She made gentle snoring noises as her thick midnight hair lay across her neck and shoulders. A smile parted her lips, “Not right now, Ren–” she mumbled, before slurping, “When my project is done…”
A view screen slid from the wall – Pat’s image, their expression unreadable, looked down on the sleeping beauty, the picture of serenity – “MEEN-TRA, WAK UP!”
The [Sandalmancer] bolted up, smacking her face into Pat, “Ah!” Her fist shot out and smashed them into the far wall. She rolled out of bed and into a crouched position. “Pat, what are you…”
Pat blinked, “Where’s Ren?”
Meen-Tra stood, letting the sheets fall to the floor, “How should I know?”
Pat was unimpressed, “The last we saw of him – he was carrying you to bed…”
She tapped her foot, “Well, I’ll have to take your word for it – I don’t remember anything beyond passing out at the dinner table.”
Pat’s face tightened, “DG’s worried. Ren’s gone rogue – stirred up the hornet's nest, and vanished into the aether! He must have teleport. DG doesn’t think it was an outside spell; Ren did something – something strange. DG doesn’t think it was a skill. They have a nose for that kind of thing.”
Meen-Tra wore a look of confusion, and she wasn’t listening to Pat anymore; instead, she spoke over her shoulder, “Who took off my qipao?”
—
All the major players gathered upstairs on the bridge, and Hecate was in a mood, “I da na care about tha fewl. I just wunna about tha zug zug. Taken it and not left a drop for us here. To the bogs with him!”
Mog and Nosh shared a look, and Mitzy adjusted her boots, “Don’t you worry, Hecate, I’ll have a gumball ready soon – that will knock your sandals off! I don’t think you people realize the gem you're sitting on here. The early returns from my lab work…beyond my wildest dreams. Truly Lecker Smecker levels.”
Draven tried not to look interested, but he’d gotten a taste for Mitzy’s creations – he wanted more.
Camo spoke up – the voice of reason, “So are we sure he isn’t just hiding somewhere? Maybe passed out in a closet…this place is enormous. Did anyone check the aviary? He wouldn’t shut up about it over dinner last night.”
Pat shook their head, “Negative, DG’s Ren sense puts him somewhere distant—Erm, which is to say outside the swamp. We’re reviewing the logs – we have those…apparently. And there was an energy discharge last night, followed by activity on our map. It was localized in the middle of the invading force. It looks like whoever, or whatever it was, eliminated some of the red dots. The timing suggests it was Ren. Does anyone know what skills he has? He’s an [Echo Runner] – right? What do they get?”
Meen-Tra huffed, “I don’t know anything about him – other than he’s trouble…well, there was the one time he popped out of thin air – I was lost in the edges of the mist. He appeared as a dream apparition – and then just kind of…materialized?”
Hecate shook his head, “Tales of dreamwalka’s – fa children and drunkards.”
Draven eyeballed his rollie case, “Ren’s a type of [Bard], a class not common in the Mire. There was once one in Grumakh – he could speed the work of a field, empowering all those who sew crop, giving wings to their movements, and an endurance to rival a god.”
Pat spoke up, “Sounds incredible, we’d of killed for a skill like that on my old world. You could end world hunger…what happened to the [Bard]? From your village, I mean – they must be powerful now.”
Draven snorted, “Hah, he’s long gone by now. We had no use for him. We have food aplenty as is; farmers have their own skills to help them with their work. For them, the [Bard] was nothing but a pest, forcing the land to grow a surplus of food – that was not needed, but probably their worst sin…they seemed to have a way with people, a different partner in the bed rolls every night – and none were safe, he could sing a shaman wed to the land out of their ancient practice and into the sheets with a flit of his flute, and a wink of the eye.”
Hecate nodded along, “Har – I hurd tales o that. Did na think twas true. Twas a song we useta sing bout it…”
Mog and Nosh shared another look. Mitzy sighed and popped a gumball into her mouth, “What about your party window, a quest, your comms? Tried any of that?
Mitzy shared a look around the table, “And how do we know you aren’t responsible, Pat? You’re a separatist after all.”
Pat’s mouth hole opened and closed, “I’m no such thing, I’m a…” A look none could decipher crossed the alien's face.
Hecate spoke up, “Seprat a wha?”
Mitzy blew a bubble, “The invaders.
She pointed to the red dots on the wall map, bunched up like angry red ant hives, “Humans, they call themselves Xylosians. Greed. They’ll steal your water right out from under your nose, and sell it back to you for [capitals], all the while calling it profit – and you a lazy good-for-nothing prole.
She took a seat on the table top and inspected her nails, “I suspect they are after the same thing I am. A strange energy signature brought me here – well, technically it was an ornithopter, and then cobalt toes over here–”
She thumbed in Meen-Tra’s direction, “But the point still stands. You all are in a lot of trouble. The timing is…Your magical barrier must have been keeping them out all these years. But from what I’ve seen so far – unless you have better technology, you’re all harvested or worse…sold cheap goods.”
Mog raised a hand, and quickly lowered it, after all eyes turned on him – his skin flushed, “Cheap goods…that doesn’t sound too too bad?”
Mitzy cackled, falling to her back. She rolled around, kicking her boots to the sky, “It's an addiction, like sugary gumballs – you won’t be able to stop yourself. Before you know it, you’ll burn down your neighbor's house and enslave their children. And you’ll do it because you think it's right.”
Hecate sucked his teeth, “We shall cry peace to all, and claim kinship to every living thing.
Heads turned, and not at the profound nature of his comments, but that he spoke without the hint of an accent. “Tis tha [Wood Orc]’s creed. 'Tis known, tha afore thur wast the first [Ranger] – there wast but a simple orc and thur axe. Us folk of vine and branch know tha way of balance. Tha true cost – tis not coin – but resource.”
Mitzy licked her lips, “Humans are dragons; they hoard wealth. Not coppers and diamonds – no, it will be useless junk – and they’ll convince you that life without it is empty. Once they have you eating from the palms of their hands…They’ll pay half of you to kill the other half. And you’ll do it, because if you don’t. They’ll take away the hand.”
Pat chimed in, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But she’s right, at least on Earth anyway. We call it propaganda. It’s a battle of ideas, and if you're not ready for it…you’ll be completely helpless.”
Draven blew a ring across the table, and it careened off Mitzy’s dish, “Folk in the Mire won’t turn on each other so easily. The Beast Wars taught us that much at least.”
Mitzy pointed a finger, “The creepy thin separatist has it.”
Pat reclined, putting their feet up, “I’m a human, thank you. But in answer to your question, Ren’s been removed from the group…so the comms won’t work. I tried adding him back – but I’m not sure how…”
Meen-Tra stood up, exiting the room, “You boys figure out what our next step is. I’ll be in my room. Sleeping.” She gave Pat the stink eye.
Mitzy shrugged and flounced after Meen-Tra, “You heard the [Sandalmancer].”
Meen-Tra sat slouched in bed. She wasn’t tired, and quite frankly, she wasn’t entirely sure why she left the meeting in the first place.
“Where in bogs name did he go – he’s as stupid as his haircut… good riddance.”
Her heart wasn’t in it. She missed Ren, and she missed…Garzha. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, exploring could be dangerous – to be sure, but Garzha was no common explorer…she was Garzha Trailfinder!
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“How dare you off and die. You were supposed to outlive me. You always said you would.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek. Garzha was level [50] or nearly there; who knows, she may have been higher, and an artisan like Meen-Tra would never reach such levels, and thus wouldn’t live as long. Meen-Tra had never imagined a world without Garzha.
“DG4, can you hear me?” She smiled as lights ran along the corners of the floor. Standing up, she smoothed the creases on her quipao, “Could you give me a workbench along this wall here? Please. I don’t like sitting with my back to the door – it’s something Garzha…always be aware of your exits.”
DG4 beeped once in affirmation, and Meen-Tra smiled; ceiling panels slid out of the way, and mechanical arms dropped down in a flurry of activity. Mee-Tra looked on in wonder as wooden planks cut to exacting specifications were stapled together. She could hear fasteners ramming home as one of the arms pressed a metallic gun into position, the glow of a mana crystal powering its mechanisms. With the base assembled – a large rectangular bench surface lowered into position, it was clearly made from titan bark, worn down to a smooth, sturdy surface.
“Your arms, they’re epic! You’re amazing, DG4. How did – how did this happen?” Her shoulders drooped as she realized the flyer couldn’t respond. That realization made her sad, not that she needed any help in that department, but she felt a kind of kinship with DG that she couldn’t explain; they reminded her of – “DG – do you mind if I call you that? I like it…DG4’s nice too, I just – what’s Ren thinking, why would he leave us like that? It makes me so angry, he could have at least said something.”
DG4 let out a low moan, and the lights flickered softly; Meen-Tra sniffled and wiped her eyes. She sat on the edge of her bed, as the will to craft leaked from her body. Meen-Tra didn’t notice at first, so lost in thought was she; the aether tingled with energy, wrapping her skin in the soft, warm glow of condensed mana. Sniffling, she looked down at the glimmering, “Huh, what is –”
Meen-Tra touched her titan-mark, and it felt alive beneath her fist, reminding her of when Ren had shared his skill. Her heart swelled as pure joy filled her chest; she was outside her body looking down, and she realized how alone she’d felt her whole life, and she knew she wasn’t any longer – she never had been. Tears ran down her face in rivulets, and she thought of Ren, the foolish human, delivered to her by her own skill, and the way he made her feel, the way he tickled her to her toes.
And she knew where Ren was, she knew like DG4 knew, right beside her heart, a now constant tug existed – a pull in his direction, “Ren – DG…is this what you feel? I can feel it too!
She smiled and laughed, springing to her feet, “Thank you, DG. Now let's say we get to work.” So saying, Meen-Tra pulled up her new stool, sat down, took in a deep breath, appreciating the smell of freshly cut titan bark, and frowned. “Um, DG, sorry to bother you. But you don’t happen to know where my bags ended up, do you? Corsair Tanuki helped me load them…”
Hecate stomped up and down the crew quarters hallway, muttering to himself about zug zug. Mitzy, like Meen-Tra, was barricaded in her rooms, hard at work on her craft. The rest of the crew helped Camo in the kitchen or bussied themselves about the ship, exploring corridors that stretched like a hall of mirrors. The ship was alive, and every curve of vine wrapped plas-steele was a constant reminder. Pat had a view screen seemingly tucked into every wall panel and ceiling tile; the airship was a place of mystery and wonder.
DG4 was aware of everything; its senses had been greatly expanded after the transformation, and their integration with Pat had fundamentally changed who and what they were. DG4 cruised the undercanopy, as unfamiliar sunlight trickled down on their balloon. An eerie silence gathered in the new day's light as the flyer moved with efficiency.
“I trust Hecate DG, and I also think avoiding confrontation with the separatists is wise for now – and with your new…size and specialty, I fear for your safety. They could shoot you from the sky or requisition you for who knows what. Unfortunately, Ren’s confrontation may have taken any diplomacy off the table. Not that I expect that to work.” Pat reclined as they channel surfed the myriad views available from DG’s perspective.
A question came across their bond, “What’s war like?
Pat sat up and began to pace the empty field, “That’s complicated, DG. On Earth, we have something called a nuclear bomb…it’s like a million fireball spells set off all at once. So we don’t really have wars anymore, at least not direct wars between two superpowers. Instead, opposing sides will pay a third party to kill each other. Weapons and training are given to the worst of the worst. And this is where the propaganda I mentioned comes into play. Superpowers, of which we can call Xylos one, will tell their people that the other side is monstrous and barbaric. And the sad part is…by the time Xylos finishes flooding the Mire with weapons and words – you will be what they say, or more probably – you’ll be worse.”
The warm ball of light in the sky, that Pat had come to know as DG’s consciousness, dimmed and began to flicker lightly – a sign the young flyer was deep in thought, and also clearly troubled.
Sighing, Pat flopped themself back into their chair, “I don’t know what to do, DG, but running and hiding. It means we can live to fight another day. You're not a weapon of war, what you can do, what we all can do – is give people a place of safety and comfort. Your capacity is – well, for someone like me, it beggars belief.”
DG remained silent, so Pat left them to their thoughts and returned to monitoring the swamp as they passed below its shaded bows.
Meen-Tra sat at her new workbench, staring at the pile of materials she’d dumped there, while she drummed her fingers. Puffing up her cheeks, she blew out, crossing her eyes, and puckering her lips as she made kissing motions, “What to make, what to make…let’s see, I’m definitely not making anything for Ren, because he’s a jerk who abandoned us. Those adorable apprentice rangers Nosh and Mog could use some more footwear – except I’m not familiar with their classes – although some kind of gripping design, for riding…No, I would have to ask Hecate, and make some for him as well – which isn’t a problem, but…Ah hah! By Daybrokes' chaotic whispers, I have it. The refugees – of course.”
She palmed her forehead; she could already feel the creative juices flowing – she had a project!
Pushing her fists against the workbench, Meen-Tra popped up from her seat. Exiting her room, she stepped across the hall and knocked once on Mitzy’s door. There wasn’t any answer, but after a moment, it slid free with a hiss, and the [Sandalmancer] stepped into –
Mitzy was standing on her workbench, her face pressed into a vertical metal cylinder attached to a base that encased a glass dish – containing what appeared to be chopped bok leaf. The mecha was muttering to herself, something about sucrose singularities.
Before Meen-Tra could even begin to appreciate the other woman’s craft, a hot pink sphere, its surface smooth as marble, opened a mouth lined with rows upon rows of flat white teeth, and swallowed the pondering pink pixy as she attempted to placate her metal contraption. All that was left by the time Meen-Tra thought to react were Mitzy’s boots.
“MONSTER!” She lunged forward, tackling the sphere, Mitzy, most of the equipment, and all of Meen-Tra’s pride to the ground – in a shower of broken glass, smashed alchemical ware, and whatever gutural bubbling sounds were escaping the monster's maw.
Meen-Tra reached for a makeshift weapon, but Mitzy’s light-knife poked from the creatures shell coming inches from her face, reacting on instinct she rolled free of the monster – pushing herself into the corner – watching with abject horror as the knife worked itself around in a circle, ending with two halves of the creature rolling away – revealing an angry looking Mitzy, covered in gobbs of…dripping viscous monster spit.
The mecha-gnome stood up, removed a squeegee from her spatial storage, and began cleaning her head dish with short squealing strokes, flipping the removed slime onto the ground after each stroke. She was methodical and systematic in her cleaning – all the while her eyes never left Meen-Tra’s.
“A-are you alright, Mitzy? I was just coming over to see about some crafting supplies and…
She pointed to the near half of the monster still rocking on the ground, “Well, that monster. It just swallowed you – w-where did it even come from? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Finished with her head dish, Mitzy disappeared her squeegee, walked over to a monster half, and plunged her fist into its center – she pulled it free and crammed a pink congealed mass into her face — her eyes still pinning Meen-Tra, she chewed while calmly approaching, before delivering a swift kick to the [Sandalmancer]’s shin.
“– Ow?” Meen-Tra was too surprised to be angry, and Mitzy was entirely too cute.
“What in the sugarless hells of Calanar are you doing! My lab is in ruins, and I just had to kill what may have been my greatest – No, the greatest invention the world has ever known – will ever know!”
Meen-Tra’s eyes fell to her toes, and the pink…substance that oozed, for she tried to hide the look of disgust that soured her expression – but failed.
Mitzy seized on the omission, “Listen, you you-you half-wit, skin weaver. This is important work, and since you clearly can’t understand the gravity of what’s taking place here. Let me explain it to you. That –”
She pointed to her creation, which appeared to be melting in real time. Noticing this, she knelt, pulled out a slender glass tube, scooped up some remnants, corked the container, and pursed her lips before repeating the process once more. Standing, she re-focused her attention. “It’s not a monster. It’s a self-chewing gumball!”
Something rolled off the edge of Mitzy’s workbench, where it shattered, leaking its contents onto the floor. A liquid tinted like bile slid up a single leg of the workbench, covering it in a burbling cocoon – before stopping halfway up, dissolving into dust, and taking the leg with it. The bench tipped, and the remaining contents spilled onto the floor in a soul-shattering, gut-wrenching symphony of destroyed hope.
Meen-Tra, trained since birth to be quick on her feet and sharp in her wits, sprang into action just as the last item tipped over into the abyss between bench and floor. Her fist closed around the small cylindrical object as she tucked into a roll. Coming up onto her feet, she held her prize out safely for Mitzy to observe, a proud smile on her face.
Mitzy swiped it from Meen-Tra’s fist, pulled a piece of paper from her storage, and used the pencil Meen-Tra saved to write three simple words, ‘I hate you.’ Before slapping the paper into Meen-Tra’s still open fist, turning on her heels, and marching from the room.
Meen-Tra looked down at the note in her hand and shrugged, “Some people just can’t be pleased.”
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Meen-Tra pondered her options. She would need some more tools before she could do any serious crafting. She could work without a sandal jack, but what would be the point? She didn’t do half-fisted work, except in the rarest of circumstances, and the refugees deserved her best. DG wasn’t responding at the moment, and she didn’t want to keep pestering the flyer.
“Ok, crafting is on hold for now. Ren’s still a jerk. And Mitzy… she has an interesting style. But where does that leave me? Should I help in the kitchen?”
Meen-Tra hated cooking. It probably had something to do with her mother's proclivities – the woman insisted that a man cook all her meals. Something about them lacking the intellectual fortitude to understand the importance of a well-cooked meal, and thus being freed from the pressure to perform.
“Garzha…” Meen-Tra hugged her knees and wept into the folds of her qipao, when the darkness that surrounded her face lit with a sudden glow, and the bond pointing her in Ren’s direction stiffened. She shot up straight, pushing herself back on the bed until her back was up against the wall. She clawed at her chest, digging her heels into the sheets – to get away from whatever was happening.
“STOP! Get off – HELP, HE–” Meen-Tra went stiff as a board – catching her pillow with her face.
