s the Zicca nuts, of course. When we realized all we had were nuts, we found an encyclopedia in the crates. Of nuts! There’s lots of magical ones in here. Zicca nuts give you energy. Make you a bit—crazy. But they keep you cheerful. Ha. HA.”

So that’s how they were moving at such a pace. The entire damn caravan was high on nuts! Mulhot was pointing a finger ahead.

“The grasslands end, and we figure if we find a good camp spot we can hunt. Fish. That’ll be the end of the madness.”

“Why didn’t you turn around when you realized all you had were nuts?”

He gave her a look as if she was crazy.

“We all had to buy into this expedition, Miss. And how’d we get back without coin? Who wants to buy nuts? Don’t be crazy. But if you go north, if you could send word to Lord Calidus? I-I have a letter. I’ll pay you to send it to him. From all of us. Just tell the Runner not to stick around for a tip. Heh. Heheh. There’s other caravanners like us, you know. Not a one normal. But he’s promised us riches if we find anything worth salvaging. Better nuts than some of their groups.”

“Like what?”

Mulhot shrugged.

“I saw one that was all women. Just…nothing else. Women, teens to an old grandmother. Didn’t trust us. Thought we were all crazy. Us. Then there’s Caravan #3. Good people. Even further ahead than us, despite setting out before. Gonna make it, I think. Didn’t want to stick with us, though. We’d have slowed them down. As for Caravan #8—those poor bastards.”

“Wh-what happened to them?”

“They were all [Nudists]. Worked well enough since they wore shoes. Right up until they got to the grasslands. There’s ticks and bugs here. High grass. Scratchy. Burrs. The rains led to mosquitos. Not a drop of insect repellant among them. But you know what repels some insects? NUTS. HA.”

Fightipilota ended up trading an entire crate of supplies to Mulhot and the ‘sane’ people of Caravan #4. In exchange, she got, well, nuts. She didn’t eat a Zicca nut and only had one last question for Mulhot.

“So you’re still sane? What’s your class? You must have levelled a lot to get this far.”

He hesitated.

“Me? Oh, you could say that. You could say that. I’m a Level 21 [Nut-crazed Caravan Leader]. But I assure you I’m sane!”

They flew off fast, and Nailren checked his fur after they were safely in the air. He made one comment to the Goblins.

“Do you think they have red Skills and classes? Or are the nut-classes just…ordinary? And which one’s scarier?”

“Bet they’re brown. Like nuts.”

Chickenruler muttered darkly. Fighti just kept staring at the little forms as they flew away.

“Who packs a caravan full of nuts?”

——

Not every group was nuts as…that. In fact, there were entirely normal people. Fighti landed in front of one curious group making their way along a river that were so at home there they were actually wading rather than walking. Because they all had water-Skills, it turned out.

“Jovs of Oswen. We’re all marshfolk. These here Otterdogs, they don’t do well on land, so we’ve stuck to rivers, and it’s not been bad.”

“What about crocodiles and the like?”

Ylawes had related that encounter to Fighti, but the young man just slapped his vest; he was bare-chested beside it.

“Taste good enough. And the fit’s not bad.”

He was wearing a reptile hide vest, and the Otterdogs were very cute as they scampered up to Chickenruler and Coldcream, then went yipping away. Jovs jerked a thumb at his people.

“We’ve done well enough out here. Lost all our magic, same as everyone else, but, well, we never had much. I just wish we had a few [Message] scrolls. We were to link up with other groups from Oswen once we got a good place. Even some of our nobles wanted t’come down, and they’re as good at surviving as any! Damn good shots.”

Hmm. Why did Oswen ring a bell? Fightipilota saw Nailren hesitate as he scratched a few Otterdogs’ bellies, but she gestured around.

“So not many monster attacks? Or you’re just that good at fighting?”

Here, Jovs did hesitate, and he took a fisher’s hat off his head.

“I wouldn’t say that, Miss. I took over for Master Filbou. He didn’t make it. Wyvern attack. Not yours—but you see why we were so wary when it landed? Orange one, even bigger than yonder one. Snapped up three water buffalo with its mate, would have done for even more than six of us—but we were saved by adventurers.”

“Really? Who?”

Jovs pointed up.

“Wings of Pallass. They dove the Wyvern, drew it up and away. We thought they’d gotten eaten, but they netted the Wyvern, then helped us recover our lost goods. Hope they’re well. They weren’t looking great when we last saw them. Two had infected wings, and they were all out of gear.”

“Huh. That’s the sixth time someone mentioned them.”

Fighti had heard similar accounts all across the New Lands. Jovs nodded.

“They were flying cover for the first wave. Brave lot, especially their leader. If you get word back to Oswen, please let Lady Buscrei or Lord Somost know there’s a debt there to be paid?”

“Of course. Hey, how much for an Otterdog? Kidding, kidding…”

Only when they were in the air did Nailren turn to Fightipilota.

“Oswen was destroyed during the Winter Solstice.”

She froze up. Half-turned her head to the merry, waving folk below.

“What? Why didn’t you say something?”

The Gnoll just shook his head as he smiled and waved back.

“Do you want to burden them with that? They might turn around, but for what? It’ll distract them if they even believe us.”

And distracted people die. Fightipilota bit her lip and said nothing as they moved away.

——

Then they flew, passing by more and more groups as the grasslands finally gave way to new areas. Fightipilota soared over an odd ruin of stone and pointed down at it.

“Say, look at that. Doesn’t look like a dungeon or city.”

The Frost Wyvern circled a group of Drakes who’d stopped and were inspecting the weird patch of stones. It looked like a circle from above, and it had an arch in the center, a big one. A monument? It was like a pot’s lid to Fightipilota, at least from above. Okay, maybe not exactly, but—

“Want to land?”

It was barely fifteen minutes since the Oswen encounter, and Fightipilota hesitated. She waved at the Drakes, and they didn’t seem to be in distress or want her group to land, so she shook her head.

“Nah. If we stop for every group, we’ll never get to Nombernaught. Think I could eat a Zicca nut and live?”

“Live, yes. Happily? Do you want to have a bad experience while flying?”

“Eh…no.”

They flew on, and after a minute, Fightipilota glanced back towards the weird dais of stone. She blinked, then frowned.

“Hey. Where did that Drake caravan go?”

Nailren turned and shaded his eyes. But there was no one there. Wagons, Drakes, everyone had just vanished. Perhaps they’d seen something and used a stealth Skill? Found an underground…but the wagons were gone.

“Should I go back?”

Chickenruler called out. Fighti stared at the dais.

“And do what, land?”

She turned to Nailren, and the Gnoll slowly marked the spot on his map and circled it a few times. Sometimes, you dodged trouble just by luck. And the thing about luck…was that it always ran out.

——

She saw combat the next day. Pretty soon after they’d risen, too.

“Fighti! You see that?”

“I see it! What is it? Evil wool?”

“It’s a damn cloud! An evil cloud!”

It had been hovering low to the ground, over the rocky ground and Sea Gardens they’d been flying over for Nailren’s mapping, when they realized the odd, white cloud was a bit too…mobile. When it had begun floating up and after them, they’d realized it was alive.

But what it was? None of them were certain. Nailren loosed an arrow, but he was no judge of distance in the air, and it fell way short. Fightipilota knew how the Thunderbow operated, though, and waited until she could fire a shot that dropped and hit the edge of the cloud rising towards them. It ripped—and she squinted.

“Aw.”

Nailren narrowed his eyes, and his fur shivered.

“Aw.”

Chickenruler screamed.

“Aw what? What is it?”

“Spiders.”

Coldcream heard that and began flapping faster. Chickenruler shot a glance over his shoulder, and yep, it was spiders.

White spiders all jumbled together in a cloud. Lighter than air, somehow; their translucent bodies were floating upwards as they crawled in such a swarm that…Nailren hollered.

“I know what those are! Cloudfall Spiders! They’re using webs, and they can project air!”

“Great! So we’re fighting flying spiders! Coldcream, hit them with your breath!”

The Wyvern spun, firing a blast of ice at the Cloudfall Spiders, who slowed and dropped precariously—but the cloud shed the frozen parts and kept rising.

It was a swarm. An annoyingly adaptive swarm; every time Fighti’s Thunderbow punched through their webbing, it didn’t do much to slow their ascent, and they just re-patched the holes and jettisoned any dead weight attached to the bolts. She was growling.

“They’re big. Chickenruler, I’m going to engage!”

“Wait! Let me try to freeze them again—”

Their protocol was to avoid Fighti using her Skill, but she knew before Coldcream whirled and spat that it wasn’t going to work.

The Wyvern Lord might have been able to blast all the spiders in one go, but Coldcream’s breath wasn’t that long-ranged. If he fired it at point-blank, he might do a lot of damage, but then they’d be on him. And she wasn’t sure how sharp their fangs were, but she was pretty sure how she, Nailren, and Chickenruler would fare.

Her heart was thrumming as Chickenruler cursed.

“[Burst of Speed]! Come on, come on…how they so fast?”

“They’ve got the wind behind them. We’re not catching it with a Wyvern’s wings. We should have headed against it.”

Nailren shouted, braced, eyes on Fighti, and she nodded. The spider-cloud was seconds away, and she spoke.

“Chickenruler, dive in three, two, one—”

Coldcream closed his wings and dove, dropping away from the spiders, and Fightipilota’s seatbelt snapped against her chest. She felt her stomach rising as she leapt off the Wyvern’s back, and then she was in freefall. She gazed up, and the white cloud was dropping towards her, big, big, spiders with pink eyes—

“New Lands sucks sometimes. Hey, spiders. [She Flies on Another World’s Wings].”

The Goblin grinned as the world flashed around her. Then she was sitting, hand on the yoke of the roaring aircraft that appeared around her mid-flight. Engines blaring, dials spinning. She pulled the triggers, and there was thunder.

——

Nailren saw the airplane appear around Fightipilota in a moment. One moment, she was falling, the next, the compact fighter plane with sleek, dark blue metal was rising, and its guns made him clap his hands over his ears.

“Ha! Hahaha.”

Chickenruler was laughing hysterically. His head rose as Nailren’s open mouth followed Fightipilota. She fired for all of one second—then she just flew through the cloud.

Whatever the Cloudfall Spiders had been expecting, running straight into spinning propellor blades moving at three thousand revolutions per minute was not in the plans. They were minced, and Fighti tore through their nest—but her plane had developed an odd sound.

“It’s jammed her spinny-things! Oh no!”

Bits of spider were raining down as Chickenruler and Coldcream shot away, but they began to circle. Nailren saw the plane turning, nose towards him as the roaring of its blades stopped.

Five seconds. He feared Fighti was going to fall right among the spiders she’d torn through until he saw the plane flicker—

It appeared in front of Coldcream, a good five hundred feet, and the Skill vanished. Fightipilota fell, cursing, and her [Deploy Parachute] Skill opened the emergency parachute with the Redfang crest on it. She landed as Coldcream swooped down towards her, and Nailren recovered enough of his wits to shout.

“Jump on!”

The Cloudfall Spider nest was badly damaged, but there were smaller pieces forming as they rebuilt their homes and divided. Fighti ran up Coldcream’s leg as he landed, grabbed Nailren’s paw, and then she was in her seat, buckling up, as they took off.

The next few minutes were making sure they were safe and not being followed. They went against the wind, and Fighti checked herself.

“I think I’m fine. Ow!”

She pulled a tiny white, translucent spider off her neck and grimaced.

“It bit me!”

She had several spiders on her that had been on the plane when it vanished. She yanked them away, cursing.

“They bite hard. They poisonous?”

“I don’t think so.”

Crunch.

“Hm. Good. Tastes like air. Bleh. Ow, they bit my tongue!”

That made Fightipilota less terrifying to Nailren. A bit. But he sat there, and then had a thousand questions. He listened as Fighti caught her breath.

“Okay, no more action today, yeah, Chickenruler?”

“Hope so. Should we land and camp?”

“Eh, eh…maybe a short day. Did you see me go through them?”

He grunted.

“I saw you do that thing you don’t like.”

“Stall out? Yeah, propellor jammed up. Their thread’s tough.”

“Idiot. If you didn’t have your teleport-thing, you’d die.”

Fighti grinned, coming down off her adrenaline-high.

“Yeah, well, I knew I had it. I read the manual while I was in the air! It was close, but I had to do that.”

“You could have just flown around it and shot it all up. That’s smart.”

He was scolding her, despite the admiration of a moment ago, with clear concern for her safety. But the [Fighter Pilot] shook her head, and she visibly calmed.

“Two reasons I couldn’t, Chickenruler. First: bullets were going through the nest. Just like the Thunderbow bolts, but worse because they’re so fast and small. I could have fired spells, but the second reason—I needed to conserve magic and ammunition. I also took damage in that last fight.”

Chickenruler twisted around as Nailren’s brows rose.

“What? How much?”

“Uh…says 5%. Not bad. And I’m down to 89% ammunition. Fuel’s 95%. Hard to run out, but mana is at 33%. New Lands drains it too, maybe even when it’s not active.”

He stroked Coldcream’s neck.

“Who has a summon-thing that takes damage?”

Fighti jerked a thumb at her chest.

“This girl! Don’t worry, it repairs daily. I’ll report to Rags how much tomorrow. But I gotta be safe with it.”

She turned to Nailren, then, and he saw her grinning at him. The Gnoll coughed mildly.

“…From the Solstice event?”

“Yep.”

He took a breath.

“Alright. I hate to ask, but how much did I miss…?”

So she told him a story even he couldn’t believe, and he knew Erin. But the proof was in the skies.

——

Chieftain Rags was not happy about Nailren nor being told that Fighti was having to manage her plane, but the [Fighter Pilot] had good news for her the next day.

“Chieftain, update. Plane repairs 2% nightly. 3% fuel, 4% mana…1% ammunition. Got to be careful.”

“Avoid engaging where possible. You’ll never believe what Rianchi’s doing. Get me a report on how trustworthy Nailren is now he knows your secret, idiot.”

Well, from her that was practically as good as it got. Fighti sighed as she tried to calculate how each statistic worked. She was fairly certain that the tele-hop function was drawing from fuel and mana—there was no way for her to burn 5% of the fuel in five seconds.

The Skyshadow Mk. 1 was experimental technology from the world of the Goblin King’s future. Top-of-the-line magitech engineering; in it, she could and had killed Pallass’ [Wyvern Riders] with ease.

However, it had drawbacks. Fightipilota had asked for and gotten a rundown on the history of fighter planes from Kevin way back when, and her understanding was that this echoed a very specific time in aviation history.

Dogfighting, planes that went below the speed of sound. It meant the Skyshadow had no ‘missiles’, which she understood were like mini-planes that flew at you and exploded, and fast as it was, it couldn’t traverse the New Lands in a matter of seconds.

It did have a number of magical functions: everything from [Invisibility] to spell attacks she could activate…if the New Lands weren’t draining mana. She wished she had more time in the cockpit. Every five seconds she had another chance to touch a dial or pull this lever and see what it did…

Well, this was enough. More than enough. The autocannons on the Skyshadow had chewed up everything that had come at her in the High Passes and New Lands so far. Now that Nailren knew how well-protected the Frost Wyvern was, he understood that the Flooded Waters tribe was one of the few groups with a flying ace in the New Lands. Those magic fishies or other airborne threats could ground Garuda and even other Wyverns. But Fighti would take on the skies with her class and level.

The only thing was…

——

Every day in the New Lands was another hazard. This time, they were jumped in the evening, with the sun shining blood red, and Nailren thought it was settled. They’d seen the duo of Wyverns rising up at them fast, but Coldcream had gone for altitude, and they’d dropped Fighti. He watched her dive, and again, the Skyshadow appeared and began firing from well outside the Wyverns’ range.

Three seconds of engagement. One to turn, and one more to roar towards them before she tele-jumped, appeared overhead, and Coldcream actually managed to slow so she could slam into Nailren.

“Ow. Nice w—”

“Chickenruler, fly, fly faster!”

The screaming [Fighter Pilot] clung to Nailren as Chickenruler twisted.

“What, why?”

“They’re not dead!”

“What? But you shot—”

“Yeah, fly faster!”

Two shrieking Wyverns were rising behind them. Nailren twisted around, and Fightipilota’s eyes were wide as she stared at the smoking craters and blood on their scales. One was bright orange, the other grey, and they were hurt, maybe badly, but—

“You shot them, though.”

“Yeah.”

“With your pew-pew things.”

“Autocannons, three full seconds.”

“…You blew apart plate mail in testing. Blew apart, not even made holes in.”

“Yep.”

Coldcream and Chickenruler stared back a second, then the Frost Wyvern began flapping as fast as he could. Fightipilota gulped.

“Okay, Nailren? You can let go now. I’ll just get to my seat. You working on that map?”

“Yep.”

Nailren circled this area three times and wrote ‘death zone’ on it. Fightipilota nodded.

“Damn Wyverns. First one keeps flirting with my Chieftain, now we get two more. Ours is a nice guy, though. Pretty stupid, but once you get to know him, hey, he’s not bad. I wish she’d give him a chance.”

“…What?”

“I know, ‘what is she thinking’? She doesn’t like other Goblins either, but you hear about kingdoms marrying their [Princes] and stuff for armies and money. We get more Wyverns? I don’t think she’s doing better. She’s selfish, that’s what I’m saying.”

“I see.”

“Yup. They still following us?”

“…Yep.”

“Hey, Chickenruler? Fly faster.”

——

Mostly, though, they just…travelled the New Lands. At a speed no one could match and from a vantage point that made Nailren worry. So much so that Spoony noticed. He confessed his worries to her as they were flying, surveilling the lands below and noting it all down on his map.

“It’s too easy, Spoony. I worry that if you can just fly across the New Lands—what is there to explore?”

These were the selfish anxieties of someone who wanted this adventure not to end. However, Nailren needn’t have worried; if he was amazed by the Goblins’ perspective, they envied his.

——

“Hey, what that?”

“Dunno. Looks cool.”

“Damn, you think we can land?”

“Nope. Remember your ABCs.”

“Always Be Checking With the Chieftain To Do Anything You Dumb Idiots?”

“Yep.”

That was the, ah, flow of most conversations on Wyvernback whenever Fighti or Chickenruler found something interesting. And there was tons of interesting stuff! It was just…

They knew that Rags was right, here. There were enough dangers in the air to avoid landing and making targets out of themselves. So if they saw something fascinating—the great rift in the earth, a mysteriously undestroyed tower, the bones of some huge sea-creature—their orders were to mark it down or just pass it by and never go near it.

This was on the basis that ‘cool things had trouble around them’, a Kevin way of saying something adventurers and Goblins were well aware of. Novelty was trouble.

The one tiny, black goat amidst a pack of Eater Goats? Death.

The lone Wyvern who wasn’t the same color as the rest? Death.

The one adventurer who didn’t run, drew a sword, and waited for your entire tribe at the choke point? Death.

But, damnit, some things were worth dying for! Nailren had quickly picked up on Fighti and Chickenruler’s orders after getting used to the air, and he was quite complimentary of Rags’ orders.

“It’s a sensible precaution, even with Fighti’s trump card.”

“Sensible. What, you some [Shaman]?”

“Technically, I suppose? I had training. When are you allowed to land?”

Chickenruler counted on his fingers.

“Food and rest. Meeting a new group to trade with—but we have to be careful who. And emergencies to hide and stuff. Or if we got a job from Pink Lady.”

Nailren’s eyes flickered.

“Magnolia Reinhart gives you work?”

Fighti glared at Chickenruler, who hunched his shoulders.

“Just to deliver stuff and check on groups. We see lots of ones that didn’t make it.”

The forerunners of the New Lands. Nailren sombered, but then he thought as they skimmed over what looked like a vast beach, minus the water. So a desert, but with a lot more stuff in it.

“Well, you landed for Woll’s Waystation. You could land and talk to other groups you meet.”

“Nah. What they got to trade? And it’s too dangerous with two Goblins. What if they notice us? We not that good at pretending, especially with Drakes.”

“Fair enough. But what about two Goblins and a Gnoll?”

The two Goblins hesitated. Nailren’s grin demonstrated that like a good [Shaman], he really did know how to interpret orders. So the flying team made a few more unauthorized pit stops on their journey.

Whenever they saw a likely group, they would dive, wave, and if they got waves back, they’d land. It was…fascinating. They were headed deep into the New Lands; there weren’t that many groups out this far already, and they had to stay low so they didn’t have a huge view of the landscape.

But the groups they did meet?

Interesting. Heartbreaking. Or just—

Tough.

——

You had to be tough to come this far. Getting this deep into the New Lands meant you hadn’t known about the bad soil. You’d walked into the mana drain trap. And yet—you’d kept going.

For whatever reason, you’d stuck it out and gotten this far. It didn’t mean you were doing well or were happy. But there was a toughness in the Humans who were posted up against a broken wall of some kind. They were clearly using it as shelter; blocks of coral wood had been made into a second and third wall and mud used as mortar. A tarp had been draped over the space for a home; it was a base, clearly.

They did not appear happy. However, they were alert. Armed well enough; Fighti casually eyed the heavy armor on the team of warriors who’d come out to greet them. However, she was letting Nailren speak.

He was surprisingly good at it. Fighti had no idea how to speak to other species or those from different places. She’d probably say, ‘yo, you not gonna kill us?’ to all of them. But Nailren scrutinized clothing, read into accents, and just…seemed to know the world.

For instance, his first instinct was to swing himself off the saddle, raise one paw, and shout.

“Captain Nailren of the Pride of Kelia! Silver-ranker! We’re cartographying the region and travelling to Nombernaught! May we speak? Are you Terandrian, Balerosian, or Izril’s north?”

His bark made the Humans glance at each other, and a huge, heavyset man half-turned to someone in the rear, then shouted back.

“We’re Izrilian! One second!”

After some murmuring, he walked forwards with a palpably upset-looking Human woman. She held out a hand and greeted Nailren and Fighti, who’d slid out of her turret seat. They seemed friendly, and she had her Skill ready; Chickenruler stayed with Coldcream.

“How do you do? I am Lady Haviet of House Meliope. I am, ah, the leader of this expedition into the New Lands. Did you—did you fly in? Are the Walled Cities coming?”

Her face seemed to betray hope and fear, and when Nailren assured her this was an independent city, her face fell.

“Oh, I see. Would you, ah, take passengers?”

It was a question that threw Fighti and Chickenruler. Fighti scratched her head.

“To where?”

“Anywhere. We have been here for months and—with due respect to the good Captain Walt here, it has been dire.”

The [Lady] was not keen on being here. And the man, who turned out to be another Silver-ranker, scratched at his visibly rusted armor.

“We lost what little magic we had. Could be worse, but we’ve teamed up with other northern teams who got out this far. We’re sort of scattered around this area. You seen ‘em?”

“Not from where we flew in from, but we have been low to the ground. I’m afraid our destination is Nombernaught, Lady Meliope, and my co-fliers have a mandate not to allow anyone to fly with them.”

“What if I were to make a request? I am from a noble house.”

Fighti hesitated as the [Lady] turned to her, but the Captain coughed.

“Lady Haviet, we can’t identify this group, and begging your pardon, you’d be at the mercy of any accidents or—unpleasantness if it were to occur.”

He didn’t exactly lower his voice, but Fighti just nodded. That was sensible. Lady Haviet’s voice rose.

“I’d take being kidnapped if it meant some hot tea and a bed without bugs in it! I—oh, very well. Please, make the request, and if you should fly back, I will pay—generously—for transport. Do forgive me. I must retire.”

She walked unsteadily back to their camp, and Nailren turned to the man, Walt.

“Has it been rough?”

The Human scratched at a scruffy beard, shrugging awkwardly.

“What, the lack of magic? The fact nothing grows here? The damn unusual creatures? I’ve seen worse. Lady Haviet, well, she brought a lotta magic and expected it to be easier than how it was. I’ll say this for her: she told us to keep going. Her house put too much gold into this to just turn it around. Sorry, Captain Walt of Ensoldier Shields. Silver-rank like yourself. I remember the Pride. Damn, that’s from a while back. Egliv’s still kicking around in Alais’ party. How the hell did you come here?”

Another handshake, and Nailren grinned at Walt. He vaguely remembered the man. Only from the Creler attack at the Bloodfields, nothing else. Nailren nodded at Lady Haviet.

“It’s a long story, Captain Walt. These are friends of mine, and I’m actually no longer adventuring; I’m just an [Explorer] now. So you’re on guard duty?”

Walt shrugged, tired.

“It pays well, and you know how it is. Took us a while to get ourselves on our feet, and this…well, it’s not the worst we’ve been through. Poor Lady Haviet’s had it hardest. I hope you have something to trade; it’d perk her up.”

“Strange she stayed, though. She doesn’t trust you to continue exploring without her?”

Nailren took on an informal tone with Walt, which the man reciprocated. Fighti didn’t know what to do until Nailren nudged her and glanced at the Chest of Holding. When she brought out one of the crummy sandwiches, he almost grabbed it.

“Wait, d’you want to trade? We’ve got plenty of shit. I mean, valuable samples.”

“Sure. We can’t sell much—but you want some oil for that armor?”

He did indeed, and it was actually the oil that was bought, not the food. Lady Haviet insisted on toddling back out to oversee what they sold—a mix of carcasses of dead animals, none of which Fighti had ever seen before, and things like seashells and even a bit of ore.

“Mostly, we’ve been just scouting. We’d have tried to settle a valuable spot or try one of the dungeons, but after seeing what happened at the tower…Lady Haviet understands our capabilities. She had to stay to oversee any trades or such we made in her family’s name. It’s why she’s so upset; the rest of her family jumped ship after two weeks.”

Walt was scrubbing at his helmet with a brush and applying oil. Nailren raised his brows.

“Wait, there were more?”

Walt lowered his voice as the rest of his team made faces.

“Sure were. Her husband, their eldest son and daughter, two cousins—they had a huge argument. Ended up with them drawing lots. Guess who got the short straw?”

Fighti wasn’t that surprised, but it impressed Nailren, who whistled.

“Not even her husband or son staying?”

“Nope.”

One glance from one of Walt’s teammates told Fighti that meant some big drama, even if she didn’t get Human dynamics completely. Walt shoved his helmet back on his head.

“She’s kept up, which is more’n I can say for a lot of team leaders. Like I said, it’s mostly just inconvenience. Remember Alais? She’s another security leader—that’s what we’re calling ourselves since this isn’t an adventure—whom we’ve teamed up with. Egliv’s on her team, now. She can barely cast spark spells. She had to kill a damn shark-thing with Tier 1 magic. They’d love to trade if you had time.”

Alais had killed a Landshark with a Tier 1 spell? That was impressive. Nailren’s brows rose, and he hesitated, but regretfully jerked his thumb at Fighti and Chickenruler.

“We have to be in the air momentarily. But you wouldn’t happen to have any tips to share, would you? Places of interest? I have some news about potential gardening here. I call them ‘Sea Gardens’. Oh, and someone’s figured out how to make the salted ground fertile!”

Walt was interested more in the Sea Gardens than the magic ritual. He spat on the ground.

“We’re not doing any agriculture. We keep moving and hunting. And we’ve food enough, really. We have way too much flour that’s not gone bad…but some greens would be nice. I’ll have to see what we can share.”

Out came Lady Haviet a third time. The notion of a salad cheered her up, and she asked forlornly.

“Do you think there would be any—any tea in these Sea Gardens I might acquire?”

Nailren produced the tea bag that Woll had given him, and Haviet nearly traded half their supplies for it. When he handed it over to her for free, she clutched it to her chest with actual tears in her eyes.

“Oh, thank you so much, Adventurer Nailren! We brought enough flour and dried goods, but tea—! Walt, tell them everything we’ve seen. Within reason.”

That meant there was something valuable Walt was holding onto, but he was open enough about local landmarks. He did raise one finger.

“Right, did you see that big tower that’s not broken down over that way? About four day’s ride for us.”

Fighti had, multiple times. Nailren’s eyes lit up.

“It was beautiful. Actual architecture not lost to time, despite the weathering. Did you approach it?”

Walt’s face was grim.

“We got close enough to find another group fleeing it. Bunch of idiots. I mean, it was two Gold-rank teams. Drakes. They tried the tower, but something’s guarding it. They said it was a Golem, three times as large as any regular man. Minced both teams so fast only the ones who’d been spread up even had time to run.”

Fighti swallowed, grateful they hadn’t landed. Nailren bit his tongue.

“Did they approach stealthily? Did they aggravate it?”

Walt shook his head.

“They went with…damn, I think it was Alais’ group. Hey, where did the Golem team go? Sorry, we’ve had to join up with other groups, and—I think they were trying to sneak up on it with [Rogues]. Didn’t work. By the sounds of it, both Gold-rank groups got taken out so fast they never had a chance. That’s a Named-rank threat, so as far as we were concerned, we’re staying away. I’ve seen Gold-rank threats. We can’t do that.”

Nailren marked the tower on his map.

“Good to know. Thank you. And if we swing back this way, what do you most badly need?”

Walt grimaced.

“Greens? Salt, oil—anything to keep our armor in good condition. If you had mana potions that didn’t vanish overnight, we’d take that. Oh, and tea.”

It was funny. Food was low on his list. Apparently, the Haviet family owned wheat fields, so that accounted for their generous supplies, but Fighti decided that the Silver-rank team was just more capable than a lot she’d met. None of them seemed like dedicated [Archers], but most had a bow ready, and one even took a pot-shot at a rabbit and got it. They brought over the animal.

“Souvenir.”

The rabbit had three eyes, two on either side of its head and one in the center of its forehead. Walt grimaced.

“We’re pretty sure the third eye’s magical. They can see almost anything coming. Doesn’t mean they can dodge, though. Correy’s got [Stealth Arrow].”

“Nice. Wait, this is for us?”

“Yep. You’ve been generous, and well, us Silver-rankers from Liscor have to do things for each other.”

It was just a small gesture, but it was the kind of thing Fighti liked so much she gave Walt another bag of sugar. Then they got on their Wyvern and took off.

——

Not every group was doing as well as that one, of course. Fighti had been arguing with Chickenruler. He wanted to give the rabbit minus the eye to Coldcream as a snack. She thought it’d do very well in a frying pan with some spices. Nailren had been caught in the middle as the tie-breaking vote when they nearly ran into two Garuda.

“Wait! Wait! We’re friendly! Are you from Fissival? Pallass? We’re down here!”

They darted down as Fighti swung her Thunderbow at them, and she blinked. Nailren whistled, then swore under his breath.

“Tribes. That’s nearly three hundred!”

One of the largest expeditions Fighti had seen so far was camped out in the middle of the grasslands, and they were not doing well. The Drake leader approached with a Dullahan, a Gnoll, and one of the Garudas in tow, and Fighti realized who they had to be.

“Pallass’ 1st Colonial Expedition. What city are you? I, ah, request in the name of the Walled Cities any supplies you can give—trade with us for. Please.”

They were hungry. It didn’t always look like being skin and bones; you actually got a fat belly when you were really starving. Right before you died. They weren’t there yet, but one glance around had Fighti conferring with Chickenruler about how much they could give. They were supposed to bring it to Nombernaught…

Then Fighti glanced over the Wyvern’s back, since she wasn’t sure if this group was dangerous, despite seeming to be from the City of Inventions. She stared down and saw a little Drake standing behind the wary adults. It was a girl who might have been seven or something, sucking on a claw. Fighti stared at the child.

——

The tri-eye rabbit was first to go, then most of their food. Nailren drew aside one of the Gnolls as the rest of the food was parcelled out—not all of it was being eaten at once. It would have to be rationed.

“Hey, friend. What is going on here? Who brings children on an expedition?”

This was a Pallassian Gnoll named Girfer. He looked unprepared for this; his fur was a mess, and while he had a sleek bow, Nailren didn’t believe he was as good a shot as the weary Silver-rankers.

“I—I didn’t think it was a good idea! Listen, uh, brother. It was some [Senator]’s idea.”

Nailren stared as Girfer gestured lamely.

“You set up a colony, you need kids, right?”

“Not in the first wave! How many have you lost?”

Girfer didn’t want to say. He was sniffing the air, glancing at the cooking fires, and whined.

“We’re not the only group who brought kids! And we did better than most; our alchemical stuff ran out, but we had crossbows, and the [Soldiers] with us can fight. Listen…do you take passengers? Which city is this? Because we’re Pallass—”

“You’re not going to get those two to do anything for the City of Inventions.”

Nailren interrupted Girfer brusquely. The Gnoll bristled.

“We’re a Walled City! And we have [Mages] who can cast [Message]! If they don’t help us—”

“Your city attacked theirs in a war not too long ago. You’re lucky they don’t strafe the camp.”

Nailren hated Drake mentality sometimes, and Walled Cities had it worst. Seeing Girfer’s slack-jawed expression and then the worry come over his face was just a sign that Walled Cities’ citizens never thought about the enemies they made. Or rather, that they’d ever suffer the consequences of their actions.

He didn’t like this one bit. Nor, clearly, did Fighti or Chickenruler. Chickenruler had actually gotten off his Wyvern’s back—a risky move this time. Nailren strode back over. He was worried Pallass might be stupid enough to try and commandeer Coldcream. However, Fighti was having a word with the children, who were begging for more food.

A Goblin’s word. She was showing the little Drake girl something.

“Like this, like this. Stab, then run. You is slow, so you get one stab. Don’t try on monsters. Sneak, sneak, stab. Right here or here. This is where they bleed to death. Practice on rabbits. Anyone can sneak up on a rabbit if they try hard enough.”

She had a grim expression on her face as the Drake girl stared at the dagger and held it awkwardly, in a way that made Nailren’s skin crawl under his fur.

It was how he’d teach someone to hold a dagger if he wanted to show them how to assassinate someone. A reverse grip, not like how a knife-fighter would hold it with a saber grip.

Fighti kept giving lessons to the kids until someone objected.

“Listen, Miss Flier. The children are not to be taught such lessons! They are safe with us!”

Fighti glowered at an objecting Dullahan woman.

“They’re safe until they’re not.”

“We would rather die than let any of them come to harm! As long as any one of us is here, they won’t need to do anything so violent!”

The Dullahan woman was ushering the children back, and Fighti’s voice was dark.

“Oh yeah? When you’re all dead, will they have a chance or none at all?”

The Dullahan woman’s head rotated around a hundred and eighty degrees on her shoulders, and she gave Fighti a look of mingled horror and fear. Nailren just studied the little Drake girl clutching her belt-knife.

Scales don’t look that baggy. The green’s faded—lack of nutrition? She’s six. How much does starving stunt your growth? If they can find food, she’d be fine. But there’s just too many mouths to feed here. Their clothing was decent enough; he realized they had a lot of non-combat classes here. [Tailors] and [Bakers]—the idiots had come with everything they needed for a colony.

But they hadn’t come ready for the wilds. What Nailren was curious about was…how was Pallass’ colony still alive?

Numbers did not guarantee survival. Especially without magical weapons; Pallass’ edge would have rapidly vanished, and losing people to Landshark attacks or other monsters was a threat. In his talks with other members of the colony, Nailren realized they’d faced both bandits and monsters.

Something was keeping them alive. Perhaps the fact they had enough people who could fight? But Nailren suspected good leadership amidst their fighters, or a higher-level individual.

He found two.

The first was an [Alchemist], a Garuda missing half his feathers, who was actually working with the tri-eye rabbit, or rather, its head. He was carefully extracting the eye with a knife and popped it into a flask bubbling over a fire on a corroded metal stand.

The flask was not clean, nor did the harried [Alchemist] seem like he had much to work with. He mashed the eye fast, added water, some dried yellow beetles, what smelled like mint, and two cups of wine. Then he began to strain the mixture out.

“It’s going to last two days once I decant this. Drink half a cup per dose and give it to [Scouts] and [Sentries].”

“Listen, Vebi, if it makes us shit our trousers again—”

A worried Drake accepted the piping hot ‘potion’ as Vebi snapped.

“If it does, you’ll see trouble coming while it happens! Damn—hey, you, you’re with the fliers, right? Do you have any other magical monster parts? I need it. We’ll trade you for it.”

He sprang up and hopped over since he could no longer fly, and Nailren raised his brows.

“You’re an [Alchemist]? How do your potions work without magic?”

Vebi gave him a crazy-eyed stare.

“Badly, and who said there’s no magic? That All-Seeing Rabbit has plenty! There’s magic here; no one wants to believe it, but the animals are generating enough or they can resist whatever’s getting us. It decays the instant they’re dead, though. But I’ve managed to make some potions. Vebi, [Alchemist], I guess, since I left my apprenticeship. What do you have?”

He tore through the things Fighti and Chickenruler had bought from Walt and grabbed everything useful. Neither Goblin stopped Vebi, but Nailren took careful notes of what the [Alchemist] had identified as magical. He was hobbling over to his workstand to see what still had magic in it.

“Sometimes, the potions work even without much magic; it’s not a requirement. It just requires thinking. Not reading damn recipe books and panicking when you can’t perfectly make something!”

He shouted, and that seemed to be aimed at a dozen other [Alchemists] who were standing around, armed with bows or making things out of grass. Unwilling to do what Vebi was doing—which Nailren was pretty sure was heresy by alchemist standards. He squatted down next to the Garuda’s fire.

“You lost your feathers in an accident?”

Vebi grunted.

“Too slow to dodge. I was being a coward at first, but we kept losing people when the monsters attacked or…when someone began having hallucinations after eating the rabbit eye, I knew I had to try something! My potions make you dump whatever you’re eating, but they work. The eye, even the beetles, they all have magic. That potion lets you see further and notice threats. This one, made of those damn leech things? Lets you get something out of blood. Monster blood, animal. Fills you up better than a meal.”

Even by Goblin standards, a blood meal sounded rough. But Nailren just hmmed.

“Who taught you alchemy in Pallass?”

Vebi grinned crookedly.

“None other than Xif himself. But I quit my apprenticeship because I was told I’d have seniors who’d teach me. Fat lot of good they’re doing. I wish I’d paid more attention to Saliss of Lights. This is the kind of alchemy I think he’d do. Madhat stuff. I’ve been trying to remember everything he said whenever he came by to harass Master Xif.”

“Got any recipes we can take back?”

Vebi shrugged.

“Sure. Mash or grind anything magical. Then it’s one of four herbs I have; water, spirits, or wine; and salt, sugar, or charcoal. Mix and match and hope you don’t blow your stand up or someone’s stomach. Argh, I have a book over here with the recipes that work, but I wouldn’t sell any of this!”

Yet he was doing alchemy, and from the way people took his potions, they knew the potions worked. Nailren jerked his head at the rest of the camp.

“You seem like you’re fighting to keep this colony alive, Vebi. How’re the soldiers doing? Who else is holding it together?”

The Garuda grunted.

“The soldiers? You mean retired veterans, low-level idiots, or members of the Watch? They didn’t send anyone high-level with us. A few are decent and levelling. But they would have been all chewed up and eaten by that first shark raid.”

“What kept them from all getting eaten?”

Vebi glanced up as he decanted a second potion into a bottle.

“At first? It was the Wings of Pallass. Gold-rank team. They were doing flybys for everyone in the region. But they stopped—I think they ran into trouble in the air.”

Given the threats up there, Nailren wasn’t surprised. He listened as Vebi described the fliers running scouting missions to find food and even killing animals.

“They stuck around as long as they could, but they had to send some of their teammates off due to injury and because of how much they were losing. Our leadership took them for granted, but it got us mostly here in one piece. As for how we’re still alive? I’d take some credit, but most of it?”

His head jerked over to a lonely figure sitting at the edge of camp.

“They’d tell you it’s Pallassian grit. I say it’s our highest-level non-combat civilian. That’s him over there. The name’s Lorent.”

——

Lorent the [Sharpener] was working on a sword with a whetstone and other pieces of his trade. And he looked thinner, but the sword he was working on seemed sharper. As if he’d reduced his own body in exchange for the tools he made.

Fighti was a Redfang, and when she saw the edge he put on the blade, she whistled.

“That not going to last. That’s a three-cut blade, then it’ll chip or dull.”

It was too sharp, if that made sense. The sharper an edge you put on a sword, the thinner it had to be, obviously. Too sharp and it’d dull fast. A good sword was actually, at times, semi-blunted so it would cut reliably for a long while.

However, this sword…Lorent just glanced up at her as he replied.

“[Ten Cut Edge]. Then it dulls. Ten will do. Nothing less will cut through shark hide and bone.”

He lifted the sword up and put it on a rack where four more were waiting. Then he went back to sharpening something else. An arrowhead.

Now, Fighti understood how they were alive. She picked up the sword.

“Can I try it on something?”

Lorent gazed up, eyed her, then glanced at her Wyvern and the food she’d brought.

“Once.”

She searched around for a target, then saw some coral wood that had been brought out for fuel. Fighti tried a slash vertically through the wood. Not hard; she didn’t want to break the blade. The sword went halfway through the block and stopped. She blinked, and then she had to lever it out of the wood.

That was way too easy. Rather unnerved, she put the sword back on the rack. Lorent instantly reached over and did something.

She realized there was a weird little item hanging on each sword. A row of beads on a bit of string. He swivelled one around, and she saw it was ten beads white, one black.

“Those idiots swing the sword too many times then chip it. We can’t waste the metal.”

“But they use your sharpened blades?”

The Dullahan’s face was flat, but not emotionless.

“My oversharpened blades. I know my work. They need them. Regular weapons? [Rustless Edge], [Superior Balance], [Quickdraw Coat]. [Three-Coat Sharpening]. These are for high-level monsters. You brought food, thank you. Do you need me to sharpen anything?”

Fighti shook her head; she carried the crossbow as a sidearm, and Chickenruler was just a flier. But Nailren produced his sword and let Lorent work on it and several of his arrows.

“Are you confident in this group’s success?”

“I must be. We are levelling and searching for the right spot to settle.”

“I think I’ve heard of you from Pallass, Lorent. Do you remember The Wandering Inn?”

For a second, the Dullahan’s fingers stopped moving the blade over the whetstone. He glanced up, and his impassive face shifted slightly.

“Yes. Erin Solstice. Someone came to us and said she fought a war at sea. Pallass’ [Mages] found the broadcast. She stabbed a [Prince] through the back, armor and all, with a kitchen knife. I remember that knife; it was forged so well. So beautifully with only a single flaw. It was a crime not to make it as good as could be. I only had to maintain it twice.”

He stared ahead, then handed Nailren’s sword back to the Gnoll.

“I saw that. And I realized that was why I levelled that night. They said he was an important [Prince]. And that she helped a Goblin Lord; a monster. These things may be true.”

The [Sharpener]’s eyes gleamed for one second, and he stared at something else.

“…But that was a beautiful knife. An edge like no other. If I could put such an edge on perfect metal—it must all be sharper. Blades that can do what magic cannot.”

He got back to work and, after a moment, glanced up at them.

“I’ll sharpen more things if you can bring back food. Do you need anything else?”

They did not. Nailren got up and walked back, and Fighti poked him.

“He, uh, looks a bit crazy.”

Nailren nodded.

“They need a bit of crazy right now. Better to let him work and hope he doesn’t lose himself in his class. But this is counterlevelling. We should go before they begin to demand things of us.”

——

Leaving the Pallassian group was hard on multiple levels. They did indeed try to pull rank on the ‘lesser Drake city’, which worked not at all, but the real problem was when they asked if some of the children could be transported. Even to Nombernaught.

That put Fighti and Chickenruler in a bind, and the two argued; not only was an air-trip dangerous, but they were setting a precedent, and they could not play passenger delivery across the New Lands. Nailren was not in favor of accepting.

“If you do this, you’ll make yourself a target.”

He got a glare from Fighti and folded his arms.

“Children are one thing, but you might run into more spiders in the sky or worse, and they’ll panic, and you don’t know how to handle them. If you let children, what about Lady Haviet? Where do you make a distinction? They’re safe enough here.”

In the end, the children themselves decided the matter. When they heard they might have to leave the expedition, half hid or clung to adults. They didn’t want to go.

It left a sour taste in Fighti’s mouth for a long time afterwards. It was too familiar to a Goblin—only, this wasn’t a good tribe. Goblin children were always in danger, but a good tribe at least gave them a chance. Or didn’t have many to begin with, like the Redfangs.

That left her less keen to meet with other groups, and thus, it was almost a relief when the next group they flew over made it clear they didn’t want company.

——

“Whoa!”

Fighti recoiled as something shot past her face. At height, no less! She and Nailren had just been speculating what the burnt-out campsite they’d spotted from above meant. Attack? Fire gone wrong? Or just wasteful campers?

Was this group from that campsite or just another one? She stared down, and a group of eighteen Humans were milling about. One had thrown something at them!

“Evasive! That’s a throwing Skill!”

Nailren snapped, and Coldcream threw out one wing and shot right. Chickenruler spat curses.

“Those aspat idiots nearly hit us! Coldcream, poop on them!”

“Just fly on, Chickenruler! That was some throw!”

It had to have gone nearly two hundred feet, and it’d been fast. What was it? Fighti stared down and saw someone had a…spear? It seemed crude, but the [Thrower] was in the center of a circle, aiming, pointing back at them…Fighti put her finger on the trigger of her Thunderbow. But after a second, the arm lowered, and she relaxed. Then the figures began waving up at her.

Mistake? Chickenruler was urging Coldcream onwards, and Fighti glanced at Nailren. He put a paw to his ear.

[Remote Eavesdropping]. [Ignore Ambient Sound]…

The [Clandestine Chieftain] still couldn’t hear from that far away, not with the wind against him and at such a remove. However, someone did have the ability to dive down and listen.

Spoony. He didn’t realize the ghost was gone until the ouija board began to vibrate. Then Nailren realized she was transcribing the conversation.

——

“Stop! Stop, you idiots! It’s not a wild one! There are people on there!”

Too late. Zamie’s arm had gone back, and the [Javelin Thrower] hurled one of the crude spears skywards. It almost hit the…flying lizard. Everyone saw it roll left, and then they were arguing.

“Don’t throw anything! We have to get their attention!”

“There’s weird Dragon-people on there. Do you see that?”

“Don’t throw! Don’t—hey! We’re down here! Help! Please!”

After a second, everyone began waving and shouting, but it was too late. The two scaly-people and the furry one were flying away. It wasn’t Zamie’s fault; he’d thought it was another wild monster.

But it drove Londie to tears. He could barely walk, and Mecody had to come back after running for half a mile, trying to get the Dragon-thing to land, to help him up. Londie sat, not from just despair, exhaustion, or hunger, though these things were all weighing on them.

Lost. Trapped in this other world or place, like the rest of the Spirited Generation. But it wasn’t uninhabited. They’d just lost their best and only chance of help, though. And they needed help.

Even if they had these…classes and levels. What good was one of the world’s best javelin throwers or an ultramarathoner out here?

No…Mecody might make it if he took off running. But he wouldn’t. Londie…he kept feeling at his side, at an intake port on the side of his stomach and for medication that was rapidly running out.

Earthers, newly arrived, eighteen of them. Among them, a [Javelin Thrower], a [Marathoner]…and a [Diabetic].

But it wasn’t a story the two Goblins and Gnoll knew. They kept flying.

——

You didn’t stop running into people even when you went deeper into the New Lands. Not all had come from the west; many had landed on other parts of the coast, but those tended to be non-Izrilians. But there was a trend for who was going to make it and who was not.

A lot of Chandrarians occupied the south to southwest of the New Lands. Lots of kingdoms shouting up at Fighti to land or offering her servitude for her services to King This or Exalted Queen That.

She didn’t care for them exactly. Some of the forces who’d landed were no expeditions, either, but miniature armies complete with [Soldiers] and more. She avoided those groups; not worth tangling with nations.

However, you got to sensing trends in survivability. Adaptive groups always seemed to have something they’d found out about the New Lands; the ones who gave Fighti a doomed feeling were just pushing on ahead, wearing themselves down to find the ‘treasure’ she doubted existed here. At least in such terms.

You either found something useful or you yourself were hardy enough to survive. Or both.

“This is a Sandleech. That’s what we call it. Lives in the sand. Eats blood. Regenerates. Like a Hydra.”

“Um…no. Not like a Hydra. And it’s edible?”

“Sure is.”

A smiling young woman with a nose so badly broken it was visibly twisted left sliced a huge piece out of the Sandleech, which was brown, pulsating, and barely bled. She flipped it into a pot, and it began to burn.

“Sorry, you have to char it up until it’s black. Might get sick otherwise. Just wait until it’s black on all sides and inside.”

She poked through the Sandleech to ventilate it, and the resulting mess was so black and overdone that Fighti assumed anything nasty in it was well and truly cooked. And it probably tasted better than the—

Here was the thing. She was a Goblin. She ate nasty foods, but she was also a Redfang and used to a bit of standards, since they hunted.

The Sandleech was bad food. Even by Goblin standards. The oozing, nasty thing was already clotting its wounds and curled around its prey—one of the leech-sucker things, which was all-but dead and being drained of fluids.

“So you feed it on other monsters?”

“Whatever we find, Miss. We think it’s great for surviving long-term. How about half of one for a big bag of salt? It doesn’t matter which side you slice, it’ll regenerate. Or our Landshrimps?”

Those Fighti was familiar with; the mobile Landshrimps were scavengers that ate bugs and bits of stuff too. There was a huge cage of them dangling from one of the caravans in….

Frontier Caravan #3. She recognized that naming convention, and Fighti suspected that none of them were going to be normal. This ‘Lord Calidus’ had made a pretty interesting caravan here.

It was mostly young men and women, all Human, and all pretty cheerful. Not crazy cheerful like the nut-people of Caravan #4, but just…upbeat.

“How’d you get out this far?”

“Oh, you know, Miss. Jogged. We were keen on getting out here. Making a fortune. We’ve been hunting and whatnot. Still not sure how you gut animals properly. Is that how you skin stuff? We can cut things up, but that’s fascinating.”

Nailren was demonstrating proper gutting technique to a pair of young men who’d nailed a Corusdeer. Two neat holes in its head showed Fighti they had good archery Skills. Not a lot of common sense.

“So you’re okay for food?”

They wanted salt and other basics like oil, but food was fine. The young woman beamed.

“Sure are. We fish, hunt, ‘n so on! Fishing was hard, but we got the knack. Nice hole over here too.”

They had a little outpost near a ravine of rocks that were infested with the Landshrimps and a pond. Pretty idyllic; the young woman jogged over to the pond, then pointed.

“There’s these lovely fish here! Have you ever seen the like?”

“Sure. Trout.”

“Wow. Trout.”

The young woman breathed as she peered at the very ordinary fish swimming around. Fighti eyed her, and the young woman hesitated.

“I mean, unless they’re common?”

“Oh, no. Just where I live. I, uh, knew a group that lived in a place where it rains all the time. They love fish.”

“Of course! Well, here, let me get you one. You can eat all you want. Even two trouts for dinner!”

She bent over the pool as the fish darted around, and Fighti glanced around for a fishing rod.

“I don’t know if we have time t—”

Splash. The young woman’s hand darted down, and she yanked two fish out of the water in a single motion. They landed, flopping, on the ground, and Fighti’s jaw dropped.

“Whoa. That’s fast!”

The young woman picked up the fish, beaming, then hesitated.

“It is? I mean, I have a Skill.”

“Right. Still very fast. Uh, thank you. I’ll trade that for some salt!”

“We can pay for the rest. Here. Is this enough?”

Two fish and fifteen gold coins appeared for the medium-sized bag of salt that Fighti was about to hand over. The Goblin stopped, eyed the gold, and blinked at the young woman.

“Is this a joke?”

The young woman hesitated. The two youths learning how to properly butcher a deer glanced up, and Nailren turned. He cupped his paws to his mouth and shouted.

“Fighti, stop projecting your Drake economics on other cultures! She’s from a city, you see.”

The young woman’s face had gone anxious, but she relaxed as Fighti turned to Nailren and threw a fish head at him. Then she faced the young woman again.

“That guy, he’s always so judgey. Fine. I think you’re overpaying…why don’t I take three gold coins, eh? It’s pricey, but we’re not that mean.”

“Oh, of course. Three gold coins. How much d’you think the salt would be worth in a regular city?”

“Uh…one gold coin if it was low stock?”

“How many fish per gold coin?”

“…Sixty?”

“Sixty? But you can survive without salt, not fish!”

“That’s true, but—you know what? That’s a good point. I like your logic.”

It was proper Goblin logic. The young woman asked a few more questions, and Fighti managed to vouchsafe that there were things called fishing rods that she was sure their group could improvise. They were only about thirty strong and seemed well-supplied. The young woman stood there as the two young men came over.

“Fishing rods. You know, I saw them on a ship once. Of course! I thought you just used the hooks to hit anyone you didn’t like!”

She laughed, and so did another of the young men. The third one, who had a nasty scar across his nose that made Fighti wonder if he had nasal problems, just grunted.

“Aime, don’t you think we’re taking up too much of these good people’s time?”

“What? They’re nice, Locklas, and they’re Drakes. From around the High Passes. They’re not—judgey. You’re not, are you?”

Aime turned to Fightipilota, and for a second, her eyes went round and shone with a bright, searching gaze. Fighti had the distinct impression she was being sized up and went still. Her Skill was ready to go, but whatever Aime saw—she smiled.

“We’re just out here trying to make a new start like everyone else. Thank the nice Gnoll, Locklas.”

“Hmpf. Good job. Here’s your pay.”

The young man with a scarred nose turned to Nailren and shoved some coins at him, but the Gnoll waved it away with a smile. He touched Locklas’ shoulder, or tried to; the young man recoiled fast.

“Listen. Sometimes we help each other out out here without pay, yes? We are all friends in the New Lands.”

“Friends.”

Aime murmured, and the second young man, who hadn’t spoken until now, smiled. He opened his mouth, revealing a lack of a tongue, and bared his teeth. Fighti grinned at him.

Who the heck are these people? She was just asking what this group had seen or done when there was a whistling sound. Instantly, Locklas whirled.

“Snakes.”

Fighti turned, and the biggest damn snake she’d ever seen, with black scales and white speckled diamonds of color around its eyes, slithered out of some bushes. There were a few more whistles, a thunk—a second snake slithered halfway out of the bushes then curled up.

Someone had chopped it in half. Aime tsked.

“I thought we killed the entire nest! Watch out, Miss Fighti, Mister Nailren, they’re venomous.”

“Must be a new nest. Maybe we should raise them?”

“They’re too violent! Get back—”

Fighti and Nailren were running fast towards Coldcream, who was lashing the ground with his tail and standing up. Fighti saw more snakes appear as the rest of Caravan #3 appeared and began hacking them up. Without much fear for the striking serpents, and for good reason—as the first one slithered towards Aime, it opened its mouth, revealing two dripping fangs, and lunged.

She did a double backflip over the snake as it struck through where her midsection had been, landed, and slashed with a knife backhanded.

She took the snake’s head off in a spray of blood, and Fighti stopped and stared as Aime, tsking, kicked the still-convulsing body aside. Then she smiled at Fighti as if nothing had happened.

“Can I buy a second bag of salt for some snake meat and hide?”

——

Fightipilota sold two bags of salt and other supplies to Aime and her group and waited until they were well in the air to start screaming.

“Who were they?”

Nailren glanced down.

“[Assassins]. Did you notice they had a brand on their bodies they’d covered up or removed? Locklas had one on his hand. Aime had a circular mark on her back.”

“What about the guy without a tongue?”

“I suspect it was there.”

Fightipilota shuddered.

“I didn’t know [Assassins] had brands!”

“Regular ones in a Guild don’t. But Ranks do. I suspect those were all new [Assassins]. They get sent from Roshal and spend their childhoods learning to kill. Hence them not having much common sense around anything. Best guess? They murdered everyone else and they’re pretending to be regular colonists.”

Fightipilota’s skin crawled as she stared back at the camp. She didn’t deny they weren’t regular people, but turned to Nailren.

“How are thirty [Assassins] part of a caravan group to the New Lands?”

“You’d have to ask Lord Calidus Reinhart.”

Nailren replied calmly. Fighti shuddered as she resolved never to let Coldcream and Chickenruler land around that caravan. They hadn’t been murdered, which suggested Aime wasn’t just killing everyone her band came across, but still.

[Assassins]?

——

Aime watched the Drakes and Gnoll fly off before she rubbed at her broken nose.

“That went well. I liked them. Told you they weren’t working for Lailight Scintillation.”

Locklas uncocked his handcrossbow as several other members of Caravan #3 emerged from cover where they’d been ready to take the Wyvern down.

“They could have been there to search for us.”

“We have Lord Calidus’ promise. We’ve seen Wyverns flying; they probably were on delivery. This isn’t poisoned, anyways. See? Yum.”

She was eating salt out of the bag. Locklas jerked the bag out of her hand and gave it to Hikife, who was tongueless.

“You use it on meat. You’re too trusting, Aime. They were under some kind of concealment spell or Skill.”

“They didn’t want to report us. I used my Skill. [Sight Captors] doesn’t lie, or they’d have been so high-level we’d have all died. Cannibal?”

One of the highest-level members of their group, who were indeed Ranks meant for the Assassin’s Guild, was a Human with sharp teeth. The young man sat there, playing with his shortbow.

“[Foe Appraisal] said that if we tried it, the little Drake would have killed us all if we didn’t drop her in a moment. Leave it. If they come back, they come back. Why didn’t she want the Sandleech?”

“She said it was too nasty. Weird, right?”

Aime chewed on the blackened piece of meat. It tasted good to her—in that it was food. Kept you alive. But everything in the New Lands tasted good to her. Snakes, Landshrimp, even water.

They were free. The Ranks had been worried when they’d eliminated the rest of the caravan when they wanted to turn back—they’d been assigned as guards, but their Slave Marks had all died in the New Lands. They’d thought they were free—until Lord Calidus had revealed he had been keeping an eye on them via a Skill.

However, he’d been highly amused and claimed this was within his predictions for how their particular caravan might have ended up and cut them a deal. If they found him something worthwhile in the New Lands, he’d pretend they were ordinary caravanners and wipe their names from the Assassin’s Guild registry.

Thus far, it hadn’t been that hard, a few monsters aside. Better than the Wishing Well. Aime sat down and put her feet in the pond. You could do that and no one would beat you for weakness.

“Fishing poles. Did you know they existed?”

Cannibal and Locklas shook their heads, but Hikife nodded.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Everyone laughed at that. Then Locklas raised a hand.

“The Gnoll had lots of interesting advice. Like not eating all the intestines of animals unless you clean them. He also warned me to use protection if I have sex.”

“What kind of protection? A knife? There’s no Masters around, so that’s not an issue, right?”

Aime twisted around to frown at him, and Locklas sat and began chewing on some snake bones.

“Dunno. So Sandleeches aren’t valuable. Snakes aren’t that valuable. Landshrimps aren’t that valuable?”

“Not as much as some gold.”

They stared at the coins Aime jingled in her palm and looked around.

“So what’s valuable, then? Gold? Where does gold come from?”

“Merchant’s Guilds? Maybe we should dig and find gemstones. We should have had Aime ask how planting works.”

“Ha! I told you it was a good idea not to kill them! Hikife, pass the salt.”

——

They were on what Chickenruler guessed was the last two days of their trip to Nombernaught, having resumed more-or-less their regular flight path. After the Super Wyvern encounter, he’d amended his flight path permanently to avoid their territory—this was the second incident with them in those canyons.

Detouring whenever Nailren wanted to see something had taken time, but they were getting close to Nombernaught when they saw something odd.

“Hey. There’s that frozen area we talked about.”

Nailren craned his neck.

“Strange. I’d assume it was in the north, not in the middle of the New Lands. Well, more to the west coast now, unless you were off.”

Chickenruler scratched his chin.

“No, we close to Nombernaught now. Weird. It moved.”

“It didn’t move, you’re just old, Chickenruler.”

Fighti argued. She folded her arms as he glared at her.

“I remembered where that tower was, and the melty-rocks part.”

“Okay, true, the river of lava was there, not where I thought. But it can’t move.”

The ‘cold zone’ was a swirling snowstorm of weather, and the Goblins objected to it being mobile because, well, it was winter. In spring! They weren’t ignorant of places where snow never melted, but that was where it was either cold, like Cenidau or the Iron Vanguard’s lands in Baleros, or high.

“It’s supposed to be in those foothills north of even the half-Elves. So we’re either way off-course or it moved.”

Chickenruler pointed out the obvious, and Fighti scratched her head. She stared into the vortex.

“…Okay, let’s think. Maybe it’s a snowstorm. One that just…moves?”

“We know magical storms can exist. Why not magical snowstorms?”

Nailren’s reasonable question had the Goblins glancing at each other. Fighti turned to Chickenruler.

“We’re real close. What if we…?”

“No.”

“Come on! I’ve got my Skill, and it’s cold. Coldcream loves the cold. Plus, I think I see snow-creatures down there.”

True enough, at the outskirts of the huge snowstorm were animals. Corusdeer trampling around, a white bear, even a Snow Golem. The area blanketed by the snow was huge. As large as Kishkeria’s Grasslands. If it was a snowstorm, then it might take a week for someone to trek across on the ground.

Despite his complaints, Chickenruler had to admit the vortex spinning through the air was appealingly cool. Literally. And he had a thought.

“What if we got some ice? People love ice.”

“Eh…it’ll melt.”

“Not a block of ice. Then we go to Nombernaught or find colonists and give them shaved ice with honey or some jam.”

Fightipilota turned to her friend.

“Chickenruler, sometimes you have brilliant ideas. Why not?”

Nailren grinned as the two Goblins turned to him.

“If we’re cautious, I think it’s fine. Let’s enjoy some ice. Or ice cream. Think we could make that?”

“Genius!”

The trio were all set to head into the snowstorm, even just the outskirts, but for one problem: Coldcream. The Frost Wyvern balked the instant Chickenruler tried to steer him into the magical snowstorm. And, in fact, he seemed to be flapping faster. And pooping. And…heading away from the snowstorm as fast as he could.

The laughing Goblins and Gnoll heard the Frost Wyvern whimper. Chickenruler stopped tugging on the reins. Fightipilota took a hold of her Thunderbow, and Nailren began to peer into the snowstorm. They flew on for a good fourteen minutes before Fighti coughed.

“Hey, uh, Nailren?”

“If you’re going to ask whether or not I think the snowstorm is getting closer, the answer is yes.”

“…Anyone here got [Dangersense]?”

“No.”

“Not me, but Coldcream frightened.”

They stared into the snowstorm as it moved towards them despite Coldcream’s frantic flapping. Fightipilota put a hand on her seatbelt, then stopped.

“Could just be coincidence.”

“Fly south, Chickenruler? If it’s the wind…”

After five minutes of flying south, Fighti unbuckled her seatbelt.

“I have to see what it is. I can’t shoot the air.”

Nailren was peering into the storm, and his fur was starting to freeze already. It was so cold…snow and wind were whipping the trio, and he whispered.

“I think I see it. It’s…fast.”

“If it was fast, it’d catch us already.”

“Not if it’s flying in circles.”

“Oh, come on—”

Then they saw it. Just for a second, something flickered past them, and Fighti swallowed as Chickenruler jerked. Coldcream whimpered.

“That’s fast. Did you see it—”

“Yes. It stopped. It’s checking us out. It looks big enough to eat a Frost Wyvern. But perhaps it hasn’t ever seen one being ridden.”

Fightipilota was hesitating. She turned to them.

“I’m going to use my Skill. When I do…”

She peered into the storm, remembering the Wyverns.

“I’ll draw it off. Better that than opening fire, I think. Because I think it’s very fast, very big, and very death-y if it gets us.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded slowly. There was a flicker—whatever it was circled again in the snowstorm. Did it land? Was it generating the snowstorm via its movement? The ice was coating Nailren’s fur now, and his jaw wanted to chatter, but he called out.

“How do we find you?”

“Parach—”

A roar in the storm. It felt like the very clouds shook. Nailren shouted, and Chickenruler screamed.

“Coldcream, dive!”

The Frost Wyvern was screaming as he dove, wings folded, and Nailren’s stomach dropped. He clung to the Wyvern’s back as he felt his body rising up and experienced true, animalistic fear as they fell, trying to escape—Fighti was screaming too, and Nailren saw, just for a second, his ouija board tear loose from his side. It was attached to his belt by a loop of cord, and it pulled taught as the little planchette flew around crazily, then slapped against the board. Spoony? Did she see something? He saw the little arrow pointing to a letter.

‘A.’

He waited as they dove, in that moment made of terror as the roaring beast strafed them, inspecting the trio of odd pests on the Frost Wyvern’s back, and Fighti let go. Then Nailren saw the planchette stay on ‘a’ and realized what Spoony was writing.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—’

——

It was, perhaps, a king of the New Lands if any deserved the title. A true sovereign of ice and cold, and it could not have been made of the magic that rose the seas. It must have come from Cenidau or Baleros or some place of pure cold, drawn to this land for the reasons all were.

That it did not kill and eat the Frost Wyvern was due to its curiosity, for it was a sentient being. Or perhaps…the Frost Wyvern and riders were a casualty of happenstance. For you see, there was another group who’d been walking the New Lands, a caravan of sorts, and it was all too possible they had drawn the King of Frost’s attention.

The man had halted as the others arrayed themselves for battle. Wind and frost blew over them, so cold that some of them felt it, but they refused to flinch even as the temperatures dropped well below zero. They were waiting for their leader to move, but he just waited.

This was how it was done. He stood, rapier in hand, the other holding a wand, waiting for the beast to descend. He had to teach them that.

The Lich waited, his black eyes and white pupils fixed on the apparition he could not see with his sight, only sense by the pure ice-mana it radiated. And it recognized him, a being of death-magic. They stood there, regarding each other, and the Frost Wyvern plummeted past them.

Breaking the standoff. Both the being of frost and Az’kerash glanced to the side, and the Necromancer blinked.

A screaming Frost Wyvern, a Goblin, Gnoll, and female Human ghost were all clinging to the Frost Wyvern as it dove, trying to break its fall and keep flying away. His head turned as he watched them flash past him.

“You don’t see that every century.”

His children watched him, not understanding why he smiled. Then, the Necromancer’s eyes lifted to the master of one element. He flicked his rapier up questioningly.

“Only one of us has life left to lose.”

Did it hear his quiet voice? The storm itself seemed to rumble, and Devail’s sword aimed up, though the undead Chosen was uncertain.

“Father, where do I strike?”

“Whatever you can. Get back. It will destroy everything when we clash. Survival is enough to level. For me, victory will earn me the same.”

The two beings didn’t blink as they regarded each other. Az’kerash knew what he stood to gain or lose, but what did it win? Pride? Knowledge it was the supreme authority? But before he could make up his mind on whether to open the combat—

There was a roaring sound the likes of which he had never heard in his life. The Necromancer flinched, sword and wand aiming up—

The tyrant of frost whirled, startled by the same sound, and Az’kerash heard the noise receding. He felt something activating—

“Localized [Teleport]—but tremendous mana! No, that’s a short-ranged [Gate]—”

It was fast! Az’kerash’s [Haste]-enhanced reactions saw the being above him jerk, then take off after whatever had appeared up there. Racing, yes, racing the apparition with every appearance of fascination. Perhaps delight.

The Necromancer heard nothing as the snowstorm followed the whimsical being. After about five seconds, he thought he sensed confusion—and the storm was blowing away from his party. He turned and saw the Frost Wyvern banking. Az’kerash wiped some snow from his hair.

“Divest yourselves of snow. [Mass Invisibility]. We continue onwards.”

He wondered what that had been, but he was focused on his objectives. The Necromancer kept walking, eyes on the ground. He suspected he could dig anywhere and find what he wanted, but the question arose: if this being of ultimate frost was half as adept as he was, and Nerrhavia likewise, why were they not here with shovels?

“The quality is not the same. Deeper. Where the deepest and densest parts of the ocean bed existed. Keep spotting ruins.”

It was nostalgic, and he only wished he were alive. The man known as Perril Chandler would have loved the adventure. Az’kerash was just…

Cold.

——

Five seconds to fly. Five seconds before death caught her on frozen wings. Fighti flew. She had no confidence she could kill whatever that was.

She activated her tele-jump and then gunned the throttle. The Skyshadow Mk. 1 roared away from the blizzard, and she sensed whatever it was following her.

Five seconds. Passing slowly as could be as she listened to her heart pounding. Then—

The cold air and snow stopped racing past her cockpit. She appeared in the air, falling, and screamed.

“[Deploy Parachute]—!”

It unfolded around her, but the air was so cold the fabric froze, and she went down fast. Thankfully, there was snow below her. It cushioned her fall as she landed—hard—and lay in the snowbank the storm had brought with it.

Dazed, staring skywards, she finally saw what was creating the storm. It landed with a howl of wind, and the chill it brought froze everything around it. Snow turned to ice. The ground cracked, and Fighti held her breath as she stared at…

It’s not a Dragon. That was the one thing she could think. Close, but no Dragonlord of Ice. Even so—she felt the ground tremble as the Ruler of Frost cast around, searching for that strange object it had been racing.

It was no idiot; it was searching the snow, moving around, trying to find the odd creature it had thought might give it a fine challenge in the skies.

However, it couldn’t find the little Goblin lying in the snow. A huge, clawed foot pulled up the ground as Fightipilota lay there, not making a sound. And she realized the curiosity of this creature was going to kill her.

It was freezing. Far, far below zero, and despite her warm bomber jacket, her gloves, her boots—the frost this creature was emitting had already frozen her extremities numb.

She tried to cover her face. Curled up in a ball as she heard a roar of frustration. The beating of great wings—and then it leapt into the air and sped off, searching for its prey.

Fighti lay there, waiting for the world to warm, but the storm blew over her as it followed this being which brought its own weather to the New Lands. Snow, blowing and blowing, and Fighti began to shake uncontrollably.

Then giggle.

She was giggling when Chickenruler and Nailren finally found her. Not that either had been able to see her in the snowdrift she was buried under. It was Coldcream who’d smelled the ‘prey’ in the snow he was used to, and the two leapt down.

“—frozen! She needs help! She’s blue. Fighti, can you hear me?”

“I see it. Fly, Coldcream! Fly as fast as—!”

The frozen [Fighter Pilot] didn’t reply. But her teeth were locked together in a bared grin, and she was shaking. Giggling as Nailren tried to figure out how to warm her and realized her temperature wasn’t rising. There was ice on her skin; some kind of magical ice. She was so cold she already had frostnip.

They flew, and Fighti laughed. Because…even with a plane from the future, a monstrosity of engineering and magic, she did not rule these skies.

What a relief.

——

A crisis in the skies. Nailren held Fightipilota upright in the seat in front of him with every blanket and piece of cloth they had wrapped around her. They were flying straight for Nombernaught without slowing. They only landed once to start a fire before they realized this magical ice wasn’t melting.

The blankets were smoking and half-frozen from the ice on Fighti. The smoke came from embers that Nailren had wrapped amongst the blankets; they were the only things keeping the Goblin from freezing over.

What they needed, right now, was magical help or a [Healer], and only the Drowned Folk had that. The half-Elves would be another day or two of flying, so they sped westwards through the night and into the dawn.

Nailren was mostly silent as Chickenruler urged Coldcream onwards, using Skills as often as he could. Sometimes, he talked to the air—he was in contact with Chieftain Rags somehow. She’d noticed when Fighti failed to report in and had realized there was a problem.

Good system. But it spoke to how remote they were and how dangerous anything could be, even with Fighti’s powerful Skill. One injury out here and…

Nailren kept trying to think what they could have done better. Avoid the storm, yes, but they hadn’t realized it was following them, and at that point, the creature was too fast. Land, the moment they saw it, and wait for it to blow past—that would be standard operating procedure.

But after that? Fighti distracting the frozen creature had been the best and most pragmatic move. Sometimes, you were faced with such situations. So he focused on trying to keep Fighti awake and alive. Not that he could do much.

Fighti was turning blue. A condition that Nailren had never seen before, not having much experience with Humans or people with visible skin at low temperatures. But Spoony was very worried.

“H-U-R-R-Y-.-H-U-R-R-Y.”

“I know. Fighti? Stay with us.”

She had been giggling for a while, but now she was still. Staring at something. Nailren was grateful for any distraction as the sun rose. And who should it be but the only other force who could invade the New Lands from afar. That distant power—and they were a power—who were realizing the influence they could wield.

The Wandering Inn. He saw something flicker to his left, vanish behind the Wyvern with a squeak of a high pitched voice, then re-appear and stabilize, following them. It was a girl, of course. The one who watched over friends near and far.

“…Nanette?”

Nanette Weishart was staring around, appearing mildly acrophobic as she stared down at the ground rushing past them. She was holding onto a baseball cap on her head and she had a full uniform and jersey on. Nailren just stared at her.

“Where’s Mrsha?”

“Getting ready for school! Also, Lyonette said she shouldn’t see someone else die…is Fighti alright? Rags told us there was a problem!”

Nailren laid out the issue, and Nanette’s eyes widened.

“A monster created a permanent winter? You’re going to Nombernaught, right? I’ll let them know to expect you!”

She was gone for a while, and Nailren guessed that it might be seven o’clock by the time he saw a distant city on the horizon around emerald waves lapping against a vast, long shoreline.

“So beautiful.”

Fighti muttered something as he gazed at Nombernaught, a Drowned City on land, the first in ages. He wondered if Fighti’s Skill had recharged. Could she use her Skill to get there faster? But she could barely move, and if she crashed…

However, even here—Nanette reappeared.

“Nailren! Nailren—”

“What’s wrong?”

Her eyes were wide, and her pigtail braids were all wild. She was pointing.

“Nombernaught’s under attack! There’s thousands of giant, evil shell-monsters attacking the gates!”

He felt Fighti go still in front of him, and Chickenruler turned his head.

“What? More Sword Crabs?”

Nanette shook her head wildly.

“No…worse? Better? I don’t know! They’re called—”

——

“Push back the nautiloids! Hold the line, you worthless sealice, or I will behead the first man or woman who runs!”

The City Captain of the Drowned City stood on the ‘walls’ of the city, which were just ramshackle wooden gates made out of driftwood and with a single, besieged gate. Nombernaught had never been built with walls in mind. It had been meant to float in the sea, where attacks could come from any angle.

Defending it was hell. The City Captain, the man or woman who had to serve as defender of the city for a month, was usually tasked with making sure everything ran smoothly. Settling fights between [Captains] in the docks, maintaining security.

But also, when the city was under attack—they fought. Who would it be, today of all days, but the man who wanted this post least.

Captain Therrium Sailwinds and his crews were holding the gates themselves. The half-Eel Drowned Man had a cutlass in one hand and a wand in the other. He fired a bolt of purple magic at the first giant nautiloid attacking the gate.

Drowned Folk armed with spears and tridents were stabbing at the waving tendrils that slashed at them and tried to drag them under its shell, where the razor beak-teeth were waiting to tear them apart.

It was a huge damn nautiloid with a spiral conch shell on its back. Two watery eyes were staring outwards with malevolence as it grabbed a screaming [Sailor] up; a sword slashed through the tendrils holding the woman, and she landed.

“On your feet! Get back in line!”

Therrium’s second-in-command, the half-Starfish Drowned Woman Etaiv, was wielding two cutlasses and cut her way back towards the gates. The injured nautiloid retreated.

The problem was…it was one of at least a thousand attacking the gates, and each one was huge. Nine feet high, their shells shielding them from attack, scuttling forwards towards the city filled with magic and meat.

A full damn army of them. They fought side-by-side, dragging their prey forwards, slashing across faces with sharp sucker-lined tendrils that ripped and tore flesh and broke bones. Therrium saw the lines of skirmishing [Sailors], Nombernaught’s security force and the ship’s crews, buckling. He was cursing them.

“Hold, I said, you pathetic wastes of ship space! Nombernaught is ripe for the taking if you buckle and run! Push them back!”

They kept retreating! Therrium saw his crews holding the nautiloids back where they were stationed. But he had to admit—he’d never seen so many!

A nautiloid attack at sea was bad enough, but it’d be a dozen, two dozen at most. But then, he’d never had to protect so many people. Yet despite his reluctance to be here, he was well aware of the stakes.

Let even a dozen of these into the city and they’ll eat everyone they catch. Drowned Folk without combat classes would be ripped to shreds in a second, so Therrium roared.

“A city of the underseas is in peril and you’re running? What’s wrong with you, cowards?”

At last, someone shouting his name got through to him. Therrium turned with a snarl as he saw [Sailors] backing away from a particularly large nautiloid slashing its tendrils out like a whip. The cowards refused to even try to block—!

“Captain Therrium!”

It was one of the retired [Captains] who served as Nombernaught’s permanent security force. The Drowned Man was half-Crab, and he had blood running down his face. The man gasped.

“Captain—the [Sailors] can’t hold this line like your crew can! They’re under Level 20!”

Under Level 20…? Therrium’s Human eye bulged in his eye sockets before he remembered, well, yes. These were as close to civilians as you got. His crews were made up of the hardest, most battle-seasoned Drowned Folk [Pirates] the seas had. Compared to them…

He saw a Pufferfish Woman aiming an arrow. She spat onto the arrow, loosed it, and the big nautiloid recoiled, then withdrew into its shell. But even Glisal was cursing.

“Captain, they’re too big for my poison to kill!”

“Dead gods damn it—get me a backup crew! Prepare to fall back past the walls! Hold, I said!”

Therrium whirled and leapt off the wall as another nautiloid came for the gates. His enchanted cutlass pierced straight through the thick shell, and he stabbed deep, leaping off the spiral shell as the tendrils tried to rip him away. He landed, grunting, then slashed across the nautiloid’s face. Spun so his right side was facing the beast and fired the wand three times into its shell.

The nautiloid curled up into its shell as blue blood and smoke streamed out the opening. Therrium grabbed a rope someone had tossed down and let them haul him onto the wall again.

“[Fight, You Rats]!”

Emboldened by his personal example and his Skill, the Drowned Folk surged back on the attack—and a beam of brilliant light flashed across the nautiloids advancing on the right flank. Therrium cursed and shielded his face, but the blinded monsters had it far, far worse.

“Was that the damn Luminary? Tell him to watch where he’s aiming his magic! I don’t need blindness, I need them dead!”

He roared. As if in answer to his words, he saw a shadow spreading under a group of nautiloids to the rear. They were ‘firing’ at Nombernaught. Which meant throwing tiny little spawn at the defenders with such velocity that they knocked people off the walls.

And the small nautiloids were fast, had sharp beaks, and could lay your flesh open. One flew onto the walls where Therrium stood—but in this case, the monsters had made a mistake.

Glisal pounced on the angry little nautiloid as it landed, trying to bite anything it found. She scooped it up, netted it, and then hung the confused creature on her belt.

“I got one! That’s worth its weight in gold if you get it to a good [Beast Tamer]!”

Other nautiloid children were also being scooped up by enterprising Drowned Folk. Having a giant pet armored mollusk was not a bad deal if you raised them right. Therrium was swearing.

“Stop looting and fight, Glisal! Kill those—what the?”

The shadow spreading under the group of ‘firing’ mother nautiloids had no origin he could see. It had formed a rough, circular blob, and he watched it deepen. Then—he saw black tendrils rise from the shadow, grab the monsters who tried to scuttle out in alarm, and pull them down.

They sank into the vast shadow, and it bubbled like some liquid in an abyssal sea. Then—the shadow pool began to spit chunks of the nautiloids back up.

Therrium glanced around, and there was a voice in the speaking stone affixed to his earring.

“Captain Therrium, the north walls are holding. Shadeward Doroumata is sending more of her daughters to your location.”

“Ah…good. Hurry it up.”

Dangerous as he was, Therrium found Shadeward Doroumata unsettling. One of the most legendary spellcasters amongst the underseas was defending her city, and he saw the identical young women, the Starfish Drowned Woman’s daughters, standing on the walls, firing shade-based spells that struck through the nautiloids’ armor and sent them scurrying back.

They were winning—but Therrium saw more Drowned Folk being dragged into the maws of the nautiloids and knew the damn monsters would be getting fed one way or another. His eyes roamed the battlefield, searching for something he could use to carve through this mass. If only he could trust the regular [Sailors] to hold while he took his crew and sortied…! All the high-level crews were at sea or exploring the New Lands, damn them.

He saw a single figure holding the north gate in an open section of ground. No less than six nautiloids were dead, their huge bodies fouling up their friends trying to move past them, but the small crew holding the gates were mostly just firing arrows. Therrium saw Haley, one of the ‘Earthers’, shooting a longbow past…

“Is that the loon of a [Knight]? Lord So and So?”

He pointed, and Lord Olvos of House Lanight lifted his lance and began to ride at another nautiloid. A fool’s errand, surely—but he speared the creature through its weak underbelly as it came at him. Therrium grunted.

“That lance is twice as long as they use—and it’s barbed.”

Indeed, Lord Olvos rode away as half the lance stayed in the nautiloid, which looked to be bleeding out rapidly. He rode back to Haley, who tossed him a new lance while grabbing the old one. She was fitting a modified harpoon onto the end.

Clever. Etaiv had climbed back onto the walls for a break and leaned on the railing, panting.

“That’s the [Knight] who tried to out-joust the Sword Crabs, isn’t he? What’s he doing? Defending the city? That’s a first for landfolk!”

“Doing it better than most of ours. How the hell is he fighting so well?”

Therrium had forgotten he was on speaking stone. The dry voice of Doroumata herself answered him.

“Lord Olvos Lanight has a new Skill. [Nemesis: Crustaceans]. I have trusted him with the northern gates.”

Fair enough; the man was doing the job well. But Therrium hesitated.

“…But Shadeward, nautiloids are mollusks.”

He was almost positive about that. The Drowned Woman replied, amused.

“It appears neither he, nor his Skill, cares. It’s close enough for his tastes, it appears. [Bolts of Pain]. These nautiloids refuse to retreat. I have never seen so many…they must have been germinating within the New Lands. Push them back, City Captain.”

What a victory for ignorant landfolk. Therrium returned to cursing the men and women. He was preparing to order them to fall back past the gates and begin a fight in the city proper. It would be ugly, but they’d choke the entrances with their bodies and pray they could cover all the sectors.

That was, of course, when some random landchit of a girl came to talk nonsense about a friend of hers in need. Therrium roared at the girl to get out of his way as he fired more spells from his wand, cursing the mana-drain that affected even parts of Nombernaught. She vanished, and he had just carved his way through two more nautiloids and was drawing breath to sound the retreat when she reappeared.

“Captain! Captain Therrium!”

“Get out of my way!”

He slashed through her with the back of his hand, and Nanette waved her hands.

“Wait! We have reinforcements coming! But we need an anti-scrying spell for fifteen seconds!”

“What? Reinforcements? Unless it’s a damn army, it’s not going to stop that!”

He pointed at the nautiloids coming by the hundreds. Nanette hesitated, but then she puffed her cheeks out, stood up straight, and put her hands on her hips.

“In the name of The Wandering Inn, I promise you won’t regret it! Pull your men and women back and turn off scrying, please!”

Therrium doubted most landfolk were watching this battle, if they’d even made it onto the news; they never cared when Drowned Folk died. But he was in no mood to oblige her. Though that name…

He heard a gasp from his right, and Etaiv stepped back as someone rose out of Therrium’s shadow. A copy of Doroumata peered at Nanette and spoke.

“You will have it, child. If you are wrong, I shall hold this grudge with my city. When?”

Nanette’s eyes flickered as she wavered. She lifted a finger and pointed east.

“Whenever the Wyvern’s overhead. Ch—Lilbrasi says she’s preparing a Skill! On my mark…”

Who? That Wyvern? It was far too far away! Therrium snarled as he turned back, raising a hand. Then he saw the tiny Wyvern flicker…

And grow a lot larger. Captain Therrium spun back and got a firsthand look at a special from The Wandering Inn: chaos and wonder. He heard Nanette shout.

“Mark! Now!”

Doroumata’s lips moved, and there was silence. Therrium stared up and swore he saw a little figure falling from the Wyvern’s back. Then?

There was a terrible roaring in the air, and he didn’t know what he saw next.

——

[Unit: Lightning Repositioning].

That was Rags’ Skill. It took Coldcream from far outside Nombernaught to flying over the embattled city. She had asked Chickenruler to help defend the city if possible, but not to risk himself. She wouldn’t have even used her Skill, except for Fighti.

Fightipilota had asked her Chieftain for permission to go in. Well, she’d told Rags she was deploying and her Chieftain could help or not. Rags had told Fighti she was in no condition to fly, secrecy, all the good reasons.

Didn’t matter. The shivering Goblin had heard enough. City in danger. Monsters. She was frozen. Couldn’t feel her arms or legs.

She undid her seatbelt, and Nailren reached for her. She locked eyes with him, and he didn’t grab her. So she toppled from the back of the Wyvern and fell.

The Drowned Folk could win this battle. This was not the last stand of Nombernaught. This, too, the [Fighter Pilot] knew.

It. Didn’t. Matter. She saw the fighting Drowned Folk below her and, past them, a city in danger. The cold wind was blowing over the ice on her jacket and arms, and the Goblin was delirious. Frozen. For a second, her mind played tricks on her, and the struggling figures looked like…

Goblins. An army fighting to defend a city of Goblins. Something that had not existed. And might never exist. A strange and painful dream of the future. The [Fighter Pilot] laughed, and she heard the explosions in the air around her. The firepower of another world exploding the world to bits.

She reached for that memory and brought a piece of the future back with her.

[She Flies on Another World’s Wings]. Then the fighter plane was screaming down across the battlefield, and Fighti’s numb fingers were on the joystick of the fighter plane. She pulled down on the triggers with her shaking fingers and didn’t stop firing.

[Aircraft: High Impact Rounds].

Her twin-linked autocannons were roaring, cycling the rounds as fast as they could fire. Fighti saw blue blood exploding across the line of giant mollusks as they pierced the shells without slowing and exploded in the center of mass. She had five seconds—

Magical spells. She thumbed the side triggers, and two blue bolts of lightning shot from her plane’s underbelly. A shower of disgorged light spells. Then a [Greater Orb of Force], falling from below her.

Not enough. She was slashing downwards across the line of nautiloids, into the center of mass pushing for the city’s western gate. If she had thirty seconds to make a full pass, even fifteen—

Five seconds. The Goblin knew it was not enough time. So she ignored the screaming siren in the plane’s cockpit and brought her craft down—

——

The thunder. Every Drowned Person had hands over their ears. The blood and fragments of shell were spiraling into the air. Glisal was flinching back, staring up, as Therrium saw the strange craft landing.

That is no bird, but a ship of the sky. He saw the metal. He saw how it was made, so sleek and deadly—but the pilot was mad.

She didn’t pull up but crashed into the center of the nautiloids coming at his gate. She hit one of the biggest ones, a twenty-foot monster, and her ship crunched into half its shell as the spinning blades lodged in the meat of the mollusk. But it crumpled her wings, leaving a trail of blue blood and pieces of her craft.

Madness. It must be conjured by her Skill. He saw the pilot, then, a small figure who pulled the triggers one last time. Her airplane roared death straight into the heart of the nautiloid horde—

Then it vanished. And a little figure was lying in the center of the dazed, wounded nautiloids. She could barely stand, but she had something in one hand. A hand-crossbow. She fired, and he saw it discharge three times.

[Sidearm: Three Reckless Shots]. She fired it into the face of the nautiloid she’d plowed into, then collapsed.

The havoc she’d caused froze both sides for a moment. Nautiloids collapsed as their nervous systems only now registered the bullets that had exploded in their bodies. The others backed away, searching for the threat. The Drowned Folk were just as confused, but Therrium triggered his [Battlefield Voice] Skill and shouted.

“We have the momentum! Give them a Terandrian charge! Don’t let that Goblin die.”

He pointed, and Glisal cast around, then stared at the little figure lying on the ground.

“What Goblin, Captain? That’s a Drake—”

Therrium didn’t reply. He was leaping off the walls, and the [Sailors] charged the shocked nautiloids. They burst out of cover, firing their wands and hand-crossbows, shouting.

A full-deck charge across an entire city. Therrium ran past a terrified Lamont, who was shooting a crossbow as he ran. The surprised monsters recoiled, swinging their tendrils defensively. Before he could run into the first nautiloid, Therrium halted. Grabbed Lamont by the scruff of the collar and tossed him back.

Confused, the Human [Sailor] stumbled—then saw everyone charging at the nautiloids reversing as one. The Drowned Folk fired a second wave of shots—then were running back. It was a feint! Even the greenest [Sailor] knew how to pull off the famous bait-and-switch that put the enemy on the back foot.

It worked. The confused nautiloids were retreating and in chaos already; by the time they began to advance again, the Drowned Folk had caught their breath and were ready. And the monsters’ nerves were breaking. Doroumata’s magic was hitting them with bolts of agony that made them decide this wasn’t worth the pain, and more light spells were flashing from the city.

But that Goblin—Therrium was cursing as he tried to spot her amidst the corpses. Where was…?

—Then he saw the Frost Wyvern coming in low, and icy frost breath was freezing nautiloids. He saw a [Wyvern Rider] lifting his hand as the angry Frost Wyvern strategically excreted onto another nautiloid’s head. And—

A second figure dropped to earth. Or rather—flew. It was the second flying Gnoll that Therrium had ever seen, and it was no less surreal than the first.

——

Nailren was not happy, but he’d seen Fighti crashing her plane, and he knew no one else was going to know where she was nor be running into the battlefield. So he dove and trusted to Fighti’s invention to keep him alive.

The Fightipilota Mk. IV was no airplane. It was a backup device that Fighti had insisted on taking with her. It was nothing more than a glider, really. Adapted from the Flying Gnoll’s designs. The basis for creating a permanent flying vehicle.

It worked quite well. Nailren swooped down in a terrifying dive until he levelled out. But he was skimming too low, and the nautiloid shells were like walls; he saw a flash of green amidst all the blood and torn-up ground and let go.

“Argh—”

He hit the ground, rolled sixteen times, and heard the glider smash into a nautiloid’s shell. Everything hurt. Nailren was on his feet in a second, breathless.

“Fighti!”

He saw her lying on the ground, shivering. A few tiny nautiloids were biting at her. Nailren charged at her and grabbed her. He threw her onto his shoulders as he kicked a baby nautiloid, then spun.

Giant mollusks all around him, eating their comrades or dead Drowned Folk, many moving back to the oceans. They turned to this tasty, moving treat, and Nailren ran.

He sprinted past an angry nautiloid, leaping over tendrils lashing at his legs. Ducked under another and ran left to avoid another. The city—Nailren had one arm on Fighti’s back, the other pumping as he ran for all he was worth.

He was sprinting over cratered ground as fleeing nautiloids saw him and attacked, but he could see the walls and Drowned Folk, who were kneeling in lines, firing spells and crossbow bolts. Nailren heard a booming voice from the ramshackle walls.

“Cover that Gnoll, you useless sea leeches!”

Spells and arrows flew past Nailren as he sprinted for the lines of Drowned Folk. Then he felt something crawling up his shoulder. He turned his head and saw a baby nautiloid that had been trying to eat Fighti. It revealed a lot of teeth on its underbelly and prepared to leap onto his face as he tried to let go of Fighti and grab—

An invisible hand slapped the baby nautiloid off Nailren’s shoulder. It went tumbling off him, and he felt the spoon around his neck grow cold.

“Spoony—good job—”

Then the Gnoll saw a bunch of Drowned Folk [Sailors] crouching behind a barricade of driftwood and vaulted over it. He landed, tumbling with Fightipilota in his arms, and lay there until someone helped him up. Only then did Nailren feel like he could breathe again.

Dead gods, I hate battles. The next second, he was shouting.

“[Healer]!”

Thankfully, his part in the battle was over. And the nautiloids were in retreat.

——

The First Land Battle for Nombernaught was not one that would go down in other people’s history books, but it was still faithfully recorded in the City Captain’s log by Therrium along with a tally of deaths and the wounded.

He was not well pleased by how much damage the damn mollusks had done. Even if they were being harvested for their meat, young, and shells, it was proof that a city was no easy thing to defend.

“We need better walls. The one thing those damn Drakes understand well enough. The next time the enemy comes via land, I want actual defenses. Why weren’t we better prepared?”

He was snapping at the Luminary, Hisark, and Doroumata as well as former City Captains like the now-bandaged Horvin and other members of the community with a vested interest in keeping their homes safe.

Hisark and Doroumata were not accustomed to anyone raising their voice at them, and the Luminary bridled.

“Normally, we would have a fleet of ships at the city at any time, Captain Therrium. We did have them!”

“And?”

“And they were only able to defend from the sea, and barely that, because we are ashore. I see your point, Captain Therrium. We shall deconstruct what ships we can, and mount defensive spells and weapons on these walls. It will be costly and we do not have much in the way of resources, but it shall be done.”

Doroumata’s voice was steady, and everyone nodded to her. Therrium rubbed at his coat.

“Good. Someone has to make sure this damn city isn’t sunk within the month.”

“We are pleased you are taking on such challenges, Captain Therrium. Not every Captain of the City is able to take on such projects.”

It took Therrium a second to realize he had to redesign Nombernaught’s defenses. He was so lost for words that Doroumata went on.

“Now, about this stranger who has defended our city.”

“The…Drakes? I had no notion there was such a powerful Skill. What was that strange thing they used to fight the nautiloids with?”

There was a telling silence as Hisark frowned, and Therrium glanced at Doroumata. He saw only one other [Captain] raise her brows silently.

So none of them saw it. The Shadeward turned to Therrium.

“We should investigate. Though perhaps we should ensure our guest does not leave the city?”

“As an asset, you mean?”

“An asset of surpassing value. I would assume you would be first to suggest that, Captain Therrium. I would know what that was before considering letting her leave. In detail.”

The two locked eyes, a dread [Pirate] of the seas and Shadeward of the deeps. Therrium refused to look away.

“I take what I think I can hold. I’m no stranger to a good kidnapping, but I’d rather treat our guest with the highest honors.”

“Why?”

Therrium glanced out the window towards the rifts on the ground he could still see from one of Nombernaught’s higher buildings.

“Because I don’t fancy making an enemy of a group I don’t know the capabilities of. Better to be all friendly-like.”

Better an ally than an enemy you didn’t know, especially if there was anyone else like her. Doroumata nodded once.

“I shall personally check on her odd injuries, then. Make your inquiries subtly, Captain of the City.”

She turned and began to melt downwards into a shadow, teleporting with her magic. Therrium glanced around, and everyone was staring at him. He glowered.

“I only took this damn post because it was insisted upon. I expect that once I do my part, someone else will take over who’s more capable of this krakenshit than I am.”

He was a [Pirate]! The Drowned Cities usually barely allowed him in because of the riches he bribed them with. But here he was playing nursemaid for a city. The Drowned Man ground his teeth, then began giving orders. He might as well make sure they had decent walls.

Damn Drakes. How the hell did they make theirs so tall? It didn’t seem possible.

——

Chickenruler was not a happy Goblin after the brief fight at the city gates. True, Fighti had saved lives and all that, but she had also made their group very, very noticeable…and he didn’t like that.

Well, there was also the way she’d fought. Chickenruler studied the path she’d taken when she’d driven her plane into the heart of the nautiloid horde.

Firing those guns nonstop and coming out of her Skill firing. Not like any sane Goblin did. Not like someone who thought she was going to survive. As his Frost Wyvern landed and he looked for Nailren and Fighti, Chickenruler put a finger to his temple.

“[Memo: Chieftain]. Fighti alive, Chieftain. We pretty visible like pink Gargoyles, but she help for sure. She, uh, got some trauma. But only like average Redfang.”

He’d seen it before. And it told him something of what Fighti had seen in that other world. Pretty bad war. They’d work on her; it wasn’t like this was new to Goblins. It also meant he’d have to make sure she didn’t get herself killed being a hero later.

More work for poor old Chickenruler. He got a succinct reply from Rags.

“Good job. Try to maintain your cover, and report in to Nanette. I’ll have a liaison there at the inn.”

Try to maintain his cover, she said. Chickenruler saw Drowned Folk turning to him and sighed as he leaned over the saddle. The problem began, well…

Instantly.

——

“Look, we been here before. Lots of times. How you not recognize us? Who else flying in with Frost Wyverns?”

Chickenruler was arguing with a Drowned Woman trying to be accommodating; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him helping fight the nautiloids. But she was checking some notes.

“We understand, sir. But I just don’t have you on our lists. Where are you from?”

The [Wyvern Rider] hesitated.

“Uh…Horrisbel. Near Yolden.”

“…I don’t see a ‘Horrisbel’ anywhere on our lists. You’re sure you came in under that name?”

Then Chickenruler really began to sweat. Because—well—damn it, no! He’d completely forgotten what name they’d used the last time they’d been here! It felt like ages ago!

“Er, er, we know the nice Drowned Man who we traded with. Belfast or something? Can you ask him?”

She eyed him, but marched off and found the weary Drowned Man with blue blood on his uniform. He gave Chickenruler one glance and nodded.

“That’s our Drake friends. I’d know ‘em anywhere. What do you mean they’re not on the list?”

“He said Horrisbel—”

“No, it’s Floodwaters, right? The City of Floodwaters?”

They turned to Chickenruler, and he slapped his forehead, sweat liberally beading down his back.

“Floodwaters! Right, right. We, uh, changed the name of our city. Just last week. How’d I forget? Ha. Hahaha…”

The stares they gave him, then the polite smiles they wore were a weird kind of pain that Chickenruler had never felt before. He was used to hunger, injury, but humiliation? That was new.

Well, identity established, they did let him dismount and had food for Coldcream and a lot of thank-yous—but Chickenruler was really worried for Fightipilota. And his cover.

“I’ll have someone show you where your friend is. She was badly frostbit, but we had a [Deepsea Healer] looking at her. Hmm. Lamont! Front and center!”

A Human, a genuine Human, came dashing out of the crowd and saluted Belfast. The Drowned Man nodded at Chickenruler.

“This here’s Lamont, a Human, but good as a seafolk. He’s good with visitors. Lamont, they’re keeping the Drake at the Eir Gel Grotto. You know, the giant conch? Can you show our guest around? He can have the run of the city, the City Captain says. Put him up in a good hotel.”

“Can do, Belfast! This way, sir. Was that you on the Wyvern?”

“Eh, sure was. Nice to meet you. I’m Chickenruler. A [Wyvern Rider].”

“Lamont, [Sailor].”

The two walked past Drowned Folk being patched up or other teams wearing full-body diving suits with metal bell helmets made of brass, marching out to cut up the nautiloids. Chickenruler was instantly distracted.

“What that?”

He pointed at the suited figure walking past him. Their helmet had a glass faceplate with metal guards, like a lantern; it was even glowing from inside! It was spooky, and Lamont explained.

“That? Classic, old-fashioned—I mean, diving suit. It’s got a helmet, air supply—Drowned Folk who can’t breathe water naturally or who go into the deep sea wear it to avoid being crushed. Or to cut up big corpses. Because of parasites, see? They don’t want to get anything on them.”

“Oh. Smart.”

The two walked on, and after a moment, Lamont coughed.

“So you, uh, you’re Drakes.”

“Yep.”

“Was that—did I see an airplane or was that something else? An, uh, flying machine?”

Chickenruler gave Lamont the blandest gaze possible. Earther. He shrugged.

“I dunno what that was. My friend has it. Some Skill thing, you know? I just fly a Wyvern. Much simpler.”

“Oh, got it, got it. Um—so where are you from?”

“That’s the question I want to know, sometimes.”

He confused Lamont sufficiently to get to the ‘Eir Gel Grotto’ and found that Fightipilota was there with Nailren, and to his relief, the [Deepsea Healer] seemed to know her stuff.

——

“Looks like some magical ice alright. Needs dispelling. Until then, this will keep her fine as can be. We don’t have much, but this is our finest healing pod left.”

Fightipilota was, at this moment, mostly naked aside from some privacy fog on the huge, blown glass orb she was floating in, a facemask on with a tube leading out of it that gave her air.

The moving censor bars were, funnily enough, a Skill. The [Deepsea Healer] was named Juresei, and she was half-Shrimp. Her delicate feeler-stalks on her other side were manipulating some controls that were tied to the pod, and Nailren was asking questions.

“What is she in?”

“Water. And Eir Gel. It’s a mixture of the two; like a healing potion, but permanent.”

“Really? I’ve never heard of dunking someone in the liquid.”

The Drowned Woman snorted as Chickenruler and Lamont came into the room.

“Well, you wouldn’t on land. Most landfolk don’t buy much Eir Gel, anyways. The island it comes from can produce enough for the entire world—or used to. But getting enough to fill a pod like this? It takes a lot, and the most pure and aged stuff. Now it’s all been corrupted, this is all we have. We have to keep cleansing the gel, but it’ll run out, and then…”

She shook her head, then hit another button.

“For your friend, we’ll do all we can. Doroumata’s daughter will have to dispel the ice, but this will keep her warm.”

The water was almost bubbling with heat as she upped the pod’s heating. Nailren nodded respectfully.

“Thank you, Healer Juresei. May I ask how long it’d take to recover…?”

“I don’t know frostbite. But assuming she hasn’t lost anything…I’d give it four, five days? She’s young and tough. Though I swear she didn’t feel scaly at all. Did they wear off or are Drakes not as scaled as they look?”

Chickenruler didn’t know how to answer that, but Nailren was scary-smooth.

“I’m sure she’s just passed out so her scales aren’t moving like they would normally. She’s like a snake, or so I’d guess. I don’t know Drakes that well, mind you.”

Juresei chuckled.

“Like a snake. As if that’s clearer! Well, I suppose landfolk snakes and sea snakes are close enough? Very well, you can leave her in my care. If you’d like to stay, I’ll find a place for you to rest, but she’s not in danger now she’s in the pod, or so my Skill tells me.”

That was a relief. Chickenruler sat down—then leapt to his feet as no less than Shadeward Doroumata entered the room. She was terrifying, and the [Healer] bowed all over herself, but Doroumata just inspected Fighti, then lifted a hand.

“[Dispel]. Hmm. Failure. [Targeted Dispel]. Failure. [Salt’s Purification]. Some effect. I would test this out more, but she is our guest.”

Bits of ice had flaked off Fightipilota’s body with that last spell. Doroumata twitched her fingers as three of her daughters hurried into the room.

“Mother, we could link and—”

“No. I wish to try my magic against this magical beast. Shadows, envelop.”

The pod went dark as shadows raced up it and turned the water black. Juresei began to protest, but Doroumata just put a hand on her staff, which was a twisted piece of black coral, and spoke.

“[Shadows Consume All].”

Okay, that sounded real ominous. Chickenruler shifted, but Doroumata just waved the shadows away, and when they vanished and the glowing gel returned, he saw the ice was gone!

“I simply ate the magic. It was…powerful. Level 40 cryomancy, I suspect. If one was dedicated to inflicting frost. You say something cast it on her?”

“Eh, more like she sort of was nearby and it froze her. Hey, I’m Chickenruler. Thanks for healing my friend.”

Chickenruler held out a hand, which provoked a gasp from Juresei and the daughters, but Doroumata took his hand in her fragile, withered one and studied his face.

“Fascinating. On behalf of Nombernaught, I thank you…Chickenruler. And you, stranger?”

Nailren was next, and she peered at him, then squinted.

“You…have a curse on you.”

“No, Shadeward, I respectfully do not. Just a friend.”

That got her attention as well, and Nailren grinned as the daughters tried to see what Doroumata had sensed. Then she was demanding answers, and Chickenruler? He walked over to Juresei to make sure that he was allowed to come back later, then wandered out of the healing grotto. Lamont took him to an inn in the city, and Chickenruler was told he’d be eating like a [King]. But the very first thing he did was ask if they had sugar, milk, and ice.

The milk turned out to be the hard part. Drowned Folk didn’t do cows. But they did have other mammals in the sea, and you could milk almost anything. So Chickenruler ended up making the first seafolk-based ice cream. He was a tiny bit proud of that, even if it was green.

They had all those things, so he mixed up a huge batch of ice cream, split it with the fascinated kitchen staff, and took the rest to Coldcream and fed the Frost Wyvern to his heart’s content. Then Chickenruler went back and slept like a log.

——

[Fighter Pilot Level 20!]

[Class Change: Fighter Pilot → Wartouched Fighter Pilot!]

[Wartouched Fighter Pilot Level 20!]

[Skill – Aircraft: Emergency Boost Obtained!]

[Skill Change: She Flies on Another World’s Wings (5 Seconds) → She Flies on Another World’s Wings (7 Seconds)!]

[Skill – Summon Bound Turret Obtained!]

[Skill – Create Bound Turret Obtained!]

Fightipilota awoke in the weird floating tank twice, the first time in a panic, before someone told her where she was. The second time she stared out at the world beyond and saw a Drowned Man with half of an eel’s face studying at her, arms crossed. She realized she was naked and began flailing around until someone told her no one could see anything.

Then she went to sleep again and woke up in a bed. Apparently, she’d been well enough to move out of the healing pod so someone else could use it.

Chickenruler, Nailren, and even Nanette visited her and kept her up-to-date. Apparently, Fighti had helped save a lot of lives in the battle. She didn’t feel…great about it.

She felt like an idiot, diving in there. Her plane had been at 52% durability when she woke up. And she was lucky, she suspected, to even have that.

It gave her time to think. Like about her class levelup and what it meant.

Well, clearly it meant she might have a tiny bit of what Nailren called ‘Warsights’. He was worried about her. Fighti was fine, really. She just had a bit of the Redfang madness. You see too many friends dying in battle, you got a bit crazy.

So she’d seen an entire world vanish and been in a war where thousands of people had died each second and the Goblin King himself had been rampaging. Oh, and the girl she’d tried to save had bled out.

That was fine. She’d get over it. Probably.

Seven seconds of flying time meant she’d not be so stupid as last time. As for her other Skill, she reckoned it let her bind a ‘turret’ and summon it whenever she wanted. Probably the Thunderbow, but it made Fighti decide that she wanted Chieftain Rags to design a really nice weapon for Fighti. Something mobile so she could use it on Coldcream’s back, but more powerful. With a padded seat.

These things kept her from thinking about her mentality when she’d been diving into the nautiloid horde. It was more embarrassing when Drowned Folk kept coming over to her to thank her for saving someone’s life.

They believed in expressing thanks in material ways. Half had offered her actual money until she’d said she didn’t want money, but she’d take a snack while she was lying in bed.

So she had a mountain of snacks, from seaweed crackers—which went really well with sweet syrup-stuff milked from undersea animals—to lovely sushi.

Sushi. Mm. Fighti’s stomach hurt from lying in bed all day—mostly because she couldn’t get up.

Like, physically. Whatever damage that ice had done to her, the [Deepsea Healer] had managed to reverse, and she’d actually saved Fighti’s fingers and toes from being lost to frostnip. But the tradeoff was that she’d turned Fighti into a potato.

[Sea Cucumber’s Restoration], she’d called it. Fightipilota couldn’t even get up to pee without help. She’d be fine in another day or two, but it meant Fighti was bored.

They’d put on a television for her, but she got tired of it at night, so she was lying there, wondering how much trouble she was going to be in when she got back to Goblinhome, and just…thinking, when someone stepped into the little room they’d given her.

Fighti thought it was her [Healer] or Chickenruler coming to report how weird things were in Nombernaught again until she realized this was someone else. Then a man came in and sat.

Lord Olvos Lanight. He was dressed in civilian clothes and looked a lot skinnier, because she was so used to seeing the fellow in his mithril armor. He didn’t say a word as she lay there.

He was…staring at her. She quite recalled the last time they’d met after she and Redscar had helped him take revenge on the Sword Crabs. He’d cried on her shoulder, then. But she didn’t know if that old man was friends with her.

He knew she was a Goblin. Well, Chickenruler had said he suspected the City Captain and the Shadeward had figured out who they were. But according to Rags, that might be fine because Drowned Folk had a different perspective on Goblins.

Lord Olvos, though, was a Terandrian. And he had a shadowed expression on his face.

Also, and Fighti couldn’t help but note this—it was well past midnight. No one was awake. She lay there, immobile, as he stared at her. Possibly, he thought she was asleep. When she spoke, he did start.

“Look, if you stay, you gotta help me pee. Deal?”

She thought that might chase him out of the room altogether, but Lord Lanight didn’t move. He just sat there, his grey hair barely illuminated by the green moonlight coming through a window. Then he stared out the window at the cracked, green moon.

“I am sure you are aware of the…Goblin King incident. Which half my kingdom does not believe actually occurred. As well, the Goblin Lord named ‘Ragathsi’. I viewed the result of her rampage on scrying orb.”

Fightipilota said nothing. She noted, in that distant way, that Lord Olvos had a sword at his hip. She bet it was mithril, like everything else the man had. He was an important guy, she understood. Not like a Goblin Lord in rank, but maybe between there and a Chieftain?

She didn’t know Human things. She didn’t know him for all she’d shared some moments with him. And the way he was studying her…Lord Olvos went on after a moment.

“The King of Oztera is dead.”

Who? Fighti bit her tongue on that, and Lord Olvos clarified after a pause.

“I realize you may not know who that is. Oztera is a kingdom of Terandria, one of the Hundred Families’ remaining kingdoms. He is dead. His palace…a hole has been burned through it. The Goblin Lord did that. As well, a noblewoman, Lady Faire, has been killed, her estate levelled. Pallass’ 2nd Army is all but destroyed. I am sure you are aware of this.”

He waited, and Fighti said nothing. Lord Olvos brushed at his cheeks; he’d shaved and looked better, if not exactly happier than before.

“I…House Lanight owes you a debt for avenging us. You saved my granddaughter and prevented me from wasting my life. These are facts as pure as mithril. But also a fact is what I have seen and been reminded of. You understand? Do you—were you there? Did you take part in those events?”

This time, he waited, clearly expecting a response, so Fighti stared up at the ceiling and then tried to shrug.

“Eh, all that? Couldn’t be me. Must have been some other tribe. Wasn’t my Goblin Lord.”

She saw him twitch and inhale sharply.

“Fighti…pilota. Do not lie to me. The Goblin King arose, is that true?”

“I mean, maybe? Sure. Didn’t last long if he did.”

“—And you have nothing to say to that? That Goblin Lord murdered a [King] and a palace and wrought so much devastation—I am reminded of the Goblin King’s sins. I am conflicted. How can you claim ignorance?”

He was rubbing at his face, in great moral distress or something. Fighti stared up at the ceiling and wished they could have done this after she peed. Or maybe, and she was just spitballing here, maybe she was just sort of tired, had almost lost all her limbs to frostbite, and then crashed her plane. Which had hurt. A lot.

“Let me ask you a question, Lord Olvos.”

“Very well.”

He blinked at her, and she frowned at the ceiling, trying to remember.

“You, eh, you know Ailendamus?”

“The Kingdom of Glass and Glory? Yes, we border them. They’re the largest kingdom in Terandria. Well, kingdom—they’re more an empire, a dangerous one. Bitorm is no friend to them, but we are wary of being enemies. Why?”

He crossed his arms, and Fighti smiled.

“But they made war on the Dawn Concordat, right? Killed lots of people?”

“That is the least of the sins you could lay at their feet.”

“Wow. That so bad. Hey, what’s with Ailendamus? You darn [Lord], why are you killing people in Calanfer? I like Calanfer!”

She glared at the ceiling since she couldn’t raise her head, and Lord Olvos replied after a moment.

“…I’m not part of Ailendamus.”

“You sure is.”

“I am not. I am from the Lantocracy of Bitorm.”

“Yeah, but you’re Human. All Humans the same, right? All Terandria is.”

Silence. After a moment, Fightipilota managed to turn her head to him. She didn’t give him a smile, more like a Goblin’s grin.

“What was that about my Goblin Lord and my Goblin King?”

She wasn’t that good with words, but she had a definite impression she’d scored a point there. Lord Olvos frowned thunderously, not happy about being taken for some Ailendamus stooge. After a moment, he exhaled.

“…The difference is that Goblin Kings are hereditary to Goblins. They occur, inevitably. But for that, I would accept your comments.”

Her smile edged wider as he stared at her legs covered by the blanket.

“I dunno if we’re that different. Some Goblin King pops up? Most Goblins go to fight. Eh, but not all. You just think ‘all’ because you see lots of Goblins. Plenty of tribes don’t. Some. I dunno, I wasn’t there. But you Humans not all the same? Weird. Someone says, ‘crusade’, and that seems to work every time.”

Now, he glowered at her.

“That is a reductive way of viewing our continent. We do not all go on crusades nor do we—”

He hesitated. Closed his mouth and studied her again. Fighti stared up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, well. You never asked if I was on the Goblin King’s side or against him.”

There was a long, long pause, and she sensed him studying her.

“You fought him?”

“Yup. Shot him lots. Doesn’t really work. Damn bastard regenerates faster than a bucket of water in a rainstorm. But hey, you gotta stab who you gotta stab. Make it quick, would you?”

She treated him to a brittle, exhausted smile without artifice. Without fear. If he wanted her dead, dead she was, and there was no more point to this conversation, in Fighti’s mind.

They’d said their parts, done the little stupid dance.

It reminded her of apologizing to Rasktooth. And how the good apologies she’d used to love, the people who let a Goblin live—weren’t enough.

This conversation wasn’t giving her anything, so she really just wanted to pee, sleep, or for him to leave. But he sat there, troubled, as if—

“Feel like the strange little Goblin’s made your big head all confused? Now you’re the one who has to decide if I’m good or need the old chop-chop. Poor Lord Olvos. The weight of the world on his shoulders.”

The man started, and his white mustaches moved faintly in the moonlight as he jerked upright, eyes narrowing. But Fighti just giggled at him.

“Should I not care? Should I not be wracked with indecision, Fighti? I came to you earnestly—”

“Yeah. Now I know why Rags looks like she hasn’t pooped in ten years sometimes. She has to do this all the time? Talk to people, non-Goblins, and keep explaining what we are? That we’re not all one Goblin, in love with the Goblin King? Dead gods, but it’s tiring. You think you’re the only Human? You think you’re the first?”

“I’m well aware other people have accepted Goblins before. There was an adventurer.”

Garen. How the stories echoed. Fighti closed her eyes and remembered her annoying, charismatic, disgrace of a leader. It just made her angrier, so she spat.

“Yeah. An adventuring team took in a single Goblin and look what that did. Oh no, he caused the next Goblin King! One Goblin lived, fought, betrayed his team, and then died. Leaving nothing behind.”

“He founded the Redfang tribe. One of the foremost tribes of Izril, who settled the High Passes. The same tribe fought against the Goblin Lord, Reiss. Or joined him. They still exist; one with their iconic red warpaint is deemed a [Blademaster]. A tribe whose members continue to represent Goblins’ strength.”

Lord Olvos’ words made Fighti’s eyes snap open. And she realized—he was staring at something propped up by her bed. A folded jacket. A bomber jacket from the future with the silly insignia of a Goblin who wanted to fly. And which still had those decorative crimson…

His eyes turned to her. Fighti snarled.

“So you did your homework. Big deal. You’re one little Human [Lord]. From one kingdom no one here cares about.”

“We mine and forge Mithril.”

He seemed vaguely insulted. Fighti rolled her eyes.

“You’re not important enough…to doom this world. You can’t kill my tribe. You can’t do more than kill, what, a thousand Goblins? You can’t even kill giant crabs. Just kill me. Or do your worst. You think you can threaten me? All you can do, old guy, is take one Goblin out of this world. Or add one to it.”

It took him a second to infer what she meant, and the [Lord] sat back in his chair.

“I am not a monster.”

“Sure. But you hear stories. Female Goblins never want to get captured. Wonder why.”

The man didn’t want to respond to that. Fighti went on, ranting now. She wanted to hurt him. Wanted to chase him out, because she didn’t want to deal with this.

“Let me tell you about my day, old guy. I nearly died. I saw the most beautiful, cold, amazing thing in the world, and it nearly killed me. Which sucked. Then someone said, ‘oh no, a bunch of Drowned Folk might die!’ So I went and did what I could. Because that’s what I wanted to do. Because that’s me. Just me being me. But because I have power, just a bit of power, I scared one poor Human so bad he shit himself and had to run over here to convince himself the big bad little Goblin isn’t going to fight House Lanight. Because I’m not some dumb monster he can ride down with a lance.”

“You saved my life and my granddaughter’s. Questioning my preconceived notions is my duty, as is protecting my kingdom and house. It is no easy matter. I am sorry for my actions. I was overwhelmed with grief.”

Fighti turned her head enough to spit over the side of her bed.

“You’re doing it again. Making this all about you! So worried that my Chieftain or I will kill a bunch of you. Yeah, we’re high-level. Yeah, we can destroy things. So what? Go be afraid of King Othius. Look into his cold, dead eyes, and then you’ll see a man who won’t stop. He’ll drown cities in the bodies of his silly [Heroes], send them up a hallway until they’re climbing over each other. Shooting everything that moves. Humans, Drakes, children—you want a monster? Try a man who won’t die even when you saw him in half with bullets. That’s a monster.”

Her fingers were twitching. She still saw the Blighted King gazing at her, straight through her. His screaming soldiers executing everything.

“Crelers all around and he couldn’t care less. Just about him surviving. Scary Goblins. Did you even see the thing the Drakes made? We had to stop it. We. Sure, your stupid little armies got there, but without us, it would have come out long ago. Without Trolls. All the monstrous species fighting other people’s mistakes. And our reward is being the scary monsters.”

He didn’t say a word, and Fighti held up one hand. Eyes locked on him.

“I can kill you. Is that what you want to hear? I can kill you and your House, and I can probably kill a lot of Nombernaught before they kill me. So can anyone. I earned this power. I earned it fighting a war no one will ever know, in a place that never was and never should be and—”

Goblins walking through a city meant only for them. Talking by the thousands in their odd, silly communities. Working jobs. Complaining about having to make a living. Dancing, raising children, no longer being a tribe. Too many for you to know them all.

A glowing city plagued by a rain of arrows. Tears sprang to Fighti’s eyes, and she was too tired to wipe them away.

“That’s how it works. Go be a good [Goblinfriend], Lord Olvos. Or go and be our enemy. It’s better for you if you try and kill us. Because if you take our side, if you’re the one person who stands up for us, they’ll kill you. Just like they tried to kill Erin. They’d rather turn seas to boiling steam and continents to glass than change. And you know what? We live. We’ll be around, even if you kill me, my entire tribe, and every baby on the continent. There’ll be the next Goblin, and she’ll rise higher. Until she’s so mad, so angry, she becomes that thing you deserve. The Goblin King.”

Fighti could see him roaring out of a good man’s soul, puppetting a body he had no right to. And then she relaxed and lay there.

“…And then a Goblin like me will fight him. Fight him and drag him screaming back to Hellste. And level. And live—until she ends up in a lovely room with some Human asking her if she’s a ‘good Goblin’. That’s how it works. A cycle, just like Chieftain Rags says. I was a good Goblin. I did everything right. I saw our future—”

Flying in the burning skies, fingers resting on the triggers. Looking around as people died, searching for a single white Gnoll in all the blood and chaos. Seeing a little red child being airlifted away. And then Fighti whispered her confession.

“The future of Goblins is only war. To live, we have to fight you people. Again and again, until we level and scare you more, so we have to fight harder. Run further. I did it better than anyone else. My reward is my great Skill. All I wanted to do was fly. Instead, I became a weapon.”

A beautiful one made of whirling metal that could roar out of the skies. Flight…but all she did was kill. For seven seconds each day. Fighti lay there, and tears blobbed out of her eyes.

“I just wanted to fly. But instead I get to be the monster you all want me to be.”

That was it. That was everything. She had gone with Chickenruler back to flying the New Lands, trying to pretend she was still the same Goblin with dreams of the future. Instead, she had gone to the future, and it had hurled back a shard of itself in her. Forged her into what was necessary.

It was only a dream. This was what was better for the tribe.

It just hurt. And she was allowed to cry. Someday, it wouldn’t be a waste of water. She’d seen it.

Fightipilota had forgotten Lord Olvos was there, really, at the end of her ranting. He was sitting there, half-shadowed, listening. Then she was embarrassed. Angry.

Lord Olvos stood up slowly with that popping sound of old joints. Which made him wince. She couldn’t see his face as he stood over her. Fighti closed her eyes.

She’d told the truth. However, the rasping of a sword in its scabbard didn’t come. The man’s voice was husky as he spoke.

“The Lantern of House Lanight is a treasure of my kingdom. A lantern carried since the days of the Kingdom of Bitorm’s founding. Lost. Not forever. It shall endure beyond you or I. It is a magical lantern without the power to save lives or harm. Merely reveal. It reveals magic, paths, truths, and some say, the quality of the soul.”

Great. She said nothing, and the man turned.

“I have often thought my kingdom relied too much on our lanterns to see by. I do not need it. I have been blinded at times, gazing into its heart. Rest well, Fightipilota. I am sorry for troubling you while you were healing.”

He turned and walked out of her rooms. Fighti stared at his back. Then she put her head back on the pillow.

So. She lived.

She didn’t laugh or say a word. She just cried a bit, then fell asleep. Dreaming of flying after a vast creature in frozen skies. Lord Olvos walked out into the streets of Nombernaught. Quietly piecing together a story from a delirious Goblin’s rantings. But he believed her.

——

The Goblin was snoring in her rooms, and no one else had come to bother her. Which was good; one of the dresser drawers moved slightly, and a little figure stretched and rubbed at his limbs.

Even for a Drowned Boy who was half-Octopus, it was a narrow, uncomfortable squeeze. He whispered into a speaking stone.

“Th’ [Lord]’s gone, Captain Therrium. Lotta talkin’ I don’t get. Sounded important. Saved it on the song crystal for ya. Them Terandrians like to yap a lot. Goblins too. You want me to follow him or lock the door?”

After a moment, he heard a negatory and sighed, then curled back up again as he closed the drawer and waited.

——

When Fightipilota woke up the next day, she found all her energy was back. She practically popped out of bed.

“Hey! I’m healed!”

Then she ran around the room in delight, stretched, scratched her itchy nose, her butt, and then sighed in relief. She stretched again, relieved to not have lost any mobility or gotten any scars from her travails. She liked scars, of course, but they ached even if they were highly decorative.

Then she went to find her friends. The hospitality of Nombernaught awaited, and Fighti had a personal date with as much seafood as she could eat.

She found Nailren and Chickenruler with Lamont, whom they’d quickly made friends with. The [Sailor] was in the calm bay of Nombernaught, showing them something he had made, or rather, remade after taking it from Wistram.

It was…a mana-powered sailboat. There was a kind of fancy, glowing battery that ran on electricity and mana and powered the craft around. Lamont had taken the battery with him when he’d escaped Wistram, and it had taken a lot of time and help from his girlfriend, Dorace, one of Doroumata’s daughters, but Nailren was taking turns with Chickenruler and sailing it around Coldcream, who was bathing in the waters.

When they saw Fighti was awake, everyone ran over, and Chickenruler punched Fighti in the shoulder.

“You idiot! Do you know how much trouble I’ve had to fix?”

She grinned as Nailren grabbed her arm.

“Any levels?”

“A few. Hey, what this? And who this?”

Lamont was a bit in awe of Fighti and shook her hand, asking about the fighter plane he’d seen. She did her best.

“What? Pssht. That—you must have been mistaken. But hey, how cool did it look? Scale of one to a hundred.”

There were other obvious Earthers with Lamont, and Drowned Folk interested in meeting the two ‘Drakes’. Fighti met Caroline, a [Writer]; Haley, who was a [Squire]; Sidney…and Captain Therrium.

The Drowned Man was some kind of famous, scary [Pirate Captain], but he gave her a nod and a shake of his hand as he stood there, arms folded. Even Lord Olvos appeared after a while, and Haley practically dashed over to him; apparently, she wanted him to take her as his [Squire]. Which he did not want to do, clearly.

It was strange. Oh, not the different people and Earthers all here. That was just like The Wandering Inn. The strange part was that everyone was being super-nice to Fighti. Nice as in ‘we think we need to treat you nice’.

She could tell the difference. No one told her to shut up, no one bossed her around like some Drakes liked to try to do, and everyone was…buttering her up. Buttering her like a piece of toast.

Fighti eventually realized what it was. It was, for the first time in her life, being an equal to these other peoples. Not in a position of superiority; Captain Therrium felt as dangerous as Rags to Fighti, and Doroumata was as scary a spellcaster as Valeterisa and seemed a lot sharper and meaner if she had to be.

Nor was Goblinhome even close to Nombernaught for grandness. But…Fighti had something they didn’t.

You can hurt us, and I could hurt you. Parity. Even if it was backed up by killing Skills and levels, it was such a surreal experience Fighti felt mighty uncomfortable.

The feeling of being a Relic-class blade. She’d get used to it. She was a bit hazy on her late-night visit from Lord Olvos, but she remembered it with keen embarrassment. She hoped she hadn’t revealed anything that would get her tribe in trouble. But…well, what was done was done.

Fighti wanted to get back to flying, even if her Skill hadn’t repaired itself enough for her to trust it. She’d conjured it this morning, and she thought it might fly. The wings were all dented inwards, and the propeller in front didn’t work, but she could probably glide it for seven seconds, and the guns might not blow up when she fired.

Good enough to get on the road, right? Well…when she suggested it, Chickenruler kicked her.

“You dumb? You wake up all of one hour and you want to leave? We resting! Your Skill can’t protect us, and Coldcream still hurty.”

Resting. Fighti protested that she and Coldcream were fine. However, both Chickenruler and Rags were adamant. Stay and rest a while; the Drowned Folk weren’t indicating their welcome was wearing out, so Fighti found herself on holiday in Nombernaught.

Again.

——

It was weird. The first time Fighti had been here, she’d loved it. But she’d been keeping a low profile and just stayed near the inn they’d been given, going to explore a few nearby streets at most.

Now, she was an esteemed guest with the run of the city, but it wasn’t as fun. Again, probably because she had nearly died dive-bombing nautiloids and maybe exploded on Olvos. She wasn’t…good.

“You just a bit Redfang-crazy. Chieftain Rags gonna have Taganchiel or Prixall talk to you when you get back.”

“Great.”

Maybe it’d help. Fighti kicked around the city, hands in her pockets, keenly aware there were so many more important things she could be doing than ‘resting’.

If she had access to Goblinhome’s engineering department, she could try to fix up her plane or work on prototypes—or just create the turret she could apparently summon at will. She was thinking an even bigger Thunderbow. With multiple kinds of projectiles.

Weapon.

—The city had a lot of access to the harbor, which you’d expect from any Drowned City. What Fighti found funny was that it had an indoor swimming area that looked like, well, a beach.

With lighting and everything. It was contained inside, and she didn’t get it until the Human [Sailor] whom Chickenruler had befriended, Lamont, explained the obvious.

“Nombernaught is usually fathoms deep, and swimming is deadly. Drowned Folk want to swim at their leisure, hence this area. During the winter, everyone saw the beach garden at The Wandering Inn, so they altered it.”

The result was some pristine damn waters, all green and lovely. Fighti saw Drowned Folk playing in the waters, even some visitors from the ships.

A kid was running past Fighti, being chased by a [Squire] with a practice sword.

“I’m getting you this time, Sidney! Avast, you lily-livered landlubber!”

The shrieking girl was part of a group of kids fleeing the big, bad Human with a sword. They dove into the water, then pelted the [Squire] with mudballs, and Haley threw up her shield.

“Hey, no mudballs! No—”

Someone inked her with a long-range spit-shot, and she spluttered. Lamont pointed them out.

“That’s Haley and Sidney. I’m part of a little group here—we’re sort of earning our way in Nombernaught. Fighti, right? Chickenruler said you like vehicles. I have a mana-powered sailboat if you wanted to try it…”

“Pass.”

Chickenruler elbowed Fightipilota hard, but she was just sitting, staring at the waters. Too moody to want to check out that awesome-sounding thing. She was, in fact, so determined not to have any fun that she was being snappish to everyone.

Including Coldcream, who was helping to make ice cream on the beach in exchange for a cut of the spoils. He wanted to snuggle her; she pushed his head away. That nearly earned her the boot of justice from Chickenruler until someone sat next to her.

“Get lost, Lord Olvos.”

She turned her head, glared—and Captain Therrium Sailwinds was sitting there in full captain’s regalia. He fit the beach about as well as Shadeward Doroumata would have.

“Healed up, Miss?”

“Yeah, thanks. Not in the mood to chat.”

“Fair enough.”

The Drowned Man nodded at her and went back to scrutinizing the people bathing. Fighti appreciated that. She’d heard that Captain Therrium was a dangerous [Pirate], but he had a stoic attitude she needed at this moment. Rather like Redfangs.

——

Captain Therrium cursed internally. He knew he should have sent one of his underlings to soften the Goblin up, but no one could tell she was a Goblin but him and the Shadeward. Maybe a few of the [Captains], but—

Well, what in the depths was he supposed to say to re-open the conversation? He sat there, glowering into the sea, until someone oohed.

“Oh my goodness. Captain Therrium? I never see you at the beach! And our dashing Drake heroine? You make an amazing duo.”

His heart sank as he recognized that voice. Half the Drowned Folk playing around had spotted her and were fleeing the area. It took something to be feared in Nombernaught, a city of [Pirates]. But she was that feared. He rose, trepidatious despite himself.

“Stow that quill, Writer Caroline. That’s our guest. I won’t have you making up doggrel about her.”

The [Romance Writer] gave Therrium what she probably thought was an innocent look.

“Who, me? I’m just making observations, Captain! About the grumpy man with a heart like a shell. Who never socializes, never smiles unless it’s at treasure. And the one person he chose to greet—hello, Miss! I’m Caroline, sort of a famous writer. And you are?”

Fightipilota glanced up at Caroline and moved some wet sand around with her claws.

“Not interested. I’ve had it up to here with you people. Get lost.”

Therrium’s brows rose. Caroline faltered.

“Hey, does that mean Humans?”

“No, just your type. You’re not special, and unless you made this beach yourself, I’m not interested. Plus, you don’t want to write about me or whatever.”

Fighti said that with utterly misplaced confidence. Because Caroline edged closer, peering at Fighti.

“I don’t know. I think my class is telling me I absolutely want to get to know you better.”

Amazing. Therrium’s eyebrow rose despite himself. Was Caroline’s insane class actually overcoming the illusion-Skill the Goblin had? That was an amazing edge use-case for her class, but Fighti’s flat look met Caroline’s dancing eyes—a second before she nailed the [Romance Writer] with a mudball.

“Aaah! My eyes!”

Down Caroline went. Fighti lifted a second mudball.

“Beat it. You’re as bad as Arnie. Okay, almost as bad.”

——

Caroline had dropped her notepad and quill and fumbled to save them from the waters.

“You’re awful! Haley! Haley, did you see that? Protect me! What about chivalry? Don’t you dare laugh! See if I write anything about—”

She turned to shake a fist at Fighti, then stopped dead. She stared at the little Goblin who had replaced the Drake in her vision. After all, Fighti had just thrown a mudball in her face. Caroline’s jaw dropped.

“No. Way. Oh my—”

She began edging away, taking notes as fast as she could write. Especially because Captain Therrium was smiling and offering Fighti a drink.

——

“Anyone who hits that nuisance is a friend in my book. Here.”

Drowned Folk drank all the time. Much like [Storm Sailors], they didn’t believe in waiting until the evening to drink; in fact, Therrium objected to the practice.

“Drinking in the night ruins your sleep. You start early.”

“Hey, I like that. Guess you’re better than talking to those Humans after all. So what do you want?”

Fighti was still being direct. Captain Therrium drank deeply from his cup, filled it again.

“Cultivating relationships with useful people in the New Lands.”

“Oh, cool. My city and yours can be good allies. You can leave the bottle.”

He paused, then leaned over the cup and grabbed Fighti’s jacket and dragged her closer.

“I am thankful for your actions, woman. But mind me, there’s respect among equals; we were that. Some from you wouldn’t go amiss.”

The Goblin bared her teeth, ready to say something he’d regret. She picked up a mudball, and then there was a voice.

“Oooh.”

Both Fighti and Therrium turned, and Caroline threw up her arms and fled as both hurled mudballs at her. Therrium looked disgruntled as he leaned back.

“That woman is a menace. People read what she writes, so she has half the [Captains] walking scared of her. The other half welcome it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ve seen crazier.”

“You must have been at Liscor, then. Seen other folk like her?”

It was a probing comment from the [Captain] who was probably sharp and dangerous. Fighti took down the rest of her wine and shoved her cup at him.

“Listen. I don’t know anything worth stealing. I just visit the inn sometimes and eat their pastrami sandwiches, which are excellent. There’s your intel.”

“A contact with access to the center of Izril’s worth having. What’s your price?”

“Higher than whatever you’ve got.”

His eye flashed again, and Fighti tilted her head. For some reason, she felt like he was familiar, despite him being the only Drowned Man she’d really talked to besides…

“Wait what’s your name again?”

“Therrium Sailwinds. Captain of the Passing Shadow.”

“Huh. Small world. Do you know Seborn Sailwinds? He’s a Gold-ranker who stayed at the inn a lot. I liked him.”

Therrium blinked in genuine astonishment. He sat back.

“Seborn? He’s my second-son. A fool who fled to land and—he stayed at that inn? I knew he was around Pallass.”

“You’re Seborn’s dad?”

It…sort of fit? He was half-Eel, but some of his features were the same. The scowl looked right. Therrium and Fighti sized each other up again, this time with more interest.

“Is Seborn still in Liscor? He might be useful after all, though I’d rather you between the two. I’m a straightforwards man. I’ll make you an offer for information and a hand in the right place, nothing that compromises your loyalties.”

Fighti grinned. Rags had said she was allowed to let herself be bought off, but she’d never thought it’d actually happen.

“Wow, my first bribery. I get a free drink back home. You should have asked Seborn. He’s way more useful. And probably easier to bribe. What, you didn’t talk to him for…two years?”

“He forswore my crew and abandoned his post. Claims I owe him—bah, he’s entitled. He’s run his mouth about my ‘debts’ on television no less. If I owe him anything, it’s after I beat him senseless. Let’s not talk about him.”

“What? I like talking about him. You sound like my dad.”

That threw Therrium twice. He eyed Fighti.

“Your…father?”

“Oh, yeah. My real dad, not the one who got my mother pregnant. He’d toss you off a cliff and make you climb back up to get tough. Got a lot of my brothers and sisters killed, after betraying his team, and then nearly got everyone else killed for his selfishness. Died well, though, so I guess there’s that.”

…Was this a compliment or an insult? Captain Therrium had no idea, so he filled Fighti’s cup.

“I treat my sons like my crews: equally according to merit.”

“Oh, so you play favorites like my dad. I was never that important to him either.”

She beamed at him, and now Therrium grew really uncomfortable. He snapped.

“If Seborn’s in Liscor, I’ll make him an offer, then—”

“What? No, he’s gone. Left after all his team died. Most of them. Fought a huge Hag Queen. Didn’t run. The last half-Giant of Izril died, but he didn’t. Even my family thought it was a sad story. The Winter Solstice.”

“—Hag Queen? I saw some of the Winter Solstice, but Draugr—how tough is one of them? Are they really Gold-rank threats? What possessed him to risk his neck there?”

Fighti lay back on the beach.

“I’m drunk. What’s in this wine?”

“It’s fortified.”

“With what?”

“Rum. Go back to the Winter Solstice. No, wait. His team. He was running with some damn misfits, wasn’t he? Outcasts. Half-Freaks? They weren’t a good Gold-rank team, or so I h—”

Fighti kicked Therrium in the chest. She executed a somersault axe kick to his chest, and he stared at her.

“Don’t talk bad about that team. My dad joined them.”

“Hit me again and I will break that leg.”

Drunkenly, Fighti raised her fists and squared off with Therrium as Lamont and Chickenruler paled and began wading towards her. She glared.

“Your son—you don’t know him. You don’t know me. So you’re coming in with all these little gifts. Money. Hah. You weren’t there. Seborn could get me to waste any fleet he wants. You couldn’t get me to piss in a bottle. Except that one. I need to use the restroom.”

She took a swing at him, and he dodged it effortlessly. Therrium stood with a snarl.

“I’m no [Deckhand] to be spoken down to. I warn you once in good faith—”

She kicked sand at him. Captain Therrium grabbed her and lifted her up by one leg, upside-down, and felt his [Dangersense] go off. He stared at her as the drunk Fighti grinned at him, and he hesitated.

How the hell did my son meet these strange Goblins? Then someone poked him from behind. He swung around, snarling—

——

Sidney had a stick. She backed up when Therrium came around, but when he saw the girl’s face, he dropped Fighti.

“Girl. That hurts.”

Therrium ameliorated his tone only very slightly for the girl, but he did do it. It was a bad look to shout at a child, much less one whose story was known across Nombernaught. The [Survivor] backed up, trembling, and Therrium threw up a hand. Her lip was quivering dangerously.

“Don’t cry, damn it. Stop wailing or I’ll have half the crews annoying mine. Here. Have a drink.”

He held out a wine cup, and Sidney hesitated. It was a new Earther who strode forwards and slapped the cup out of Therrium’s eel-hand. He sighed.

I am going to make an example of one of this lot one day. However, this young woman he was also reluctant to war with. Because Malia was actually useful.

You didn’t mess with a [Thought Healer], so he glared at her. She glared back.

“Captain Therrium, you don’t offer wine to children!”

“Why not? It works.”

His reply stumped her long enough for him to pick up his bottle—it was too good to be left behind—and go stomping out of the beach. This was a pointless endeavor with the pests around.

Malia glared at him, then turned to the drunk Fightipilota.

“Miss? Miss Fighti?”

“Oh great, you’re multiplying. Shoo. I don’t want whatever it is. No, I’m not a pet, I don’t want to be bribed, I’m not telling you what it was, and I don’t want to hang out. Does that cover it?”

Fighti glared at the Earther, but Malia just put her hands behind her back.

“Miss…I’m very sorry to interrupt, but my class was telling me that I might be of use to you? I’m Malia, a [Thought Healer].”

She was new to her class and not trained, at least from Earth, but everything about Fighti screamed that Malia needed to talk to her. Well, a lot of people in Nombernaught had some kind of issue that’d benefit from time with a therapist. [Sailors] who’d seen too much at sea, Drowned Folk reconciling their taking of the Sea’s Gift or the form it took, all of Doroumata’s daughters…

Fighti blinked at Malia. Then pointed at her face.

“Me? I’m great. Couldn’t be better. Compared to the average person in my society, I’m amazing.”

Whether or not that was true, Malia had no idea. But before she could talk Fighti into coming to her office, the Drake took two steps forwards, then fell face-first into the sand.

Malia and Sidney turned, and Captain Therrium checked the bottle he had brought out. He grunted.

“Landlubbers.”

No ability to hold their alcohol.

——

Fighti’s head hurt like hell when she woke up with a sunburn, until they got her something for the hangover and the burn. That aside, she supposed she didn’t mind the Earthers—once she was sober, and a day or two of lazing by the beach did help.

Chickenruler and Nailren were sailing with Lamont out in the bay. They had invited Fighti, but she really did prefer to just rest at the moment. Assuming she actually got rest with all the unwanted company. Not just Drowned Folk wanting to thank her or chat, either.

Captain Therrium didn’t plague her again, but Lord Olvos did show up. Not just for her. He seemed to make a point of playing with Sidney, who took to the grandfatherly…grandfather who was all Human.

So did Haley, a [Squire] clearly enamored with Lord Olvos that he seemed to want nothing to do with. It was like a Hob trying to get rid of a clingy Goblin, which amused Fighti.

They had a few words over the time she spent there, mostly fending off the persistent Malia, and just recovering a bit more. Not about her nature or what had happened. Mostly, amusingly, Malia.

“Is she harassing you as well? She insists I visit her for ‘therapy’.”

“What’s that?”

“Lying in an office on a couch, discussing my feelings, and processing my grief. Telling her how I feel.”

Fighti made a gagging sound. Lord Olvos nodded.

“I have lost…everything. What need have I to explain it?”

“It’s for healing!”

Malia shouted, exasperated. Fighti had bribed Coldcream, and the Frost Wyvern was licking on a giant popsicle she’d had made and keeping Malia back with his tail. Every time she tried to run around, he’d just lumber over and block her with his body. Fighti called back.

“Who wants healing? Scars sexier. Sometimes, it’s better to bleed out!”

That stumped the young woman so much that she stood there until Coldcream flicked her into the surf. Lord Olvos nodded to Fightipilota.

“One should bear the grief and guilt.”

“Yep. Sadder the better. More weight.”

They nodded at each other, then both eyed the other and glanced away to Malia, who was swimming back towards them. Fighti coughed.

“Why didn’t you leave the New Lands?”

“It felt like giving up all that had been lost here. My granddaughter I was glad to see go. I will not return home. I will die here.”

Lord Olvos sat, wearing a button-up shirt and long pants, since beachwear was against his Terandrian sensibilities. Fighti opened her mouth.

Darn, looks like our killing the Sword Crabs didn’t fix him. Eh, it doesn’t, really. But was him wanting to die…? She coughed.

“Sounds like your granddaughter would be real sad if you died.”

“I don’t intend to if I can help it. I simply shall not go back. Not until I find something here. Something worth it all. If I do not, I will end here, as is fitting. An unmarked grave or none at all befits the failure of House Lanight.”

…Maybe he did need to talk to Malia. Fighti said as much.

“You sure you don’t need to speak to her?”

“I’m not the one who dove into the center of a nautiloid swarm.”

“Hey! I heard you were jousting them!”

“I had a Skill. You are young. You clearly need help more than I do.”

“I didn’t try to lance Sword Crabs for half a week! You go talk to her!”

“I am not in need of her services.”

“Well, neither am I.”

Both glared at each other. Malia, trying to edge around Coldcream, saw the Drake and [Lord] fighting, shoving each other towards her. She eyed them, then smiled and let them continue fighting.

Making friends was part of her therapy.

——

In the end, they had to go simply by expedience; when Fighti summoned her plane in secret one day and it was able to get off the ground, she knew they would make the flight back. So she told Chickenruler.

It wasn’t easy to just depart, though. Shadeward Doroumata was actually one of the biggest objectors. She had been seeing to the repairs of Nombernaught and was very unhappy not to have talked to Fighti longer.

“We would like to host you far longer, as you deserve. It is clear your city of Floodwaters could be a valuable ally. On behalf of Nombernaught, I invite you to stay.”

Doroumata was a keen observer, but, uh, her best overtures of friendship were still more scary than welcoming. As for Therrium, he seemed like his face hurt when he tried to smile. He hadn’t tried to make nice after the beach incident, but he also agreed they should stay.

It was Nailren who bailed Fighti and Chickenruler out of the issue.

“I believe these two must report back, but as they do visit Nombernaught regularly, I asked to be taken with them. I trust I am not intruding in your city, Drowned Folk? Your generosity is mighty, and I would like to present gifts, if now is appropriate.”

Doroumata hesitated and blinked at Nailren as Therrium sighed.

“Yes, gifts. From a Gnoll, we accept, of course. We have no bad blood between us and the tribes. We shall reciprocate.”

He clearly expected to exchange some meaningless trinkets. When Nailren produced his map, Therrium’s eyes locked on it.

“You have a map of the New Lands?”

“Just one section of it and some observations about the New Lands. For instance, the phenomenon of ghosts, yes? And places where plants grow. I would gladly gift this to the Drowned Folk. Would you share anything you have learned?”

Doroumata shot a quick glance at Therrium, and then she smiled at Nailren.

“A capable [Explorer] indeed. This is not the venue for this. A ship’s deck—or pub, in Nombernaught. We must have you with drink in hand before you tell us your exploits.”

“Eh, it not that much—”

Chickenruler began before Fightipilota and Nailren elbowed him. Then the [Wyvern Rider] clearly realized he could get free drinks and shut up.

——

That was how Fighti found herself in a room with no less than three hundred [Captains], [First Mates], and just interested Drowned Folk, drinking and telling them what she’d seen. It wasn’t so formal as a speech; people did go respectfully quiet, but there was a murmur of voices. And there was a ‘lobster’, all buttered, she ate as Nailren and Chickenruler helped talk.

“So you’ve seen more explorers? We’ve seen few that made it this far west! But a few—yes, a few of our folk who sailed across the coastlines have met others.”

A [Captain] with a jaunty hat called out as she drained half a mug. Nailren’s ears perked up.

“Which ones did you meet? We ran into starving Drakes as well as others who had endured hardship well enough. Many are suffering even close to the border of the New Lands.”

He described the Silver Swords’ plight, then the Pallassians, and the Drowned Folk muttered. The female Captain was half-Shark and spat some foam onto the floor.

“Landfolk. We’ve kept to where we can fish or stocked up going inland. All that damn rock and sand…it hurts the feet! We’ll remember that ere we go. As for who we met? Well, we ran into a curious group of Drakes! Not like the bastards we feared—”

Someone nudged her, because more of said Drakes were sitting there. The [Captain] flushed.

“I meant—not Walled City Drakes like those of Zeres! These were friendly as could be! Sat on ponies and had slings. They were Yodellers, the lot!”

Nailren grinned.

“You mean Yoldenites.”

“Aye, that sounds right!”

There was general laughter, and someone tossed a cup at the [Captain] who was such a poor narrator of events. But then Nailren stood up.

“I do have a story for all those present, one almost as serious as the hunger and privation in the New Lands. There is danger and death. But you know that, surely. I must warn you, though, as I consider the Drowned Folk friends, though I cannot not speak for my people. As an explorer, one who would call your people friend—let me tell you a story of ghosts. It is no false tale, before you laugh. I have some small proof.”

There was a gleam in his eyes, and the Drowned Folk obligingly listened. Nailren was clever; Fighti grinned as she saw [Captains] rolling their eyes, but Shadeward Doroumata lowered the light levels in the room, giving it a spooky ambiance. Everyone listened to Nailren’s tale of hauntings, which was a good ghost story, but clearly, many thought it was an exaggeration.

Which was why Nailren didn’t reveal the presence of Spoony until the end of his tale. She had been having a grand time blowing cold air across people’s backs or moving utensils around subtly. But when he theatrically reached for a drink to wet his throat, she lifted the tankard and brought it over to him.

Jaws dropped, and every head turned to Doroumata. When she shook her head, indicating that was no magic—Fightipilota saw veterans of the sea go dead white or toss salt over their shoulders. They reached for lucky trinkets, and she realized—seafolk were very superstitious.

They were also a bit of romantics at heart. Fighti’s description of hungry Drake children had half the room swearing at the idiot Drakes of Pallass, the other half tearing up.

Bloodthirsty [Pirates] were soft as kittens after three drinks or so, and there was something here that reminded her of Nailren. A feeling of a people yearning for a great adventure.

When Nailren described the tower they’d seen, or the other landmarks, hinting of great adventure, the Drowned Folk sat up.

“The Crossroads of Izril exist! To the krakens with caution! I’ll take my crew on land and damn hunger or danger! No disrespect to Nombernaught, but we’re losing our march on landfolk to caution!”

The [Captain] of Salt’s Bath stood up after the sixth round or so, and a furious argument broke out over ‘crewing together’ to make sure they had a hold on this area, or going it alone to find what was out there. Other Drowned Folk came over to ask Fighti how dangerous she really thought it was out there, or if Nailren had heard about the attack on the Adventurer’s Haven.

Drowned Folk didn’t have much experience with land-based undead, so they couldn’t judge how dangerous such monsters were. But mostly…

They wanted to know about The Wandering Inn. And who should be there to explain that and make introductions but the most self-satisfied little witch in the world.

Nanette Weishart had a cup of goat’s milk in hand, and while Mrsha appeared twice, the little witch was allowed to stay up late and speak to the fascinated Drowned Folk.

“Fightipilota, you’re so lucky to see the New Lands. I can’t even leave the inn without supervision. And Captain Nailren’s seen so much—you know, no one’s got any idea of what’s happening in the New Lands? Most people aren’t sure where their friends have gone.”

Nailren sombered, and Fighti bit her tongue. The Gnoll spoke gravely.

“Many groups are lost. I saw an entire room in Goisedall devoted to searching for the missing. This is not a safe land, no, Nanette. But I will be back to it the moment we leave. I cannot quit, you see. I suppose I’m cursed.”

He turned, flashing a toothy grin, and the Drowned Folk probably fell a bit in love with that damn Gnoll. Fighti certainly did for the spirit of a Redfang she saw in his fearless spirit. And Nanette’s eyes shone. She glanced at Doroumata and Therrium, and the two older leaders of Drowned Folk watched the younger generation sailing towards danger with a kind of forlorn envy. Remembering something they had once embraced wholeheartedly.

——

—Of course, they began to sing after that. It began with the Drowned Folk asking Nailren to teach them his people’s song. That was how Fightipilota, Chickenruler, a drunk Coldcream poking his head through a window, Nailren, Nanette, and a room full of Drowned Folk sang Great Plains Sing.

Then—the Drowned Folk taught Fightipilota their song. Land’s Farewell.

“I slipped off the deck, and there I drowned

Now I will never leave her

We left land to be born at sea

And we’ll never truly leave her…”

Fighti hadn’t known that the Drowned Folk had a song like that. She sang with a chorus of hundreds, filling the echoing ship’s hull turned into a pub, and the song spread into the street as Drowned Folk stopped carousing or going about their business. They turned and joined in, turning their faces up to sing that anthem of their people.

The [Fighter Pilot] turned to Chickenruler as they sang, and both Goblins’ faces were filled with a curious emotion.

Envy. They wished, in that moment, they had a song to share that defined their people. Something they could sing as one. Fighti took another drink, and the courage burned its way down to her stomach. Then she sang louder.

——

Those damn Goblins weren’t so bad. True, Captain Therrium had a splitting headache the next morning, but he just took some Hangover Tonic and was right as rain.

“So you’re flying back to the New Lands, eh? Well, for all the materials you’re welcome in Nombernaught. For bailing us out when we were under siege, you’re at least honored guests three more times.”

He was straight-faced as he went to see the two odd Goblins off the next day. Luminary Hisark winced, but Therrium believed in delivering the real value of a favor, not some namby-pampy about ‘always grateful’.

Fighti grinned at him.

“Lilbrasi—our boss—probably wants to hold onto any favors or use them later. So we gotta pay for drinks next time. But we’ll bring more metal and stuff. You got a wish list?”

“Steel’s fine. But if you have anything better, or glue, good glue—”

Therrium rattled off a list, and she nodded. Plenty of busybodies were also hanging around, [Captains] who were too damn busy to help around the city but wanted to talk to the exciting explorers and fliers. Therrium pointedly ignored their attempts to break into the conversation until someone sidled up behind him.

“Eh, Captain Therrium. Got something for you.”

“What? I’m talking to our guests.”

He glared at Etaiv; there was such a thing as courtesy, even with [Pirates]! But the [First Mate] was excited. She handed him something, and Therrium read.

His brows shot up. He handed the note back to Etaiv.

“No. That’s stupid.”

“I swear I double-checked it, Captain. It’s no joke!”

He saw Nailren glance over as Fightipilota supervised the loading up of her Wyvern. She was taking mostly seafood back since her people apparently loved it and the Chest of Holding could preserve the fat tuna, swordfish, and other choice cuts. But Therrium was distracted.

“This is the biggest damn news…and we can’t do a thing about it because I have to serve as Captain of the City!”

He cursed and almost crumbled the ball of paper up. The news would reach everyone soon, and he just bet Rasea would take the Illuminary and go hunting. He hadn’t heard from that menace in a while, actually…she was probably plotting her next big adventure.

“Anything interesting, Captain Therrium Guy?”

Fighti grinned at him, visibly curious. He was about to tell her it was none of her damn business when he reconsidered. If he couldn’t have it, he might as well curry some goodwill. So he glanced at Nailren, triggered a spell on one of his rings, and beckoned the trio over.

“This is fresh intelligence my crews picked up. No good to me since I can’t take my ship out and hunt—but since we’re all friends and allies here, I’ll cut you in on the action. You just remember that. And if you ever want a place on a crew, Fightipilota, I’ll offer you a good position.”

Her eyes lit up, and she laughed.

“Eh, you wouldn’t like me when you get to know me.”

He met her eyes.

“I like what I see so far.”

Especially the flying fighter plane or whatever the hell that was. She hesitated, and he nodded to himself. Easier to charm than the damn Isle of Goblins lot. He’d remember that and put a word in Doroumata’s ear. After all, what benefited Nombernaught benefited him. Too many of the other Underseas Crews didn’t get what this could mean for them all. Anyways, he proffered the piece of paper.

“This is from our contacts, which means it’s so fresh it’s still moving. No one else will know…for now. But by the time we can sail out, it’ll be public knowledge. If you share it, best do it now while it’s real value. Here’s the catch: you remember that Village of the Dead raid?”

Fighti tilted her head, and Nailren nodded.

“Of course.”

“Remember, eh, that damn auction where items were being sold for ludicrous sums? The thing that won it all, the two million-gold bounty.”

“The Helm of Fire.”

Nailren’s eyes fixed on the piece of paper. Therrium grinned with savage irony; he’d bid on that damn helm himself and been sorely mad when it was taken.

“It’s missing. It never reached Chandrar and the Emperor of Sands. Damn thing is in the New Lands.”

There was silence, and Fighti raised a hand.

“Er, I forget what that—”

“No.”

Nailren was visibly shaken. But Captain Therrium was chuckling even as he clenched his eel-hand.

“Oh yes. Think about it. When the Helm of Fire was bid on, that was two and a half million gold pieces that couldn’t be teleported to the Emperor of Sands. All in the form of a tiny little helmet.”

That confused Nailren, and he tilted his head, remembering the dossiers he liked to study.

“Doesn’t the Emperor of Sands have a Skill that allows him to transport things across the world instantly?”

Therrium appreciated a smart man and nodded, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Aye, so he does. But d’you think he was keen on dropping anchor on that much money in a single transaction?”

Knowing what he did of kingdoms and treasuries, Nailren would have been astonished if even the Chandrarian empire had that much to spend in a single moment. He bared his teeth.

“Ah, so he must have paid in installments.”

“Very traditional, but it means the Helm had to come without Skill, and without Skill, you can’t transport Relic-grade magic easy. Too far, and the Archmage of Memory didn’t have his precious new teleportation spells up. So that meant a ship, a Courier. With every [Thief] in the world knowing its value? Even the Courier of Izril would have been dead after ten miles if she were in her prime.”

That made sense. Nailren nodded, eyes flicking left and right.

“So what did the Merchant’s Guild do? Ah—they must have held onto it.”

“Right. Held onto it, sent out decoys, and bided their time until they could send the right ship that no one was looking hard at. The Emperor of Sands probably said he had it and then they’d slide it over, nice and easy. Well, here’s the thing: the ship never got there.”

Fighti grinned.

“Ooh. Someone jumped it? Didn’t know what they got?”

Therrium was chuckling darkly.

“Even better. You’d think that, but I bet the Merchant’s Guild had more [Assassins] and high-level [Guards] on that ship than you could match with anything but one of my ships. It was heading straight for Chandrar, disguised as some normal ship. Only thing is, we know which ships are the Merchant’s Guild’s finest, even in disguise. This one was called the Magnificent Oyster.”

Nailren groaned.

“Oh no, I’ve heard of that one. It’s such a terrible play-on-words.”

Etaiv rolled her eyes, but with great anticipation.

“[Merchants] just have to tell you what’s up. They think they’re so clever. Tell them the rest, Captain.”

Therrium strung them out just a second more and then smiled.

“Just before winter ended last year, the Oyster left harbor and came down from the north, hugging the coastline on the western edge. Normal routes these days, and safe enough if you skirt the Hivelands. It was going along, casual as you please, with none of us the wiser when something happened. The only reason it’s news now is because the Magnificent Oyster was declared destroyed.”

“Destroyed? So that means the Helm of Fire’s sunk.”

Fighti protested, but Nailren was thinking.

“No…if it was stolen, the Merchant’s Guild would have put a hell of a bounty out, and the Empire of Sands would be furious. They may already be furious, but they didn’t announce it, nor did anyone advertise the fact the Relic was stolen, which they might. No one said a word. Which meant a Kraken got it or…”

He stared at the piece of paper. Then at Therrium, and his eyes narrowed.

“Wait. Where was the ship when it was destroyed?”

With a flourish, Captain Therrium pointed, and every head turned.

“It was sailing out over yonder. Casual as you please when one’ve the Bloodtear Pirates ships hit it. I bet they didn’t know what they had. Nor did they take the Oyster down; the fighting sunk the Bloodtear’s ship. But the Oyster was damned too, and where could it land as it sank?”

Fighti, Chickenruler, and Nailren turned…and they stared at the New Lands of Izril. Therrium could just imagine it. Bloodtear Pirates—was it when they were mustering for the attack on the Terandrians? Or just chance?

It didn’t matter. He went on, voice low, even merry.

“Now, the Oyster landed with crew and cargo intact. That’s certain. The Merchant’s Guild, doubtless, sent a transport ship to pick up cargo, but you’d head inland after a rough landing, to avoid Bloodtear reinforcements if any were about. Here’s the thing: neither the Oyster’s crew, nor the transport which landed to search for them ever left the New Lands. They vanished. Setting up camp? Trying to get to civilization? Or did the crew think to take the treasure and scarper?”

He thought he knew what had killed them, though. The land itself. He chuckled as Fighti’s jaw dropped. So, Therrium pointed.

“The Magnificent Oyster’s somewhere out there. And the Merchant’s Guild must have been searching, but they just posted this very casually.”

He showed them the note. It was a bounty, a decently-sized one, for anyone who spotted a certain object in the New Lands.

The Magnificent Oyster. What a name. And like that—Nailren’s eyes lit up.

“It’s there.”

“Ripe for the taking. If you find it. If you find it and it’s not still guarded, or there aren’t trap spells on it. If you know to look for it.”

Therrium was thinking. Who might run into such a shipwreck and not know where to look? The Merchant’s Guild was counting on people coming back from the New Lands, none the wiser, but his people had put two and two together. If he understood what they’d been transporting…

Fighti’s eyes lit up.

“Maybe we’ll see it when we fly back! We can see a lot from the air!”

“I bet they sent Djinni. Unless the New Lands kills them. Fliers and vision spells, certainly. It must not be visible, or maybe something covered it. Either way…I’ll pass along the information. I know a tribe who might figure out something. Thank you, Captain Therrium.”

The man waved it off.

“In a month’s time, we’ll search for it as well, but it’s no good to us here. I’ll pass it on to the [Captains] whom I respect. It’s a race, and may anyone but fools win. Anything else before you head off?”

Fighti was hesitating.

“Um, well, we’re going back…and you’ve given us lots of good food. Like the tuna. Especially the tuna. I’ll eat half of it, and I know my tr—people will love it. But—”

Everyone turned to her, and she was staring back the way they’d come.

“Maybe…maybe we won’t get any tuna back to Floodwaters. And if we do, I mean…we have one Chest of Holding, but you’ve got magic. And Coldcream can carry a lot. So maybe…could we take more stuff? For a bit of the favor?”

Therrium frowned.

“You can have as much fish as you want; it’s not like it’s in short supply. But most containers will break before you get to the other side of the New Lands, right?”

She nodded.

“Yah. But the people who might need it, they’d get it.”

Captain Therrium stood there, utterly blank, as Nailren grinned, suddenly, and Nanette clapped her hands and went to air-hug Fighti. Chickenruler grinned, and even old Doroumata gave a nod of great approval. Therrium didn’t get it, even when the other [Captains] did and raced off to grab the best and most appropriate things for the effort. Someone had to explain to him and Etaiv what Fightipilota meant.

After all—they were [Pirates].

[Pirates] didn’t do charity.

——

There were many reasons to do it. Goodness. But if that didn’t appeal to a certain [Depth Captain], then other good reasons.

For one—style. Or just politics. What told people you were rich in the one thing they wanted—food—than a delivery like this? It put you on the map, it didn’t cost you much, and…

It was a good story. That sold Captain Therrium most of all, so that was how Fightipilota and Chickenruler took yet another detour. They flew back the way they’d come, and the groups that had seen them before saw the lone Frost Wyvern flying again.

“There they are! Hey! Heeeeey! Down here!”

Lorent looked up as Pallassians went pounding out of their tents. They were shouting for Garuda to get up; the Frost Wyvern wasn’t landing, instead flying straight over their camp! Garuda darted up, but half were slow, and the ones that went up came screaming back down.

“They’re not stopping!”

“What? Didn’t they get anything to trade? Order them to come down!”

The Drake [Expedition Leader] was panicking. Lorent carefully sharpened a dagger and saw the people waving, screaming upwards.

It is not their job to save us. Any more than it was the Wings of Pallass’. The [Sharpener] nicked his fingers in a moment of distraction and watched the blood dripping onto the whetstone. He glanced up, once, as a little Drake girl clutching a dagger in the way a Goblin had showed her stared upwards.

And…he remembered that Gnoll had been at The Wandering Inn. The [Sharpener] thought of the [Innkeeper] he was still proud to have given a working knife. He thought of the kind of people that Erin Solstice loved.

Perhaps that was why, as the Pallassians went running after the Frost Wyvern, screaming and begging and then cursing the departing Wyvern, it was Lorent who glanced up again. On nothing but familiarity. Friendship. Faith, of a kind.

So it was he who saw something drifting down slowly. The [Sharpener] carefully put down his dagger and got up. It was…

A strange object. He didn’t understand it, at first, until he thought to the icon of Pallass.

“The Flying Gnoll. The Wind Runner.”

The white canvas was being pulled up as air caught in the parachute, arresting the descent of the object it was attached to. A simple, beautiful contraption designed by a [Fighter Pilot].

And what did this parachute bring down into the center of the Pallassian camp? Why, nothing but a single object carefully balanced by cords.

A…chest. A treasure chest, really, with that old barnacle look on half-rusted metal, because Drowned Folk loved the appearance of such things.

Lorent was first to reach it. But one of the children had also spotted the chest and ran over. He squatted down as the Drake girl stuck a claw in her mouth.

[Thumbclaw: Minor Nourishment]. A [Survivor]’s Skill. Lorent glanced at her wide eyes, and he read what was on the chest. Then he lifted it. The [Sharpener] grunted, and the girl gasped softly, the only sound she’d made in a long time.

“Chest of Holding.”

But the magic…Lorent stared up at the Wyvern, then over his shoulder.

“It’ll run out of magic soon. Call everyone back. We need to unload it before it explodes.”

He told the girl, and she ran. But then she darted back to stare at the chest, and Lorent gazed skywards. He wondered…how many more such chests the Frost Wyvern was carrying. Could you carry that many without them exploding? But surely, they’d found a way. Because he doubted they were the only ones.

After all, there was a note too. As Pallassians came running back, they stopped and stared at the contents of the magic chest.

It was filled with food. Seafood, mostly, but also supplies. Fish oil, salt, everything that Drowned Folk could easily produce. Even fish bones; apparently, you could make a bread out of it, and it was fairly nutritious and good in soup stocks.

A bounty of food for the hungry. Lorent sat back on his heels and let out a breath he’d been holding for months. Just for a second, then he went back to his dagger and began sharpening it. They couldn’t lose their edge. But…

——

The note. The note did all the explaining.

Of course, Fightipilota and Chickenruler could have just landed and handed over a chest without needing a note. But they might have feared being mugged for the rest of what Coldcream was carrying.

More likely, the two Goblins were just far too shy and embarrassed to accept the gratitude personally. The message was written on each chest, though they’d customized this particular one for the Pallassians.

Just one amusing thing. Due to the way the chests had been rushed out, Captain Therrium had tasked a [Scribe] with writing all the notes, which they’d done and gotten things 99% right. It was just that when they’d come to names, they’d heard ‘Chickenruler’, and well—names being names, this was the result.

To the explorers of the New Lands:

Nombernaught delivers a gift from its harbors. The Drowned City waits on the southwest of the New Lands. Come to trade, stay as friends. This gift is made to all with goodwill as the only price. 

On behalf of Shadeward Doroumata, Luminary Hisark, the City Captain, and the City of Floodwaters by Fighterpiloty, [Explorer] Nailren, and the Ruler of Chickens, we wish you fortune and success.

PS: If there are children in danger, send them to our safer harbors or we’ll keelhaul the lot of you if they die.

——

It was pretty funny to realize Goblins were too shy to accept being lauded for a noble act. No one had thought of it. A city of intelligent people and Fightipilota was the one person who’d thought to feed hungry people.

It wasn’t hilarious, but Nailren had chuckled about it. He didn’t think it mandated eighteen minutes of nonstop laughter, let alone the third time it happened. But then, he wasn’t the older Human man pointing at Fightipilota’s red ears and laughing.

Lord Olvos Lanight kept laughing, even when Chickenruler and Fightipilota began to huck things at him. Yet, the two embarrassed Goblins didn’t seem to realize that it wasn’t really just amusement that had the old man in stitches.

To Nailren’s ears, there was a note of hysteria in the laughter that had nothing to do with the heights. The old [Lord] was wheezing for breath. Laughing. Like someone having a nervous breakdown.

Perhaps, because he had insisted, begged to be taken along, to see…something.

What? Had he expected to see Fighti and Chickenruler dump all the food in a pile and fly off the moment they were out of sight of Nombernaught?

Nailren wasn’t sure, but he thought the obvious truth had broken something in the old man. Like someone who had tried to test the obvious, again and again, and been forced to acknowledge that reality was not what he had believed it to be…Lord Olvos lay there, weakly, staring down at the New Lands of Izril.

Nailren leaned over to Fightipilota, who was grumbling as she sat, red-faced.

“Stupid old man. We should have left him.”

“I think this is good for him. Well, in a way. It certainly keeps him from having to make an Earther his [Squire].”

She considered this and sighed.

“Yeah. I guess that’s a good deed. Oh—hey, look at that.”

They were passing over something below. A strange sight that pulled Lord Olvos up as well. Chickenruler slowed and almost passed on, but Nailren and Fighti, even Lord Olvos, shouted at him that he must land.

After a second, the Frost Wyvern did. Despite all Rags’ rules and regulations…they landed, and the quartet stared at something in the New Lands they had never seen nor dreamed of.

“Oh. So this is what these lands held.”

Lord Olvos sat, crosslegged, and Fightipilota rubbed at her eyes.

There it sat, just past the Eternal Grasslands. The yellow tufts of grass even crept up half the valley where earth had heaved itself upwards, forming a huge basin with raised dirt edges, like two hands cupped together. The yellow grass gave way to regular green, blooming with tall wildflowers; butterflies spiraled upwards in a cloud.

They flew together in a double helix, dodging a school of fish, who swam past the butterflies, mouths open. A few leapt up, snaring the frightened insects, before plopping down in the tube of water that carried them upwards then around the valley in a spiral.

Fish and water. Floating. A disbelieving Frost Wyvern stuck out his tongue, and a red carp swam straight onto it. Coldcream chewed the fish down, then opened his mouth and stuck his head in another vortex of water swirling upwards in defiance of gravity.

“Tribes. Did Kishkeria make this? Or is this just natural gravity magic? Magicore in the earth…?”

Nailren’s voice trailed off, and he knelt there as the rush of a river overtook all sound. Then a shadow covered him, and the Gnoll peered up. Above his head, a shark swam, yet the Gnoll was safe from the roaming predator of the sea.

He sat in a tunnel below the waters, a landbridge that let one walk under the lake that flowed overhead. Fightipilota and Chickenruler walked out of the tunnel, shielding their heads, afraid that the waters would come rushing down at any moment. Instead, the water spiraled skywards until you could see a few droplets hovering just over the valley’s edge. There the magic carrying the water up failed, and it rained down in a gentle spray, leaving rainbows.

The fish swam in this unique ecosystem, seemingly content and unbothered as gravity bowed to this strange place. No one spoke as Fighti stuck a hand into a backwards-waterfall. The flow was so strong that when she placed a rock in it and held on, it carried her up twenty feet before she let go. She watched the rock swirling into the sky.

She landed next to an old man, who stood in the center of the strange wonderland. Water was running down his battered mithril armor and into his eyes. He watched as the sunlight entered the valley and turned the blue waters green, then orange in places. Fighti looked down and saw, buried among the valley, magical crystals shining with the colors reflected above.

She flicked some water droplets from her hand and watched them float in front of her, then fall skywards and come shooting down in a rushing torrent that moved around them. A wave that played with the ground and then spun away.

“Hey, old guy. You okay?”

He blinked and seemed to breathe only then. Lord Olvos Lanight cleared his throat.

“I think…we have come across a wonder. Miss Fightipilota?”

“Yeah, Lord Olvos?”

The old man stared up at the river flowing above his head. And he wiped at his watery eyes.

“I…think I’ve found the place House Lanight would have settled. Someone should preserve this. I would have travelled a thousand miles to see this as a boy. Someday, people will come far and wide to see this strange valley. Did—didn’t you mention there was a team searching for work?”

Fighti had all but forgotten. Nailren’s ears perked up. He nodded.

“The Silver Swords, yes.”

Lord Olvos nodded as well.

“If you would go on—would you send anyone looking for work here? I think I have a job for them. No, I’ll have to call to Nombernaught for my horse, a flag. I’ll stay here.”

He wanted to claim this place? It mystified the Goblin for a moment until she realized this was how other species did such things. Put down a flag, as if he had made this spot or could just own it…

Fighti turned to Nailren, and an objection rose up in her throat. Wasn’t this land for Gnolls? Lord Olvos followed Fighti’s gaze, and guilt crossed his face.

“Is that—do you object, sir?”

He addressed Nailren. The Gnoll was gazing up at the magical wonderland, but when they looked at him, he just shrugged.

“I am not all Gnolls. Could I forbid you from claiming this spot, Lord Olvos? Would it even work? The New Lands are vast. Surely, there are a thousand such wonders. Regardless, who could hold this spot? Not I. Only Plain’s Eye if they chose to come this far. Do you intend to keep this place as it is?”

“Unspoiled, yes.”

Nailren nodded and turned his head back upwards.

“Then claim it. But do not ask me for permission again.”

The [Lord] of distant Terandria lowered his head in acknowledgement and rested a moment. He slowly sat on the ground, and Fightipilota opened her mouth, then saw the biggest fish she’d ever seen in her life breach the floating bubble of water in the center of the valley. A miniature sea. Wordlessly, she sat down too. Lord Olvos turned to her.

“I will pay you, of course. I will need guards. People to find this place. A map.”

“Mhm. In a minute, old guy, sure. I want to see this first.”

Then she marvelled at another wonder of the New Lands and wished she had time to explore it. But someone had to fly.

——

And that was that. There Fightipilota went to drop Nailren off at Woll’s Waystation and to bring gifts from above to those who needed a little miracle.

Another day, another adventure in the New Lands. Like a river that defied gravity, a wonder never seen in any part of the natural world before this.

Or a tower guarded by a Golem. Or—or someone giving food to little, starving Drakes. Something to make you cry with injustice, but also cry because goodness was done.

And no one knew about it. Some people had even forgotten about the New Lands altogether! Wasn’t that crazy? They went about their lives and barely thought about the people suffering in another part of the world, another world entirely.

It was not right. It was the way the world was, but, manifestly, it was not the way the world should be. And it grated on the witness to Fightipilota’s heroism, the songs sung between Gnolls and Drowned Folk—but arguably, not even most Drowned Folk or Gnolls had heard about.

It rankled Nanette’s beret. And she was wearing a beret today. She had on arm bangles, a flowery top with literal flowers on it, and in defiance of the wet weather, bright yellow shorts and clogs.

Mrsha the Mildly Appalled took one look at Nanette over breakfast and held up a card.

You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrsha.”

Uh huh. Did you enjoy yourself last night with the Drowned Folk? Some of us have school, you know.

Nanette turned a smile on Mrsha that spelled trouble.

“As a matter of fact, Mrsha, I did! And I wish everyone could hear about it!”

You could write into the Liscorian Gazette. They’re a bit boring with all this election nonsense.

Mrsha chewed on some breakfast cereal as Nanette scowled.

“I thought about that, but it’s too slow! And I don’t like writing like you do, Mrsha. Plus, it’s just for Liscor! This is something bigger! You know what? I’m going to do something far more exciting.”

Okay. Some of us have school, you know.

“It’s not my fault you’re in school.”

Nanette had cordially refused to be enrolled in school, because she was a bit too old, and also, because she was a witch and had plenty of education from the other witches. Lyonette had thus far lost that fight handily, so Nanette had plenty of free time.

That was how she ended up lugging an old plush armchair from the World’s Eye Theatre, one of the tables, a lantern, and a bunch of Yelroan’s paper and ink into one of the inn’s spare rooms. Lyonette, of course, noticed Nanette trying to heave an armchair down the corridor.

“Nanette, dear, are you, um, redecorating?”

“Just…working…on a side project, Lyonette! Don’t mind me!”

The [Princess] hesitated, but she knew that Nanette hated being helped. So she turned to Sir Dalimont, who discreetly lifted one corner of the armchair for Nanette. The girl glared as the [Princess] waved.

“Well, just let us know if you need something else. Er…Colfa and I are seeing about making the choir a regular thing. And I’m sure the [Witches] in Riverfarm have time for a lesson. And Rheirgest’s [Necromancers] might love some tea and be willing to teach magic or Master Hexel give another lecture on good architecture!”

Nanette ignored all these friendly, helpful things she could be doing. And it was a sign of her stubbornness that Lyonette included learning necromancy on the positive activities she hoped Nanette would try.

After getting the room mostly in order, and finding a piece of wood and writing ‘Nanette’s Workroom, Keep Out!’, Nanette wiped her brows and then put her hands on her hips.

“I know I need…something. Darn. I don’t have the magic for this, and I doubt even Witch Califor did. There’s no help for it. Archmage Valeterisa!”

She hammered on the door to the Archmage’s rooms, but Valeterisa was out in the High Passes building her academy. Damn! Just when Nanette needed help!

She tried Montressa’s rooms next, but the younger [Mage] must have been with her master. Which left…

Mage Bezale opened her door and stared down at the little girl with her hands on her hips.

“Mage Bezale, I’d like a favor, if I may?”

“Er…”

“I can pay!”

The Minotauress was not immune to the promises of gold. When she heard Nanette out and had finished scratching her head, she had a very sensible suggestion.

“Why not just use…an empty song crystal, the kind the Singer of Terandria uses? They record everything at a very, very high fidelity. They have to; you just record until it’s filled. And then you can copy it, transport it, all very simple. I can teach you the basic spells.”

And that way I don’t have to deal with whatever this is. Bezale even had a few empty song crystals she’d used to make contraband recordings of the Players of Celum with. She handed Nanette a few, accepted a lot of gold in return that the girl had for some reason, and shut the door.

Nanette ran off, delighted! She only had to find one more thing…

Calescent was a far more understanding person. When he heard her out, he rummaged around the kitchen and found a little egg holder for her that could fit the fist-sized song crystal with a few alterations.

Like a hammer and some pliers for bending. Nanette was done just before lunch, so she brought the makeshift stand for the song crystal into her new room and decided she needed a pillow because she was a bit too short in the armchair to sit at the right height on the table.

She was busy writing some notes out, preparing herself, when there was a knock at the door.

“Nanette, sweetie? Would you like lunch?”

“I’m busy, Lyonette! Thank you!”

“Oh. Well…how about a tray of some Drathian sushi? Calescent said you were talking all about it last night, and he’s made some for everyone.”

“I…suppose I could have some.”

Nanette got up reluctantly and opened the door. Lyonette tried to peer inside.

“Everything going well?”

“Yes, thank you! I’ll show you when I have something to show!”

Nanette shut the door and took her tray to the table. She broke the little chopsticks included with the tray and began to nibble on the sushi after a few misses with the instruments. Then she brightened up.

This was the life. Nanette activated the song crystal and cleared her throat. Then, after a few false starts, she began to speak in a clear voice as she leaned over the impromptu microphone. Not like she’d seen Drassi do, which was loudly and trying to get everyone’s attention, but more informally.

Like how Nanette felt she’d want to tell someone.

“Testing, testing, one, two, three, four—ahem. This is Nanette Weishart of The Wandering Inn. I’m your witch of the hour, and I’d like to bring some news to your attention that no one seems to know about. The New Lands of Izril. I suppose no one’s got news from there, but I have my means, and I have a story to share that no one’s aware of yet!”

She took another bite of sushi and chewed and swallowed it before going on.

“Would you believe no one’s flying around the New Lands? No one with sense, according to everyone there. There are monsters in the air—flying nests of spiders, and apparently, there’s a huge winter area in the New Lands that moves! But it’s no weather phenomenon or rogue Winter Sprites; it’s a super-monster. But first things first. I’ve just learned there’s an outpost in the New Lands. They call it Woll’s Waystation, and it may not be much, but they’ve got free tea!”

Her eyes were sparkling. Nanette had a bunch of notes, but she was mostly ad-libbing the words. She wanted to tell people about what she’d seen!

Everything from Woll to Fightipilota flying by air to important information like Nailren’s Sea Gardens and how welcoming Drowned Folk could be and the nautiloid attack! This was the perfect way to do it.

After all, she just had to get this song crystal recorded, patch out any ‘ums’ or ‘ers’ she made, and her chewing sushi, and then she could show Mrsha, Hethon, and Sammial, and she bet Drassi would be interested in this.

Not that this was Wistram News Network stuff. Could you copy this? Nanette wondered if she could get a Runner to sell this somewhere. She thought it was mighty interesting.

And it was something those darn Earthers hadn’t thought of once! Smugly, the witch chewed on more sushi. She just had to come up with a good name for it.

It was like…an informational broadcast. Or a saved recording.

A savecast. No, that was stupid. Information in a pod! Podcast?

Eugh, even worse. She was a witch, so obviously…it was a Witch’s Tale! Yes, that was just perfect. Nanette beamed, and she went on.

“This just in: if you’ve been in the New Lands long, apparently you might owe a debt of favor to some fliers who were doing all they could to help people hit by the mana drain effect. The Wings of Pallass! Captain Bevussa and her team were sighted giving assistance nonstop, but the air’s deadly. Only one Frost Wyvern’s flying right now, and they’ve been through a tale. But where was I? Oh yes. Woll’s Waystation isn’t much to look at; the walls are dirt, ten feet high, and the roof leaks. I imagine it must smell terrible because all the horses are standing in one corner of the courtyard! You pay a Gnoll two coppers for him to hold them for you—his poor nose! But it’s the only place that exists, and Woll himself is such a character…”

[Podcaster Class obtained!]

[Podcaster Level 2!]

[Skill – Soothing Voice Obtained!]

[Skill – Slipless Tongue Obtained!]

[Skill – Superior Recording Quality Obtained!]

Later that night, a witch sat up in bed and raced to hammer on Joseph’s door. When he started laughing at her, she threw a huge fit.

Author’s Note:

It’s been a tiring week. Did I say the same last week? I recall the days when I was always tired, and that was writing burnout, a slow decay of pushing myself to the limit.

…This is more tiredness because of poor sleep and having to arrange things with people. Plumbing, doctors, the thieves of hours.

And that sparrow and a dog who interrupt my sleep. Curse them. It really does make a difference to get 6-ish hours and be woken up, rather than 8. Or perhaps it’s just an off-week.

Anyways, that’s not the point. The point is that this is the last New Lands chapter; after this, I think we go to the poll winner, Ilvriss’ chapter, which has become…well, a good chapter. But I’m still writing the arc out, and if I keep the quality good, it’ll be awesome, but it’s tough.

Look forwards to that and the Rickel-Oteslia chapter. This poll is going to occupy me for a while, but these are chapters I knew needed to be written, so all’s good.

A few more thoughts from me: it’s rare I base anything one-to-one on things I see in this world, but I recall, vividly, an aquarium in Atlanta where you can walk under all the fish in a tunnel. Much like the one at the end of this story. I remember seeing that and coming up with this place in the New Lands a long, long while ago.

That’s sometimes how writing works and why it’s good to go places and see things. Even if it should always have a twist or be different.

Lastly, a report from video-game aba. I play tons of games, as you might know. I’m not the best at it, just addicted. Today, a sequel to one of my favorite games no one apparently plays came out: Foreign Sun. It’s a remake of Biomass, a game I quite liked. Not for everyone, but I actually recommend Biomass over Foreign Sun—I like the original a lot and the new one has different mechanics and expanded some places, but cut another? I can’t really tell since the entire point of the game is exploring, but it was fun.

I say this in contrast to Blue Prince, an excellent game about puzzles that I spent nearly a month beating in total. I just finished the game—with help because it’s so hard—and it’s an excellent game. Tons of fun playing it.

Until the ending. I’ve played hundreds, maybe over a thousand, games on Steam and left less than 10 negative reviews. This one earned it. I can’t even talk about why I’m so upset, but the game doesn’t fulfil the promises it sets up. That’s what I don’t like about stories, when they promise and don’t deliver.

Anyways, that’s it from me. One of those weeks, positive and negative and mostly, I just wish the doggo would stop barking. He can bark for over an hour straight. Crazy. Look forwards to that Ilvriss chapter.

—pirateaba

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