Heimurn Chronicles (No, SV, you're a young valkyrie in the middle of a bizarre and dangerous journey)

Fragment of conversation with Amalia Brant on Bloom 25 of the year 1469

Westlanders? Lucy, my ears are not clogged, so I may not have misheard you, right?
...
Of all the mysterious denizens of this world with their most exotic societies, you asked me to tell you about the most numerous and - pardon me - plain species inhabiting Pheotor. Why? What did I do to you to earn your grudge? What? They do look "different enough" to you? Aawh, fair enough. Fine, I can tell you about 'em westlanders and even try to spice it with something actually interesting, but you'd have to lend me a hand with laundry while we're at it. Deal?

So, like I told you earlier when you asked about the Olfadir church, Westlanders - or any Landers, for that matter - are not Pheotor's natives but rather migrants from Yrsengard. Over three thousand years ago, the first Yrsk Landers braved the white sea and began to spread from the northern Pheotorian Valley further south toward Cullanor, Heartland, River Valley, and even further south to Eucad. There are still legends lingering about those fae folk, beastmen, giants, ancient alvizian tribes, and other strange natives whom we pushed from their lands or, at worst, eradicated in our expansion. Sounds terrific for a race that doesn't seem to stand up to any other in any way, right? Do you know how did this happen?

Numbers. I'm sure there is some posh word academics in Lyf use for this particular case, but we simply outbreed everyone else despite living even shorter than Alvizians. Our numbers, coupled with our ability to swiftly cozy up in whatever land we wind up by living off its resources and shaping our lives according to its rules, is what sprung us so wide worldwide. That's how we got our name "Landers" - the people of the land. Westlanders are a pure example of this strategy.

You see, when someone says "a Lander," it is commonplace to presume a Westlander by default, as they may be the most numerous group of Landers in our purest form due to how and where they live. Westlanders occupy the fertile and plentiful Pheotorian heartland that allows extensive farmland communities, hunting settlements around numerous forests and low mountains, and fishing villages on countless rivers flowing into the Ars Ocean. Food is plentiful there, which allows for larger families, pushing for even more food production and, with it, even more free farmhands. This food-labor-food cycle is a part of the reason why Westlanders constitute anywhere from one-third to almost half of Pheotor's total population.

But the second reason is the already-mentioned fertility. An average Westlander woman - or any Lander woman really - can beget up to thirteen or even fifteen children if she starts to... Ack, sorry! I did not want to freak you out, so let's just say she starts to pursue mothership early in life. Anyway, even if only half of her children would survive to maturity, it would still be about as many as what's considered a fairly large family among Alvizians, a very huge one for Daevas, and about the lifespan fertility ceiling for Roths. Other Landers can technically pull this off, too, but this is where the rule of the land kicks in, resulting in smaller families among Lyflanders, Eastlanders, and Freelanders.

Another thing worth mentioning is the changeability innate to Landers and Westlanders in particular. A person who might move from the Heartland to Eiborea or Yrsengard and have initial discomfort living there would quickly get used to it and become almost like the locals. And should they proliferate with them, their offspring would also possess the traits of both parents and be highly adapted to life in both realms. Because of how easily various lands change us, we Landers are much more diverse among ourselves than the elder races usually presume. Like, Freelanders are slightly more enduring than the Westlanders but don't have their mental resilience and aptitude for a labor of the latter. Or How Lyflanders are the most magically gifted and long-living among Landers, yet they look like tender homegrowns compared to imposing and rugged Yrslanders.

But with all the mentioned flexibility and fertility, Westlanders also have heavy disadvantages compared to other races. The most obvious one is that they don't naturally excel in anything, be it grit or ingenuity. They can nurture their aptitudes throughout their lives and become pretty competent in something, but they are unlikely to surpass others naturally predisposed toward certain things species who have way more years of life to cultivate themselves. An average Westlander would be lucky to live into their seventies. In contrast, Alvizians usually live between a hundred to a hundred and thirty, and Roths live as much as around two centuries and up to forty years extra. Doesn't look like an even playing field, isn't it?

Aptitude for magic is also among their downsides: while they seemingly had practitioners of all kinds of arcane, compared to other races, there seem to be few, if any, tales about Westlander magi who approached the apex of their arcanum. Magic runs thin through their blood, even compared to other landers, and fewer Westlanders ever discover it in themselves. However, this may also be connected to how spellweaving is viewed in Olfadir, meaning that those wielding it would never willingly report so out of fear for their lives.

Now, I reckon you might have got a less than flattering characterization of them after all I've said yet, and it may not be without bias as I am an Eastlander myself, and we have, uh, "history" with them. So let me be clear: they have significant advantageous traits compared to other Landers, being the descendants of people who built the largest empire in Pheotor's written history.

As you may assume, their main strengths come not from their bodily might or magic talents but their sociability. They are incredibly cohesive internally - the polar opposite of individualistic and opportunistic Freelanders. More often than not, they are hard workers, at times rivaling even Bhiroths with their "we live to work" motto. They are also often stubborn and dig in their heels whenever facing troubles or confrontations, especially as a group. Sure - these traits do have their downsides as well, but they are the reason why there's a saying: "Every Riverland king dreams of reigning over Westlanders, while every Olfadir bishop covets the Eastlander flock."

So, there you have it. Hm? Not as dull as I told you it would be? Perhaps. But you know what's better? We're almost finished with laundering. Maybe I should ask you to help me out with something in return for a tale more often...

Fragment of conversation with Karl Norskov on Bloom 27 of the year 1469

My word! Did you just inquire about runism? Please, don't give me those eyes - I'm just merely amused because you not only weave arcane almost as good as somewhat-rusty-your's-truly but also leech the interests of established major arcana practitioners of the north. I wonder for how long your hypothetical debut to the Kirhol's coven would've distracted fair sorceresses and respectable wizards from pursuing their mundane intrigues. But I digress...

The reason why runism is an eternal hot topic in the majors' arcanists circles is absolutely the same as why commoners will never stop gossiping about the recent affair developments in their communities, especially if there's a smidge of suspected adultery to them: it's a thrilling pastime of mixing few proven facts with many made-up assumptions for the sake of novelty and shock value. There is little we know about runism in scientific terms, but what we do know suggests you should avoid using the term "runecrafting" unless you use it in the strictly minor arcana manufacturing context.

You see, we do not "craft" runes - we merely use those of them that we sometimes stumble upon by blind chance. We know nothing about the nature of those reality-bending patterns or their source except that they exist and aren't static. They are not just geometrical etchings but something akin to rituals with multiple requirements, and they have drastically different effects and magnitude correlative with the scale and complexity of the mentioned requirements. Sounds nothing like the diluted popularized image, isn't it? Yes - you are starting to understand why this topic is an ever-giving spring for speculations, but let me give you more trivia before you fancy dipping yourself into this pond.

So, the first thing you need to know concerns what "is" considered a rune. Laymen think it's just a mysterious or bizarre-looking scribble or engraving, but in reality, it's also all the circumstances, such as the material on which the pattern was made, the style, method, or material with which the symbol was made, the time of day and the surroundings in which the presumably functioning rune was composed. A pattern of clay urns filled with particular contents and connected to each other by a trail of blood taken from a lethally dehydrated goat is as much of a rune as an engraving made by an acid extracted from a sea creature applied to an incomplete mythral blade under a specific phase of moons.

It sure does sound terribly ritualistic, and to relay more into the nature of runes, let's dig into the most famous example of its usage: the rainfall rituals of the lost Shentolla kingdom. This realm existed during the Pherinian empire's early "mythical" era and occupied the entirety of modern Eiborea. You will find more trivia on what that land was like and why it is considered to be Eiborea's first golden age in thematic literature, if you so desire; as for me, I'll only mention that it shared the same geographical woe as its contemporary does - the lack of unsalinated water. Obviously, it severely hampered agriculture, especially with the lack of modernized infrastructure.

However, the evidence, as well as works of folklore, suggest that, for at least half a millennia, this shortfall was compensated through the massive-scale runic ritual of rainfall summoning, which was taught to the denizens by a local cryptid nicknamed "Moontrail Mistress" or "Lady Silver Hind." I can see in your eyes the growing pile of questions like who this entity was, what that kingdom was like, and how exactly it was "lost," but for our topic, only the last question matters. You see, Shentolla fell once the rainstorm ritual stopped working. Yes - just like that, after centuries of practicing it, all the power it manipulated was whiffed from it. Increasingly desperate Shentollans attempted it repeatedly, with variations and without such, but the power was no longer there. And soon enough, the once-prosperous kingdom crumbled, no longer able to sustain its inhabitants.

This is what I meant by them not being static. There is a hefty number of recorded glyph catalysts and ritualistic requirements that were whiffed out like candles, while some speculations also suggest new symbols obtained unseen before powers. Pardon my vulgar metaphor, but using runes is akin to living off someone's backyard garden: for a time, you think you can get away with pinching their raspberries unnoticed, but then you sneak in only to find the bushes missing or replaced with turnips.

What about the efforts to study runes as phenomena? Oh, there sure were and are many. Some collectives dedicated solely to this purpose are alleged to exist even in the Lyf kingdom. Although it may just be the perpetually trendy topic of secret societies, so take it with a fistful of salt. But if we step back from particular conspiracies and look at the known groups studying this phenomenon, they can be sorted into three distinct groups: deists, astrologists, and scryptors. The former claim runes being one of God's mysterious languages, whose usage by the mortals can lead to disastrous effects like turning people into a bloody mist or forcing demiurges to depower the runes they think are abused. The astrologists believe the entire universe is an interconnected living tapestry, where bringing together archetypically aligned entities, materials, or events could create bursts of primordial power. And the scryptors stick to the belief that our entire world is some sort of an encrypted, unending metaphysical writing, where everything and everyone are its glyphs and hence can be manipulated through peculiar syntax.

As you may conclude, these thought schools have more of a basis in philosophy than cold, actual science, even though I'd like to credit scryptors' extravagance of imagination. This is why I compared runism to gossiping, as both endeavors are highly speculative. And what should you believe concerning this topic?... It's not mine to advise such a clever lady as yourself.

Took a while, but hey. Done by the same artist as the thumbnail and three previous chararts.

You thought I forgot? Hah!

Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate! Don't forget to give your close ones (even if they may be felines) a good squeeze. As a preset, here's something mildly embarrassing weebinized Ulren doing just that.

Now, you stay safe out there, and I'll go back to polishing the next mainline update that gonna be posted in a day or two. Yep, it's a big one again

Back that evening, after returning from the trip with Inga, you stressed to Ulren the flighty foreboding you've got before partaking in the humble revelry with Sephie and Lia. He lent you his ear and promised to see how some sort of group-wide drill could be arranged. You just grinned at his response gratefully, not dwelling much on it. But as the following days' events would prove, you had no idea how seriously he would take your words.

Early in the coming morning, you, like others, were woken up by Ulren clattering against one of the pots with a large cooking spoon, commanding everyone to get up, gear up, and prepare for marching. He even brought your group's draft horse - Softy - from the stables. The sudden demand with little explanation raised many eyebrows and genuinely startled Hjorn as he wasn't prepared for your group's sudden departure. Ulren explained the plan for a group outdoor training, calming down your branded, one-legged bhiroth host. Yet, hearing the group's rants and grunts and sleepy grumbles, you decided to omit any mentions of this being your plea enacted.

And so, hastily armored and haphazardly supplied, the group, in its full complement, ventured westwards toward the cozy clearing spot where Ulren and Sephie brought you to fly earlier. The weather was dry and sunny, making the traverse easier. On top of that, Ulren kept everyone busy by lecturing on march formations, maneuvers, and on-road situations that necessitated them. With these factors combined, along with lively speculation on the activities Ulren planned for everyone but remained cheekily tight-lipped about, the traverse was barely noticed by anyone.
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Clack. Clack-clack. Thump!

Not even half an hour after setting up tents, fully armored in your new set, you practiced sparring with Sephie on hastily handicraft sword props Ren made overnight while your "drill officer" was mustering the other group before what sounded like a marksmanship exercise.

Clack. Creak!

Well, it was... a rather one-sided sort of practice, with Sephie utterly destroying your illusion of invincibility gained by donning actual armor for the first time a day earlier. Light on her powerful legs and with the advantage in strength, speed, and reach, she was landing pokes and strikes on you playfully, even though she was restrained by her exquisite compositive armor, and you had your wings to aid you in dodging.

Schhhhwoon... Slap, bonk!

You thought you finally managed to get past her defenses in one particular engagement, taking advantage of a clench closing in your favor. Alas, before you could land what felt like a sure strike, she grappled and shoved you back, taking advantage of your disorientation to land a tauntingly light knock on top of your helmet.

"Ohoho, a good one, Sparkling," the imposing posture clad in dark crimson armor teased, "But you'd have to be more inventive to compensate for your short legsies~."

"What?! I'm not shor-e-e-eak!" As you fell for Sephie's provocation, Ren's quiet approach from behind remained unnoticed. He used your distraction to pick you up like some sort of a doll, put your feet on his, press your armored frame against himself with his left hand, squishing your wings sideways and leaving them stick out like donkey's ears in the process, and envelop your prop-clutching right hand into his massive paw.

"Oi, Lu," Ren mumbled to his fairly startled and somewhat embarrassed marionette, "This one is cheeky but also very gifted. She's built to stab!" Saying this, he assumed a stance, which resulted in you being dragged into its replica. Sephie, through mild disbelief, reciprocated, preparing for another engagement.

"She outranges you under any circumstances, which means you can only control her weapon," Ulren said while maneuvering unexpectedly smoothly and methodically, considering he was clutching the yelping you like some sort of a chest satchel. You also stopped squealing like a terrified puppy by this point, letting yourself be led.

"She still attempts pierces, so it is the middle guard with right foot forward for us. Be aggressive, keep strafing, give her not a moment to recompose, and watch for openings!" Ren kept harassing Sephie's poise and grip by leading your hand in forceful blows and devious feints. "Hey, this is not fair!" Seph growled from under the helmet when she felt like losing ground to the intensity of the clash. Not wasting a moment of her disorientation, Ulren struck Sephie's prop to the side, sidestepped her, and led your hand to smack her rear with the flat side of your prop, causing the daeva to gasp and growl seemingly simultaneously.

The rematch engagement began immediately, with Sephorah now trying to amplify her strafes to keep up, but Ulren changed his approach too, decreasing the force of swings but going for double feints. "Keep watching her weapon and motions. When you feel like you both go for the same style, measure the distance with the patterns and switch accordingly! Be unpredictable."

"Hey, you didn't teach me like that!" Sephie barked indignantly, barely holding her ground, going deeper and deeper into defense, which Ulren broke with a graze-feint-lash sequence. Her shock was theatrically accentuated by a playful "bonk" of the prop against her helmet, not unlike what she did to you a few minutes earlier.

"I'm sorry, your Highness," Ulren said while loosening his grip on your frame and straightening up, "but you are a tad bit too large for such a way of tutoring." You gasped quietly behind the lid of your helmet: did he just call her... The angry sound that Sephie emitted in response suggested that she understood it that way, and the only thing that saved Ulren's nose from being bitten off right here and now was the closed mask of Sephie's helmet.

And how did Ren react? He cracked in giggles, abruptly unhanded you, and threw the parting, "Now, have fun, girls!" He rushed back to Amalia and Jorgen, whose archery competition was getting fairly intense, to the point of voiced grumbles and accusations of cheating. Therefore, you were left to the rattled and positively fired-up Sephie.

It took around a dozen subsequent engagements for one of the props to crack and another to break completely, ending what you felt was the wildest and most intensive sparring session in your memory. You lost most of them, of course, since all factors considered, Sephorah still outmatched you in melee combat about as heavily as Ulren exceeded her. But, with the help of the bhiroth's lessons, you managed to win two clashes and drag another two into the draw!

As you and your dark-skinned friend scattered on the grass, breathing heavily and discussing the experience and how it felt utterly novel when fully-armored, you noticed something recurring: Sephie was genuinely smiling for once, forgetful of her usual aloof persona behind all the thrill.

You will register this observation crossing your mind repeatedly as that day, after a short break and Ulren's barrage performances analysis, takeaways, and more tactical trivia, he organized a team wargame! A relatively simple one, where two teams must compete for the control of a central "flag" in a marked on-the-ground circle while also defending the rearguard one from being taken down and hence ceding the round.

Despite the rudimentary rules, the exercise proved tricky. Aside from essential athletic baseline, it required a strong sense of area control & denial, nigh-instinctive parsing of both teams' changing disposition, and swift tactical analysis. As Ulren and Sephorah teamed up, they seemingly effortlessly established running lead in those qualities, with the odds evening out only when everyone else except Isaac (who did not take part in any of the activities, remaining a stand-by medic and observer instead) joined forces against the duo. Your team still lost, but it felt like everyone - even Karl (!) - carried something from it aside from having a great time.

But even then, it wasn't enough for your silver-haired, dark-horned, and motions-loving friend, with Sephie taunting Ulren into what essentially boiled down to a series of athletic duels for the whole team. The sun was already going down, with the stars starting to light up around Baudur by that time; you were almost spent after the game. Hence, the trivia of Karl being the only one who dropped out before you, Jorgen trying his very best at various disciplines yet barely matching or falling short versus Amalia, and Sephie outrunning Ulren while he outdone her in everything else had to be gathered the next day as you simply collapsed in the tent after merely taking off the gorget with a helmet before lying down to catch a breath.

On the second day of your group's training sortie, after waking up sore and almost fully armored (at least girls had the decency to cover you up with a blanket in return for playing with your wings at night unrestrained), Ulren took pity on you and liberated from the pre-breakfast second round of athletics. He said he needed you rested and flight-ready for marching formations practice on the back route, to which you had no objections.
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Swoosh!

The sight of a distancing luminite spike follows the ticklish sensation of its conjuration and launch. It was the second one, landing on the distanced one of the eight impromptu targets hung, erected, and scattered near the camp with Issac's and Karl's help. The sword-like formation shattered against a distanced boulder with a glassy sound, just like one before it crashed against a closer target.

"Nice weaving there," the black-haired pyromancer with whom you've been exercising as a battlemage commented. He stepped into the firing spot, which you courteously liberated, to mark with his own hits the next set of targets for you to follow. Be it due to the change of environment, the opportunity to stretch his legs, or Ulren's contagious drill captain influence, he seemed to be in a fair mood today.

"It was," you commented as the pyromancer took a stance at the range and began accumulating arcane energy for upcoming discharge, "but I've been experiencing odd episodes with spell weaving lately: sometimes drawing too much energy in too little time or failing to focus charges as I'd normally would, and even struggling to dispel conjurations at times. Do you know what might be the cause?"

"How interesting..." Karl mumbled while squinting, condensing the accumulated fiery mana, and impeccably bursting three even fire bolts at three diagonally evenly distanced from each other targets, marking each with charred impact spots. "Are there any other symptoms you might have noticed to escort these 'episodes' of yours?" He inquired while giving you the ground at the range.

"No, none I can think of..." You replied while taking his vacated place and beginning to accumulate arcane power for another controlled burst.

"Maybe aches? Or nausea? Or even, perhaps, irregular emotional conditions like euphoria or apathy?" His voice rang from your left as you condensed the charge into three floating luminite blades and took aim.

"Tickles," you answered a heartbeat before releasing two blades from the right hand and one from the left in quick succession. All three hit the mark, even though the third one wasn't perfectly centered. "Frequent ticklish with minor jolts after plenty of spellcasting and, I guess, the rapidly growing enthusiasm to weave more once I start practicing."

"Does it ring any bells?" You looked at him as he stared you quietly up and down from the side.

"Perhaps, but not to the point of stating a diagnosis, how healers would've said," he began to move back to the range as you stepped sideways, saying, "An educated guess would be appreciated too."

"Now, aren't you a charmer today, Lucifina?" He pointed while repeating the preparation routine, "I'm jesting: a fair lady like yourself is always charming." You stopped yourself from frowning too clearly at his attempt at trifling. Just as he gathered a significant charge in his right hand, the fire darts began to fly.

"It's of the power accumulation nature," he said after shooting the first bolt at the closest target. "The way you compress it," his words accompanied the sound reminiscent of a flag waving to the wind as the second bolt landed on another boulder target. "And your body's response," the last two targets were struck simultaneously as he split the charge, hitting two nearby marks.

He raised his brows at you while you stared at the results of his last spellcasting. "Haven't I told you already that your body is intertwined with the arcane root that you harbor?" he drew your attention, "It could either be the drop of potency compared to proficiency, which I highly doubt, or the growth of potency beyond your current framework. I'd say it is the signs of stagnation: your precious mind, heart, and lovely hands may yearn to wield more substantial power than you do now. Unless I'm wrong in assuming this, I'm amazed it didn't occur to you."

His response unnerved you a little, as it did carry those creepy vibes back from when you burned out the chaotic contamination from his soul, but you remained cool while stepping into the firing range. "Amazed? You don't sound enthused, which is odd given that you admitted joining us out of curiosity about my progress." As the target positioning grew in complexity, you prepared a luminite scatter charge for the middle distance and two blades for the closest and the furthest marks. "Didn't I just indulge your main reason for journeying with us?" you discharged the spells after this inquiry, securely hitting with the blades and barely catching the middle-distanced targets in a scatter cone. Seeing the results, a tiny smug grin crept onto your face.

"Oh my, this was a creative one indeed," Karl commented with just a tiny smidge of irony, proceeding to set a new bar for you. "But alas - what you relayed to me is not what I seek, even though it is somewhat related." He began to accumulate a new charge while continuing: "You progressed fast and far - there's no debating that, but without disclosing the goal and ruining the experiment, the hints I gathered so far are..."

In rapid tempo, Karl chiseled three fire bolts from the blazing orb beneath his right hand, then swiftly transferred the remaining charge to the left one, depleting it on the last three shots that hit not five marks as you thought but six. "They are rather ambiguous," he finished his verdict, keeping his stare on the targets, one of which crumbled from the repeated punishment. "Scratch that last one - 'tis my mistake," he commented, referring to the wrecking of the bundled wooden scrap tied up to a tree branch, which means you had five targets to reach.

You step onto the firing spot somewhat puzzled: the number, the distance, and the angle between the marked targets were substantial, making hitting them with your standard methodology an undertaking a bit too challenging for your taste. If only you had pushed thaumaturgy a bit further, mastering beam chargers, continuous siphoning conjuration, proxy projection, or all of this, it would've been way more manageable, but alas - sticking to the tried-and-true methods was the only viable choice.

"Is there a fault on my part?" you asked away without looking at Karl, dedicating all the focus to the flow of your arcane powers and the targets ahead.

"No, there can't be such a thing." Karl's response reached your ears at the exact same time you launched five sword-like luminite formations all at once. Three of them struck the closer targets reliably, shattering into glimmering clouds of glowing sparks, while the fourth barely grazed one of the remote boulder marks, and the last one missed its destination entirely. Apparently, you have failed.

"Either it is too early for you to encounter the issue which I try to figure out, or..." he mused aloud with an uncharacteristically gentle voice, "mayhaps I know the answer already but am too reluctant to take it."

Throughout the mild frustration for failing Karl's challenge at this stage, his last sentence made you turn around to face him. You recognized hints of sincerity coming from him for the first time - something you had long abandoned any hope of.

For some long moments, he stared at the target props that the both of you had been gleefully destroying. After this long pause, he said: "In any case, you've progressed. A lot, in fact - if I won't get my act together soon, you would catch up, and then..."

"Karl..." You interrupted him abruptly, "It's been months of us on this road, and who knows how long it would take us to return home. We've been through some terrible situations, not even to mention me haphazardly seeking out a way to remove the seed of chaos corruption from your very soul. I understand you may be unwilling to open up out of fear of judgment or prejudice, but we are far beyond the point when this masquerade is appropriate or entertaining." As you spoke, you intently locked your eyes on his. "If there is some way I can help you, it would be the most conducive if you'd put some trust in me and, at the very least, hint at how exactly."

A long, uncomfortable silence ensued, with Karl staring at you somewhat abashed - yet another novel development. The silence wasn't begotten by a misunderstanding or awkwardness as sparkles of intense thoughts danced in the mage's brown eyes. As he scrambled for the right words, for a lapsed heartbeat or two, he looked way too old and tired than he had any reason to be. Then, with a bittersweet smile, he replied: "You are starting to remind me of someone I once knew, which may be a good sign. But as for your offer, I'm afraid old habits die hard, so perhaps another time. Regardless, thank you for your time. It was refreshing. Truly. And I am eager to witness more of your progress or indulge your academic curiosity."

Even though he excused himself before proceeding to clean up the mess you both made with this firing range, you kept silently tracing him for a while.
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Rapture. You felt exorbitant excitement, even at the cost of another physical exertion from lifting yourself up in the skies clad in your new armor. Ulren suggested you go up light, but if it was made with the assumption of you flying, there was little reason not to try it out. And so, you were now soaring above the mildly-forested wilds of northern Blugd-Tur, making circles and diving at the formation of your group moving back to town to field-test the spotting and formation actions while on the march that Ulren taught them.

As you went for the fourth hook, you gained enough altitude to fly right over the caravan's line and generate a sufficient sense of danger from the mock dive. And so you did precisely that: lining correctly and "attack-diving" the scurrying and covering group. Your cheery laughter rang through the skies as you went for another loop, biding some random amount of time for them to recompose and anticipate another "charge" of yours.

Unlike that game with territory control, this exercise felt utterly thrilling as it offered a novel take on the experience you already adored. The weather was also great, offering warm sunshine and sufficient visibility, with the only downside being your lowered agility and speed due to the armor encumbrance. But hey, this is as good an exercise for your wings as it gets! With that thought in mind, you paused on admiring the sight and enjoying the brushing of the winds and began to line up for another mock "attack."

And once again, you failed to withhold your giggling when you saw the teammates yelling and taking defensive positions, even scattering prone on the ground against your direction of approach. However, behind this whole fun, a subtle sense of burning settled in your wings' shoulders when you regained altitude: the sign that you may be approaching your frame's limitations for now. Mildly bummered by the finality of this rare experience, you decided to go for the one last dive.

After some more minutes of rejoicing in the skies, things began to go wrong. First of all, you lost the capacity to turn efficiently without evoking sharp aches in your back and shoulders. By then, the mildly irritating sense of burn swiftly turned into an arson wreaking havoc on your back and wings' muscles. Things turned from bad to worse when the winds began to feel too strong to overcome, and, with terror, you registered the loss of the lift. The absolute merriment turned into growing anxiety as your wings began to turn numb exactly when you needed them the most. The drumming of your heart began to reverberate as high as in your throat as you were falling from a dangerous height almost uncontrollably for the first time in your life.

You weren't a stranger to that sticky, suffocating feeling that is the fear of death, but this time, it came with a companied: anger. The rejection of the very thought you might die in such a stupid, unprovoked way was amplified tenfold, and mere moments before hitting the ground of a glade, you summoned all the remaining strengths you had and even those which you never suspected about just to avert this shameful fate. Screaming desperately, somewhere between the fourth and the fifth rabid flap of your numb wings, the impact came.

In the past, you imagined how painful it must feel to fall from such heights, but it wasn't anything like what you experienced. The first noticeable difference was the lapse of memory: the fullness of cognitive faculties returned to you only when you were shakily standing, trying to straighten up. Everything between the initial collision and the moment your memory returned was like a fog, lasting anywhere between a few moments or up to a minute or two.

Then, there was this exotic feeling of not sensing any pain but feeling extremely... light? It felt like your whole body was composed of clouds, cotton, or something equally soft, weightless, and barely controllable. You did not even feel the weight of the armor! Taking advantage of this moment of clarity, you looked down on your body; there seemed to be no blood, no chunks of armor sticking out of you, and all your limbs were where they were supposed to be. Thank goodness you did not end up broken!

Unfortunately, your relief was short-lived: this sense of weightlessness melted like late snow in springtime, giving room for an opposite feeling as if the world itself was gradually pressing onto you, threatening to crush you completely. The wave of this sensation became so unbearable that you fell forward on your fours and tried to scream, but the sound that left your throat was more like the pitiful wail of a frail animal. At the peak of this torture, your saliva began to thicken as if you were about to throw up, but by some miracle, you managed to withhold your guts and their contents where they belonged. Soon, the unseen crushing tide began to withdraw, leaving you in peace but also washing out whatever meager strengths you still had in your body. As you sat up straight with an almost heroic effort, the familiar voices cut through the lush young thicket.

What followed next was even more chaotic than the minute of your unbridled terror during the fall. Lia and Sephie, while unarmoring you, interrogated and ranted at your helpless self. Jorgen was trembling and insisted on chugging you with a potion. Isaac and Ren investigated your powerless body for damage and shoved a pudgy waterskin into your mouth, making you drink an obscene volume of water. Then, Isaac's hands touched your forehead, and a sequence of ticklish jolts replaced with the soothing warmth of the arcane body aspect magic washed through your battered body. You saw him writing something on his little plate before showing it to others. The contents of the missive made everyone breathe out in relief.

Soon enough, you regain the proper condition to at least walk. Yet, Ulren had none of that: he put you on top of Softie amidst the hanging side bags, covered you with a blanket, and even tied you loosely under it for extra stability, creating a kind of horseback bedding. What happened next was patchy: occasionally, you dozed off, falling into light, troubled slumber, only to be woken up by someone gently patting or brushing you and then feeling humiliatingly weak before dozing off again.

This loop continued all the way to Tevon-Talab, with the sun hiding almost wholly under the golden horizon by the time Ren took you off the horse in Hjorn's yard and carried you to the girls' shed section like a wrapped, tired, and confused creature which you were on the night he found you. It felt both touchingly nostalgic and terribly humbling at the same time. At least Rosaline didn't have to see you like this, as she, after getting worried sick, would've certainly given you an earful about recklessness and how it doesn't fit ladies like yourself.

In the safe and cozy confines of the shelter, you were once again reminded of how lucky you are to have your travel companions. First, Lia made your bedding and, using her mysterious maid powers, whipped out a cheesy flatbread snack like the one Morinth treated you with once, along with a mighty keg of sweet herbal brew. She took some time to spend with you, mostly explaining how fortunate you turned out to be and how you may not be as lucky the next time.

Once she depleted her grievances regarding your lack of self-preservation instinct and the time she could spare without neglecting the rest of "household" duties, it was Sephie who filled in her shoes and kept your company. Quietly brushing your golden locks and feathers first and then speaking in a tone reminiscent of those lullabies.

"Sparkling, sparkling... quite a scare you've given us today. Even the arsonist was taken aback. Are you proud of yourself now?" Sephie's voice was quiet and soft, almost motherly.

"Sorry..." Was the only meek reply you mustered, hiding your eyes from her in guilt. Like Jorgen a while ago, you knew that you pulled a hijinx today, and there was no use denying it.

"Our healer boy scribbled that you were pretty lucky and got away only with a light concussion that was addressed swiftly. You'll return to normal in a day or two, given plenty of rest, sound sleep, enough water, and minor medication." Her fingers combed through your hair as she spoke, contributing to your growing embarrassment.

"I overestimated my strengths because taking off and flying with armor worth of extra weight didn't feel that hard initially. At some point, I got carried away and overlooked the threshold when there were no more strengths to continue the flight." Not looking at her, you curled under the blanket, trying to preserve at least the vestiges of your dignity.

"I see," the silky voice accompanied the gentle strokes of your head, "We've suspected as much. Hjorn looked at your set and concluded that while he hasn't accounted for such "landings" while crafting it, its layered nature with softer materials absorbed a fair share of force. Though, I probably shouldn't relay his estimations of what would've happened to you if you wore a monoblock or segmented shell design - that was pretty nasty. But don't worry: your kit is fine - he'd just give it minor fixes and tune up a little with some extra padding after what happened today."

Despite Sephie's reassuring messages, you only felt more and more miserable with each bit of trivia she relayed. "I... I must've been a huge nuisance today for everyone..." Your eyes began to wetten at the worst time imaginable.

"Absolutely not, you silly," The warm voice protested while your shoulder got gently squeezed. "You are a person, and just like any of us, you can make mistakes; it's only natural. And you should not be embarrassed by everyone's reactions, for you are the heart of our little caravan, and many of us care for you greatly."

From ashamed to embarrassed, the lapse was swift, with your tiny awkward murmur indicating the shift.

"Now, there. I'm here not just to embarrass you, Sparkling," Sephie's voice gained a vibe of playfulness, and you involuntarily turned to face her. "You might've noticed my earlier comments on your - ah - physique, and I wasn't making them just to tease you. Looking back at how things turned out in the last couple of days, you may benefit greatly from giving some extra tonus to your body."

Oh, so this is where she was leading. You remained silent and just raised a brow.

"I know you've seen me doing basic athletic routines before sunrise now and then," she continued.

"How do you know?" you tried to debate the assumption of yourself being a cheeky little stalker.

"Simple: you weren't making those cute lil' wheezing snores~."

"H-hey, I'm not snoring!" You protested. Like, seriously - why does everyone think you're snoring?!

Sephie chuckled, "Anyway, I am not criticizing - you are an attractive, well-built girl, but there's plenty of room to pack in some extra power into your body without sacrificing its feminine charms. So, why not exercise together? It won't take long to get you in a better shape; I'd coach you to my best ability, and who knows - maybe you'd even grow to like it."

It's not that you were against more physical activity but instead concerned over having to cede the time you could otherwise spend reading, casting, or otherwise studying. Without a definitive answer, what you passed for a reply was an indecisive humming.

"Don't give me that poor lost duckling face, Sparkling. In case you forgot, I hail from the house famous for raising Bael's finest dancers, gymnasts, and other entertainers. It would be fun passing those drills you won't find anywhere else! I'd even push the time to when you feel comfortable."

You remained silent for a moment after Sephie's pitch attempt. You could see her fiery orange eyes glowing with enthusiasm - a giveaway sign of just how much she cares for you to offer this patronage. You murmured a little more, sighed, and gave her your answer.

But as Sephie bid you goodnight after a little idle banter before vacating the section for an hour or two of whatever evening loitering she had in mind, the chain of visitations did not end just yet. You sensed it with the tips of your right hand - the soft but chilly sense tickling your fingertips as if you dipped them into a bucket of fresh, cool water. You exhaled, briefly glimpsed into Limbus, and sure enough, Mia - your ghostly feline co-traveler - decided to exhibit pet-like behavior for once by placing her loaf-like misty shape by your hand.

Did she mean to tell you something? Staring at her for a few moments without receiving any spiritual signal shot down this theory. It felt like she indeed deciphered your unenviable state and decided to reenact something from her corporeal life by offering you whatever comfort a cat can provide. This thought of your usually patronizing pet also harboring some care for you put a wide grin on your face as you brushed the little ectoplasmic menace.

But you might have underestimated the degree to which her natural urges affect her afterlife behavior; her relaxed lying by your side soon turned into a bout of playful boxing with your hand, biting your thumb with her chilly ghost teeth, jumping on your chest, and finally hopping away in Ulren's - her another favorite victim - soul spark's direction.

"Little traitor," you mumbled ironically before drifting away to a soft, heavy, dreamless sleep.
_________________________

Like an unexpected discovery of a lake on a long march through the dry steppes, the third closing day of the 1469 year's month of Bloom offered a slow, somewhat melancholic respite for your weary group. Officially tied to the Hjorn's "rampart" by the expectation of Inga's soon return and less official exhaustion from the previous day's crash-course drills, no one took any substantial undertaking that day.

Jorgen, perhaps unable to take in the reveal from the previous days' trials of Amalia proving herself to be somewhat more robust and more resilient than he is, pestered Ulren for fitness tips and tactics. After getting the coveted pointers and leaving the bhiroth to hammer away at a smithy, he then spent the former half of the day fervently lifting iron scrap like improvised dumbbells, and then fiddling with his alchemical stocks with shaky hands in the latter half. He, alone from the entire group, seemed undepleted by the two previous days' exertions, craving for even more.

Sephie, after proceeding through her usual morning gymnastics and short bouts of loitering around the town, resigned to Hjorn's yard, sporadically checking up on you and other groupies or simply luxuriating. On the following evening, she would organize a little girl party with you and Amalia on a whim, filling the evening with reminiscing on the hardships of the month that passed, carefree cooperative hair grooming, and sharing careful musings on the little dreams pending their fulfillment with the return to Kirhol. Regardless of the causes, she let more of her timid inner warmth slip past her usual facades that night.

As for another member of the "team's girls" club, Amalia found herself in an unusual situation due to the lack of time for Hjorn to let his premises go into disrepair like the one before your arrival and her motley bunch of patrons leaving their mess outside. Recalling her hobbies, she browsed through the literature you lent from Dalgaard's library for anything slightly less scientific. She spent most of the day taking her much-deserved rest and keeping you quiet company, only occasionally sharing some findings or musings she got from the books.

The same can be said about both of your tutors: Ulren missed the track of time in the workshop over tinkering out some of his ideas, while Karl tugged on your arcane aspects senses for the rest of the day via practicing his spell weaving in the yard. And while Ren courteously checked up on you while having other group members visit him with their questions and issues, Karl managed to spend a whole day in solitude while surrounded by others. Again.

And as for your group's last and frequently overlooked mage, he had to remind you to get a controlling check-up after yesterday's traumatic incident. And, sure enough, you complied, taking a seat in the shared section of the shed and waiting for him to run his procedures.

There is a thing that unites most of the higher arcana practitioners: most of them have certain rituals or methods when practicing. For you, it's having the left palm folded in a way that would allow for a swift conjuration of a barrier or scatter a luminite volley. For Isaac, it was about displacing whatever distracting thoughts he might have had from the boundaries of his immediate mental focus whenever treating patients. This created a peculiar dichotomy about Isaac: shy, quiet, and easily embarrassed casually but utterly methodic and unabashed when practicing.

With these measured, efficient, and swift motions, he inspected your hands, shoulders, and legs for hematomas, laying hands on uncovered bruises and sending the sensations of tiny, ticklish jolting followed by the spread of pleasant warmth - the signs of body arcane powers infusion.
This warmth had a stimulative effect, simultaneously building up your vigor and numbing the aches from the fall and exercises. However, the transfused vitality had a side effect: you found it more challenging to stay put, with your freshly discomfort-liberated body itching for activity.

Isaac's hand gently landed on your forehead before your legs could take you out of the shed and into the streets, with the other taking your palm and softly clutching to its center as if measuring heartbeats. Before you had a chance to get confused and inquire about the meaning of this, a hardly describable wave of relief washed over you, alleviating the agitation caused by the previous therapy. This gradually spreading cool sensation also gave you a harmonious aftertaste, as if your body was made anew, soothed, calm, and perfectly intact, if a bit sleepy.

As you exhaled in relief and opened your eyes, you saw Isaac retaining his hand in their previous position after the incantation for a couple more seconds, most likely making sure everything went fine. After that, he retracted them, took off his professional persona, and gave you a content grin, signaling the end of the procedure.

"Thank you," the basic politeness wasn't lost on you, "Did you expend much of your focus and strengths on treating me?" You asked, knowing of the transactional nature of the life belt aspects.

To this, the grinning young healer shook his head sideways, reaching for his trusty old wooden plate and a piece of coal shortly and scribbling: "You are way sturdier than you look." He then flipped the board and added: "You sustained just a minor trauma."

"Sturdy enough to not come apart, but not strong enough to avoid such trouble." You looked to the side with an awkward, lopsided grin, trying not to think of how a "major" trauma by Isaac's classification would feel. The lad did not comment either, as his eyes darted to the floor, lost in thought.

"Say, if only asking this does not bring you discomfort, why haven't you taken part in the drills with us back there? Ren somehow managed to make it an engaging experience for others." Given your curiosity, this seemed as good of a conversation fuel as it gets.

Hearing this, Isaac's face lost that light pinky hue of shyness, and his body language became a little tense. Still, after a little pause to pick the right words, he scribbled again: "I don't really have a stomach for such pastimes. I'm sorry."

"You have a solid build for sporting, though. Or do you refer to the self-defense drills and that little archery tournament?"

You half-expected him to get mildly shy again from the comment, but it didn't happen. Instead, his eyes gained that subdued glint of seriousness as he silently stared at you in a manner that would suggest he was going through an inner debate on how to proceed. This struggle did not stretch long enough to turn awkward, but neither was it fleeting to the degree of you missing it. Then, at last, he slowly wiped off the previous text with a sleeve as if the letters put up resistance.

"I was a subject to violence. I just can't exercise it in any shape." He scribbled slowly, with his fingers starting to twitch ever-so-slightly and pupils beginning to dart sharply. You could even hear his breathing intensify as he took one more unsure glimpse of you and pointed at the old, thin scar stretching across his head, then pointing with a shaky finger at his mouth.

"This... this doesn't have anything to do with Claudius, doesn't it?" You inquired more hopeful than inquisitorial. And thankfully, He lifted your worst suspicions with tiny cinders of outrage in his eyes, rushedly scribbling: "No. He pulled me from death's grip and then raised me like his own." This short draw of disgruntlement did not shield him from the avalanching anxiety for long. Starting to visibly shake and with his eyes losing focus, he reached to the tablet again to write a continuation.

Yet, you thwarted it by putting your left hand on top of his right one, with which he was holding the worn wooden tablet, and then softly but insistently pushing it down with your right one.

"This won't be necessary," you said gently, leaning a bit closer, "You disclosed more than enough, so please, don't torture yourself any further."

Arrested under your loose clutch, Isaac began to return to normal. First, the shiver faded, then the breath normalized, and finally, the complexion of his face returned to his usual healthy pinky. Well, it was a bit more reddish than expected until you withdrew your hands. Now, he was more embarrassed than shaken, with his eyes evading yours awkwardly.

"Oh, pardon me," you pleaded, "With that topic out of the way and you had attended me like promised, what would you say to me borrowing more of your time?" Your words did only so much to reduce the healer's smittenness, with him throwing a curious sideways glance at you.

"You did a fantastic job alleviating my trauma, but now that I ponder on it, I or someone else might get in more of such mishaps in the future, and it's not guaranteed you would be around to provide effective and immediate aid. Would you like to teach me how to provide the first aid and therapy in such cases?"

This request had about as stupendous an effect on Isaac's morale as his mending and soothing powers of the arcane body aspect on your frame a few minutes ago. It was evident that this change in his spirit was caused by your interest and respect for his domain, for which he harbored almost religious devotion. And just like that, hour after hour, he taught you when to and when not to apply cold compresses, how to make different stretchers for victims of various concussion degrees, how to deal with blunt traumas of different degrees of severity, and how to properly rehabilitate after impact shocks. His numbness disability did little to stop him, as he referred to demonstrations when it felt more optimal.

Isaac was so excited to share his knowledge with someone that if it wasn't for Sephie's playful "kidnapping" of you, he might have kept tutoring you all the way into the night. But ultimately, you've learned more than enough for a day, and Isaac had no way but to cede you to the girls' company and the rest you were recommended having. Thus, surrounded by your dear friends who still haven't fully recovered from the scare you subjected them to yesterday, the day ended refreshingly-uneventfully, filled with musings of Kirhol, the people you miss, and little girly dreams you collectively stashed for a return home.
_________________________

"Anything on your side?" Jorgen inquired with a voice filled with subdued but noticeable irritation as your group, receiving no news from Inga, was going through Tevon's adjunct wilds on a scavenging run.

"I see no plants like you mentioned. Are you sure they grow here?" Ulren replied neutrally, about as dispassionately as the turning of the watermill's wheel. He had no qualms about escorting Jorgen, Isaac, and even you on this little stroll into the wilds, but neither did you feel an inkling of enthusiasm in him.

"Maybe we should get back closer to the lake? I reckon there was a mention of ferns favoring humid environments. Besides, I don't precisely sense any noticeable arcane resonance from the local flora." You threw your metaphorical hat at the discussion of Jorgen's frustration source. Despite a modest harvest of more common alchemical herbs, this ingredient hunt sortie did not yield anything valuable enough to excite Jorgen and prompt him to plan barters with the local apothecary.

"The sun wheel fern, contrary to its name, is dormant during the day, feeding off the soil and gathering the sun's energy to uncoil at night and expose its glowing orange spore sack when ripe. No wonder they don't give off solid arcane traces before before noon. Besides, not all ferns are utter hydrophiliacs." Jorgen ranted while marching behind you. Isaac, who marched in the tail of the scavenging group, could only express his boredom in loud, tired exhales for reasons apparent.

"So, are you sure we haven't passed any of them by the lake? Is it even their bloom season?" Ulren launched the second wave of rants.

"I'm sure - they bloom around Meader and Inning and grow at the edges of river and lake lowlands. We should press..." Jory cut his sentence abruptly. His steps behind you also ceased. "Did you hear that?" He asked with an inkling of alarm.

"Ummm... No?" You responded, attempting to scan the surroundings for any unfamiliar soul sparks while Ren ceased his march and instinctively reached for his shield. It was to no avail.

"I don't hear anything. You sure it wasn't you or someone else fizzling?" Ren doubted in a rather... fraternal way.

"What?! What if it was you?" Jory protested.

"If it was me, everyone would've..." Ren's jab got botched as the surroundings got rife with distant but hastily approaching tremor sounds.

"Front left, a big one charging in fast!" you yelled out, according to those march maneuvers lessons from before when the animalistic soul spark entered your perception perimeter. Whatever this thing was, it walloped straight at you at full speed.

Then, you only managed to hear Ulren cursing while taking hold of his glaive, ordering to break the formation and have non-combatants' withdrawal covered. Before you could react, the intruder showed itself from the closest thicket: it was a large, dark-brown mature elasmore male with a foaming mouth and its hump covered with crimson furunculi and bloody ruptures.

The rabid beast charged precisely at the center of your group line, with Ulren sinking his glaive into the intruder's side while sidestepping the stampede and you forcefully bashing the hulking mass with a luminal barrier. The furious mound of meat did not even flinch from the punishment: it was infected just like that manticore at Baator's gates.

"Get the kids out of here!" Ulren barked at you while trying to outrange with the blade the beast that began to prance in circles.

"Isaac, Jory, get behind me now!" you shouted as loud as your throat allowed while backpedaling and sending conjured laminate blades at the beast one after another. One, two, three: the shards that landed on the beast's infection-swollen hump ruptured it further, blasting short-lived blasts of its foul blood. You sensed Isaac's soul spark behind you, obediently following the orders, but Jory wasn't with him!

"Get out of here, you whelp! Do you have a death wish?!" Ulren roared out while keeping the beast prancing in circles.

"Distract it just a little longer, and I'll blast it!" Ulren's addressee's voice drew your attention, and you saw Jory trying to get closer to the beast with a bomb in his hands, on taking which he insisted on for any outing ever since crafting them. That moment, you had a short bout of panic break your cool, primarily because of the combination of Jory and a bomb rather than a massive herbivore beast gone murderous due to some arcane infection.

"You fool!" Ulren cried out half-desperate, punctuated by Jorgen's urgent "Fuse out! Take cover now!" You caught a glimpse of a spherical object landing by the frolicking beast.

"Skїt!" Ulren confirmed with a loud curse, immediately dropping the glaive, throwing himself away, and shielding as much of himself as possible. Jorgen did the same, although he fell prone and attempted to bury himself in the unevenness of the ground below as best he could.
You were the last to react when the sibilation of the ceramic orb became immutable by the monster's furious bellowing.

By the time you hit the ground and haphazardly conjured a luminal screen ahead, Isaac was already lying behind you with his pale from terror's hands covering his head. Your last thought was how he probably would've screamed in terror if he could.

And then, there was a shockwave and the sound of a deafening wet-ish blast, immediately followed by the clatter of the partially shattered luminite screen you conjured in desperation. Then, there was a second or two when all you could hear was the chorus of all the spooked birds from around leaving the area. And finally, when you thought it was all over, chunks of gory skin and meat rained down all around you for a brief, disgusting moment, with one of them staining your lovingly groomed ivory feathers dark red.

Contrary to being the last to take cover, you were the first to leap up on your feet. Your stare fell on the mound of the now-dead beast first. If you thought it was disgusted while alive due to the infection's disfigurement, it was now an utterly morbid sight due to missing its head, lower half of its hump, and having its innards spill out. The only thing worse than this sight was the overpowering stench, adjectives to describe which you struggled to find within the range of the appropriate language.

Then, your eyes darted to Ulren, who slowly put away his shield and looked at the results of the action in disbelief. He then turned his head toward where Jory ducked. Your eyes followed the vector of Ulren's stare up to now-sitting Jorgen, splattered with the gory fallout just like you but with an expression so much different from what one would expect in such a situation. In equal measures, he looked dumbfounded and... excited?

"I... I did it?" He exclaimed triumphantly, standing up and running to whatever remained of the beast. "They work, damn it! Our bombs work bloody well! Just look at this hole in 'ere, by Highfather's name!" You... failed to scramble enough nerve to characterize and internally comment on Jory's behavior. Considering that Ren stood up wordlessly, grim as a winter night, before taking course closer to the fresh carcass, he didn't either.

"I can't believe I pulled it off!" Jorgen simply could not curb his fountaining revelry, "Imagine what we could do with more of these! No more of those manticore and aberrations thin... ouch!" While he could not shut himself up, a couple of Ulren's sonorous slaps on his head did the job just fine.

"What got into you? It hur... Aw!" Jory called for the second bout of slaps on himself.

"Now listen here, and listen carefully," Ulren's voice - low and deceivingly calm - felt more threatening than the beast dead beast in front of you when it was still alive, "If you were a freshly initiated Hermadur in my unit, I would've had no choice but to bend you in front of your company and order all of your brethren in arms to flagellate you per ten strikes each before consigning you to a month of penalty works."

Jory's face changed from jubilant to mortified in moments as Ren continued: "This is a major lapse of discipline and by far the main reason behind most of the casualties. Not the circumstances, nor poor equipment or an ill chance, but some yokel acting retarded, compromising his comrades' safety."

"But we didn't," Jory's attempt to justify himself failed with another slap from the giant, nearly tumbling the lyflander lad.

"Silence," Ren commanded, "Bravery is admirable and all, especially when trying to break free from your old mold, but I won't stand idly when your recklessness endangers others. Did I make myself clear?" Somewhat discouraged and clutching to his aching face, Jory nodded.

"Good. Trying to convince you to stay put is evidently useless, as there's an awl up your ass prompting you to make something worthwhile out of yourself. This means we'll have to either make or break you, and speaking of the former, We'll have you supervised and tutored. Not just by myself, mind you, so don't you even try pulling stunts behind anyone's back. Is this also clear?" Less discouraged yet still clutching to his cheek, Jory nodded again.

"Good," Ulren finally relaxed, "I've got an idea for your designation type from the exercises earlier, and we will proceed with it soon. Meanwhile, as a punishment for today's stunt, I'll tell Amalia you'll groom and feed our horse for the next week."

Slowly, with unwilling acknowledgment, Jory nodded. Perhaps he realized that how he acted today was, in mild terms, rash, or maybe he thought it would be better to shovel Softie's manure compared to what Ulren mentioned as bhiroth's disciplinary practice. "At least we've found some rare materials," Jorgen mumbled.

"And that being?" Ulren glared at the grotesque remains of the beast.

"Ichor," Jory's voice rang with cautious enthusiasm, "Just like that manticore we've encountered at Baator, this elasmor has signs of that mutagen infection in later stages. We've distilled alchemical solutions that amplify body aspect potions back then, so we might do it again. This is a solid find, even if not what we initially sought."

With these parallels drawn, Jory's words submerged Ulren in a round of quiet musings, likely revolving around this rabies disease. Meanwhile, the alchemist called for his friend's help with a cheeky "Hey, mind giving me a hand with this cadaver?" And sure enough, Isaac obliged his friend. But as he approached the carrion with a jar in his hands, there was a brief moment when it seemed like his face switched to a fastidious expression from that of pronounced melancholy. It was as if Jorgen's attempt at heroics saddened him in some deep-seated, barely-registered irrational way. Although you could've simply imagined things and taken it for an explanation.

With the boys occupied with their "harvest," you were trying to fix your apparel and survey how badly your feathers got bloodied at a distance due to the odor. The familiar softness of Ren's palm graced your temple, followed by his hushed yet warm: "Are you fine?".

"Yes," you replied, irritatedly plucking out the feathers you deemed beyond salvation, "Although I still think we should've stuck to the glades around the lake." His commentary on your rant wasn't voiced, but a gentle, reassuring rub passes as one just fine. This mildly calmed you down, but you still wished you had raven-black plumage at such moments.
_________________________

The search did not continue for long after the unforeseen confrontation - Ulren, wary of the contaminated blood's scent and reminiscent of his former run-ins with fauna during expeditions, insisted on wrapping up the scavenge run. Either conscious of his shenanigans or appeased by the prospect of even more potion enhancers, Jorgen did not debate, even though those few herbs that were harvested could hardly qualify as alchemically indispensable and hence barely barterable with the local potion crafter.

On your way back, the weather began to change for the worst, and once your little raid group returned to its shelter, the elements were in disarray. As you peeked through the barn's window while sipping Amalia's emergently brewed hot tea, the weather was like a clash between Hearthwind, which had already passed, and Meader, which had not yet taken its reign from the passing Bloom. At least, this was one of the personifications that emerged in your mind while you watched the dark, scattered clouds, running across the sky glade, chased by the howling, biting winds like a pack of feral horses or deer fleeing ravenous worgs through a river.

It was an odd yet not unpleasant experience to observe nature's swing of mood to more restless and dramatic while you were safe, warm, and with a jug of sweet grassy brew in your hands. Yet, while physically comforted, an inner part of you resonated with the elements: you were growing worried about Inga as there was no news of her visit or intent of such upon your arrival from Tevon-Talab's surroundings. Did she get in trouble? Was it because of missing while marching through the wilds with you? Or maybe she got caught because of the snooping? While the weather felt like struggling against the possibility of rain, you fought against diving deeper into nervousness. She will be back tomorrow; no one in their right mind would haunt the streets in such weather, after all...

But you were wrong: Hjorn's stead was bound to receive the awaited visitor late, shaky and nervous like a ghastly revenant spawned by the storm. She demanded to speak with you, prompting you - haphazardly wrapped in an amalgam of cloaks and sheets to preserve your secret - to confront her under the smithy's canopy. However, should you not bother covering your ivory feathers, there was a solid chance Inga would not have noticed anything because of how absent and worn down she looked. Witnessing a gvuroth - a race known for its ludicrous reserves of vigor - with pronounced dark circles under the eyes due to sleep deprivation, visibly shivering, pale, and slouched due to fatigue was a mystery in itself. One that began to unveil itself once she began to speak.

"I did some digging and confirmed that the person Elji talked to at the butcher yard before disappearing was Naran," Inga's voice sounded about as cold as the winds that howled above Tevon, with the same vibe of turmoil, "He is one of the seniors; elder Temren's called brother, to be exact. He wasn't Eljdey's mentor, but he was still the third closest person to him after Bodie and his lass. Perhaps Naran saw or understood something about Elji that others didn't, so they always had this higher rapport."

As Inga hammered out words, you could not shake off the feeling of her being under some sort of internal duress. "He is pretty aged, as you can imagine, and until this year, he was gradually retiring from active duties like hunting raids and night patrols in favor of butchery, bookkeeping, and warehousing," the gvuroth huntress continued, "but right now, he's stationed in a keep to the south-west from Tevon. The one I thought we abandoned by winter's end."

Despite the other questions you may or may not have had, one that made it to your lips was: "Inga, you don't look so well. Is this because you went out with us? Did the situation get even worse?"

Your innocent query had the effect of a knife stab on her, with the suppressed, tortured whimper escaping her before she managed to regain her composure the following moment, somehow even more forcefully neutral than what Ulren does when he doesn't feel like socializing.

"Something foul is going on within our halls. Two more kherees disappeared, with townies knowing the destination of only one of them. Almost everyone began to look at their brethren with suspicion after the murmurs of the findings from the murder scene you investigated the last began to circulate." With each sentence, her voice gained a tiny bit of shakiness as she struggled to continue, "People grew anxious about sharing the longhouse barracks, and we reported odd overnight absences like it was at the fall of the previous year. Among them was Elgar, between whom and his blood brother Loїс, not a word had been exchanged in these days. And while I treated them both like my little brothers as they grew up, neither is sincere with me now. Temren also caught a whiff of these foul tidings and is now..."

You had to disrupt Inga as each word she spoke felt like a piece that fell off her, reducing her to an utter wreck. So, you touched her mildly trembling hand unrequested, breaking the deteriorating flow of her jittery testimony and taking a shot at parsing the state of her soul in more detail. A momentary burst of focus to decipher the imprint of her spirit filled you with grim confidence: her soul felt heavy and oppressed by the pressure of an unimaginable mix of feelings that wreaked havoc in her, which she struggled to conceal like the shell of those Jorgen's bombs.

"Inga," You spoke to her gently, "It is not mine to tell you what to do or whom to ask for help, if at all, but as Amalia stated, we won't shy away from extending you any sort of aid, even if it would be something requested by Inga as a person and not a local figure of some authority."

It took Inga some moments to digest your message, but it appeared to take off the edge of her inner tension, at least for now. You could see it in her even before she shook her head slowly and mumbled: "Thank you, but for now, I would only ask you to stick to the earlier promise to see through with me to the end of this horrid mess." You let go of her hand as there was little else you could do for her.

"We can try to push the Eljidey-Naran lead further starting tomorrow or go for Ayla's or Bodie's sweetheart traces, depending on where you think we'd get clearer insights. Just be wary that we aren't the only ones trying to get to the bottom of it, and I... I can no longer guarantee we won't be threatened, sabotaged, or even fought by other kherees."

_________________________

[] Lucy's reply to Seph's fitness patronage offer:
-[] Yes
-[] No
(Lucy's STR rises by 1 every 8 days starting Bloom 29 while Sephorah has access to Lucy (including sorties), and both are in stable conditions. This stops when Lucy's STR reaches permanent 12, regardless of the sources. This comes at the cost of Lucy having one less minor action in the camping activities phases for the duration of the course. It may have other side benefits or cause events.)

Next point in Kherees murders investigation:
-[] The kheree outpost mentioned in the Eljidey-Naran lead (continue investigating Eljidey's suspicion of Bodie's murder by trying to question the last kheree hunter he spoke with)
-[] Ayla's & Tymor's hideout (switch to investigating the reasons why two promising hunters left the ranks during the moment of in-group conflict)
-[] Bodie's sweetheart's stead (switch to trying to tail the alledged victim's last days & contacts)

[] With Inga, Ulren, and...
-[] Sephorah
-[] Karl
-[] Amalia
-[] Jorgen
-[] Isaac
(pick one)