Episode 3 Chapter 1: Struggle

Episode 3! Nanowrimo! (google it)

I haven't titled it yet. I've managed to distill the essence to a phrase: "Survival is Sin." It could end up being the title, even if it may not quite cover the abstract 'moral' I'm going for.

Alright, newbies start here. If you're ready for this third installment, click here or below. Salute! Adieu.

Chapter 1: Struggle

Idris grunted as he collided with the animal. Its horns provided him a good place to

grip and push, but even with his feet firmly planted, he was still losing ground. The beast was optimized for this sort of contest: the tamers referred to mulchers as the moose’s smaller cousin, while the hunters joked they were more like a goat’s big brother. Regardless, the species was evolved to fight this way, and despite a full week of trying, Idris wasn’t about to overcome that affinity.

Cascata took another swig of her drink as Idris was once again pushed onto his back. The mulcher sensed its victory early, and was careful not to step on Idris when he fell. The hunter matron wasn’t sure if she was more impressed by the mulcher’s ability to learn or Lyn’s ability to train. Regardless, the beast had served Cascata well over the years. Nothing bulked an apprentice up like grappling with this bundle of muscle.

“I can’t believe her feet,” Svara observed. She and Dahlia sat on either side of Cascata, taking a break from their dances to watch Idris and Jaquan train. “Can she grab stuff?”

It was the mulcher’s strangest feature, Cascata had no doubt. It had actual feet where the hooves should go, with toes as long as fingers and twice as thick. “Nah. It’s got little plates all underneath, even on th’ toes. They feel like hooves, Minimulch’ll let ya feel if ya want. Sure, they c’n bend lots, but it ain’t like they could make fists ‘er nothin’.”

“Ya should see ‘er climb!” Dahlia bragged. “Mulchers love it. We get to th’ rockier areas, you’ll see. They run straight up boulders an’ li’l bluffs. I seen Minimulch standin’ on a smooth cliff, no lyin’. Just lookin’ me right’n the eye and chewin’ whatever plant she found like it was the normalest thing ever.”

“Is she really smaller than her kin?” Svara asked. “Idris has a pretty solid build and he doesn’t last very long.”

“Aye, she’s a famous runt. ‘at’s why she’s Lyn’s favorite mulcher. Look fer yerself next time ye’re near the herd, you’ll see. Soko thinks she might be like a mule, got a regular deer for a dad or somethin’. She had another name once, but then someone called ‘er Minimulch and e’eryone decided that was more fun ta say. Anyway, none o’ me hunters could win a wrestle with the regular mulchers.”

“I could!” Dahlia boasted.

“Try it,” Cascata goaded. “Jus’ don’ come cryin’ ta me when ya get trampled.”

“Does anybody ever get hurt doing this?” Svara asked.

“Not with Minimulch,” Cascata said. “Lyn’s been doin’ this with her since she was a calf. Most of ‘em do it when they mad at each other, but to Minimulch i’s just play. Lyn taught her ta stop once she’s got ya down, the others don’t got that kind o’ mercy.”

As if to prove Cascata’s point, Minimulch nudged Idris’s forehead with her own, encouraging him to try again. He smiled patiently and scratched behind her ears to distract her as he caught his breath.

“I never knew the Dawnless Woods contained such gentle creatures,” Svara confessed. “In the North, all the tales are so… demonic.”

“Wha’s ‘demonic’?” Dahlia asked. Cascata took a gulp of her drink, hoping Svara would explain before the matron had to admit she didn’t know the word either.

“I guess I don’t know how to explain it to someone who doesn’t know religion.” Svara chuckled. “It means ‘monstrous,’ more or less.”

“There’s monsters in’ere too.” Cascata wiped her mouth. “That’s righ’, you knew that already. Ya killed one!”

Cascata still struggled to believe it, but she’d watched this young foreigner kill the biggest creature she’d ever encountered. They called if Fleahorn, and it was already a staple of the clan’s fireside tales. Taller than three men and heavier than twenty, it had a nose like an enormous sword and sheltered four dog-sized bloodsuckers on its neck. It killed more than ten warriors - most of them enemies of the clan - before this girl opened its belly. She had some help from Dahlia and was happy to share the credit, but the warrior matron was still impressed.

“I think he must be an outlier, though,” Svara continued. “There’s not one beast in your herd I’ve ever seen before. They all come from the forest, don’t they? Yet here they are, living in harmony with the family.”

“That’s ‘cause they’re part o’ the family,” Dahlia explained. “The woods ain’t good or bad, even if they’s unique. Ain’t do nobody any good to pretend they’re more than they is.”

Dahlia’s words weren’t wrong, but Cascata suspected she didn’t respect the environment as much as she should. It didn’t matter much; she would soon.

His legs shook, but Idris climbed back to his feet. Grabbing Minimulch by the horns prompted her to resume her play, and once again Idris’s feet dug tiny trenches through the weeds and soil as he was pushed back.

“He’s tenacious,” Svara observed. “Gotta respect that spirit.”

“This is kinda unlike him,” Cascata admitted. “‘tis a good sign. ‘es a sleepy lad, not used ta workin’ ‘ard. Glad ta see he can.”

“‘e ain’t makin’ great progress though,” Dahlia teased. “I was already winnin’ by this point.”

“Were ya now?” Cascata snuck her good arm behind Dahlia’s neck and trapped her in a headlock. “I seem ta remember it diff’rently!”

“Memory fades-,” Dahlia grunted as she struggled to free herself. “With age!”

“Even if that were true, ya got at least twelve years on poor Minimulch!” The hunter matron dug her knuckles into the student’s scalp. “She was just a babe when you was doin’ this. Idris ain’t wrestlin’ the same mulcher you was, ‘e’s got it ‘arder!”

Dahlia managed to slip loose by surprising Cascata with a squeeze of the ticklish bit around her knee. “Ya ain’t gotta make excuses for him, my records ain’t easy ta beat…”

“Hey matron, is he okay?” Svara interrupted.

The roughhousing women paused to look at Idris. He was still grasping Minimulch’s horns, but now he was on both knees and heaving. Minimulch had stopped pushing, but kept nudging him playfully. Idris didn’t seem to notice; after a couple seconds, he vomited.

“Oi, Id!” Cascata climbed to her feet and jogged towards him. “Wha’s a’matter, lad?”

He was shivering despite the heat, and was breathing too heavily to answer. It meant he’d either agreed to the exercise while being ill or had just exerted himself too much. Either way, it didn’t do anyone any good to have him push this much.

“Ya passed the puke point,” Dahlia observed. “Ya ain’t supposed ta pass th’ puke point, dummy.”

“What’s wrong?!” Jaquan panted, looking terrified as he arrived from the other direction. He still clutched a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. “Is he hurt?!”

“Relax, lad, ‘e’ll be fine,” Cascata assured. At least, she hoped he’d be okay; the ‘puke point’ was taught her hunters about, but this wasn’t the type of training she usually used to help them determine where that point was. Idris hadn’t gotten that far yet. A person wouldn’t usually push themselves that far without some harsh encouragement. What was Idris so ‘encouraged’ by?

“Please - “ he managed a plea between breaths. “Please don’t give up on me.”

“Why would I do tha’?” Cascata asked, flummoxed. “I’m the one tha’ talked ya into this, lad. I ain’t seen anything that would change me mind.”

Idris slowly raised his head to meet her gaze. “For real?”

“Fer double real,” Cascata gave his forehead a playful flick. She’d need to ask the elder about this later; some broken thoughts were probably tormenting him, and the hunter matron wasn’t confident about fixing those without guidance. “Time fer a break. Get some water and a snack.”

“Not sure I’m hungry…” Idris said.

“You’ll thank me after. C’mon, take me hand.” Cascata helped him to his feet and stayed close in case he got unsteady. Minimulch continued her playful butting against Idris’ ribs, so Cascata plucked a handful of weeds and offered it to the mulcher. “You too, smelly. Break time.”

She was surrounded by such bounty, but the plants must have looked tastier from a person’s hand. Minimulch accepted the treat and began munching. These animals were known to eat just about anything that resembled a plant. Cascata was pretty sure they got their name from eating mulch.

After a moment to consider, Cascata decided it might be good to distract Dahlia, too. “Oi, I lost my entertainment. You two wanna get back ta dancin’ for me? Svara looked ta have the ‘vantage last I remember.”

“Ya goin’ blind as well as senile?!” Dahlia raged. “C’mon Svara, I’ma put ya on yer butt!”

“C’mon now,” Svara rubbed the back of her head. “I’m not the one who said it, don’t take it out on me!”

“No whinin’!” Dahlia commanded. “We ain’t allowed ta take it easy anyway, remember?”

Svara sighed and gave Cascata a sarcastic smile. “Thanks so much, matron.”

“Any time, lass,” Cascata winked. She expected all of them knew that Svara was too strong for Dahlia to bully. “Don’ turn yer back on ‘er, she can play dirty.”

Dahlia took the matron’s words as a cue, and Svara narrowly avoided a cheap shot. The two apprentice warriors were sparring again, as much with word as body. Cascata turned to Jaquan, who still watched Idris with a look of concern. “Ya hittin’ the target more often?”

“Yes,” Jaquan wasn’t one to boast. As he was with everything, he seemed intimidated by his new duties. “Are you really okay, Id?”

“Yeah,” Idris nodded and smiled. He’d finally caught his breath. “Get back to it, brother.”

Jaquan smiled and trotted away. Cascata and Idris walked back toward the blanket, where several waterskins and a pot of nuts and dry berries waited.

“She ain’t the biggest beastie in th’ herd,” Cascata said. “But she is a bundle o’ muscle. It’s gonna take lots o’ days and lots o’ food ‘fore you get the muscle ta match, Id. Turnin’ yer tummy inside-out ain’t gonna make that happen faster. Rest when ya need to.”

Idris looked at her for several seconds without saying anything. The same feature that qualified him to be a warrior was the one that prevented him from being a hunter: like Jedrek and Lyn, he was prone to daydreams. It was the sort of smart that made Inga such a good elder, the sort of smart that would distract him in the complete darkness of the Dawnless Woods. She couldn’t teach him the focus she had, the focus that let her hunt while blind.

It also means ya can’t leave me guessin’ about what’s bother’n ya, ‘cause I’ll never guess right. Maybe Mum can, but not me.

“Makes sense to me,” he shrugged. “I’ll pay closer attention to my fatigue from now on. Sorry if I scared ya.”

Actin’ brave, which means ya think I can’t help ya. Fine, ye’re prob’ly right. There’s more goin’ on, though, ya can’t fool me so easy.

“We leave tomorrow.” Idris said.

“Tha’s righ’,” Cascata took a swig of water. She didn’t want to think about this.

“How many are still out?” Idris asked anyway.

“Eight,” the matron replied. More than they’d ever lost on a single hunt by very wide margin. It meant the elder was right, it meant they’d angered the forest’s master. She wondered how much of this Idris knew about.

“That’s more than we usually lose in a year.” Idris observed.

“Aye. Aye, we’re in for a rough walk.” Was this what tortured him? She doubted Idris was that simple; he was more likely trying to distract her from his pain by choosing a subject she’d obsess about.

As they watched Dahlia and Svara in silence, she supposed it didn’t have to be one thing or the other. He could easily be bothered by both at once.

-CUT-

Surveys are far from ubiquitous anyway, but there's just no way during Nanowrimo. Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it later!

How Darkness Rolls!

This is not an original idea, I'm almost convinced. If you know where I stole this idea from, please tell me! It's driving me mad. The only thing I can think of is Futurama's 2-d episode, and I honestly don't think this came from that. Maybe?

'Darkness' (an element) in Arbiter travels using this principle. I have a short story on the backburner where a scientist who invented a new form of interstellar travel was going to use a metaphor like this to explain his invention to Congress.

Here we go!


Not String Theory, but it's a fun exercise!

John is a very small person who lives on a string (yarn, if you’re curious!)

If it seems strange for someone to live on yarn, there are some things you must understand about John. First, John doesn’t know about other people, and yarn is the only surface he’s ever seen. He doesn’t know he has other choices!

Next, John doesn’t understand what the words ‘left’ or ‘right’ mean. John only knows ‘up,’ ‘down,’ ‘forward,’ and ‘back;’ in fact, the only thought John gives to ‘up’ and ‘down’ is that his head is supposed to go above his feet! He doesn’t think about what’s under the yarn or above the sky. He doesn’t even like to look back! John’s only interest is in moving forward.

Some of you may have guessed the truth already: John is, essentially, a 2-dimensional person. You musn’t judge him for it; while he may seem ignorant to us, he actually fancies himself to be a scientist!

John wants to know if the string ever ends, and if it does, he wants to know what happens when he reaches the end. So John walks along his string. It never gets boring, because the string is all he’s known. The only things he’s ever seen are himself and his string! So on he walks, and walks, and walks until he can walk no more. Eventually, poor John can’t go on, and he lays down to die.

How sad, but also, how noble! John lived and died in pursuit of the truth! Remember him fondly.

If only we could share the truth with him now; how do you think he might react? You see, there is a remarkable coincidence in John’s story: the point that marked the start of his journey was only a string’s width away from the point where he ended it. Had he known about ‘left’ and ‘right,’ he could have reached that same destination with a simple jump to his left.

As you may have guessed, John’s thread was wrapped upon itself into a ball of yarn. The poor little man didn’t really understand the horizon, couldn’t fathom how his straight and narrow path was actually curved into a circle. Nor could he have understood that, from his first moments to his last, his yarn was falling from a table to the floor. Poor John didn’t get to live very long, did he?

John had followed his thread all the way around the ball exactly 1 time, ending his life where the string ran parallel to the portion where he started his life. John may be a 2-dimensional thinker, but his world is 3-dimensional, or maybe more! Through those ‘left’ and ‘right’ mechanics his 2-dimensional brain could never understand, his thread was wound around the prime meridian of the ball with a slight slant (in relation to the core) to John’s ‘right.’

Pretend you’re the one who wound the ball; you’ve wrapped it over itself countless times, and you’re almost done! This time, you want to wind the string around with an almost-perfectly longitudal orientation, only off-center just enough to leave room for the next row of string to line up next to this one as you make another lap. If you make that slant to the right, and you keep the string as straight as you can at that angle as you wrap it all the way around the ball, then that slant turns from ‘right’ to ‘left’ as you wrap it around the bottom side of the ball and back up just to the left of where you started again.

It’s a simple thing for us, isn’t it? Of course that’s how it works, that’s why we need East and West in addition to ‘left’ and ‘right!’ It’s all a matter of perspective. But for poor ignorant John, who can’t comprehend ‘left’ and ‘right,’ can you imagine how magical it must seem for this incomprehensible ‘right’ to somehow become ‘left?!’

So there you have it. John’s entire life occurred as a ball of yarn fell from a table to a floor, and it lasted just long enough to make one complete circle around the globe (a shape he could never understand, remember; he’s only 2-D!)

Afterward, the ball hit the floor and bounced once before Schrodinger’s cat pounced on it. Or maybe it didn’t pounce, I wasn’t looking. The point is, poor John and his noble quest for the truth was always doomed to fail, because John wasn’t capable of thinking in 3 dimensions.

This, of course, begs the question: what if there are more than 3 dimensions? There’s time, of course, but if that’s a dimension, we only know how to move forward along that string. What if there’s 5 or 6? What if we could reach Mars in an instant if we only knew how to jump to our 5th-dimensional ‘left?’

Oh, how lamentable, to be a poor 3-dimensional John! Still, isn’t it noble to try so hard to seek the truth?

So, for those of you who wondered how Robin Priest summoned that 'sphere' of Darkness to swallow Johann, this was how.

Darkness, the purest form of matter... 99.999999999% of it lives way far out in space - thousands upon millions upon billions of light years for us string-travelers. It doesn't matter, we really can't wrap our heads around the distance

Darkness understands at least 5 dimensions though, and a really big blob of it shifted ever so slightly to its 5th-dimensional left so that an itty-bitty-bitty portion poked into Robin's world long enough to smash and drain Johann's body into space dust - because those millions of light years by string aren't that far away if you just know how to turn in the correct direction.

To summarize, I don't get it either, but Darkness isn't bound by our understanding! It's got a special perspective.

Chapter 14: Passages

I thought this chapter would be easier. I knew what it needed to cover, what it need to resolve and set up; execution's hard! Oh well, I've refined it a little bit, you can help me do that some more!

I guess maybe I'm expecting more from the ending of the second episode? I'm calling them episodes because they're closer to TV episodes than they are installments of Harry Potter or Game of Thrones books; much more bite-sized. I have a logical understanding that the stakes and the tension and the conclusions are gonna vary from chapter to chapter, but my emotional understanding isn't there yet. Maybe this one just isn't quite right yet?

"I'll just throw it up for now and then fix it later" - another on a long list of candidates for my epitaph.

-+=+- If you're new to this series, start here. If you want the beginning of this episode, Chasing Wind starts here. Finally, click below or this Protagonize link to read in different colors. -+=+-

Chapter 14: Passages

Inga opened her eyes to a sunny sky. Hadn’t she just been in her tent, laying on the ground near the man she killed? That was moments ago, she was certain! She sat with a start.

Cascata glanced over as Inga regretted her maneuver. She’d be feeling that in her lower back for the rest of the day. Of course that wasn’t moments ago, you old fool. You’ve probably been out a whole day.

“How long was I asleep?” Inga asked.

“All night.” Cascata answered. “It’s almos’ midday now.”

How was that possible? Inga considered. If she’d absorbed enough sunlight, then maybe... “You brought me out here as soon as the sun rose?”

“Aye. Trent said ya used too much light. I remember ya started ‘avin’ Idris sleep outside and durin’ the day ‘cause he don’t hold light as well. Figured this was worth a shot.”

Cascata had gotten better at her calculations. Even after all this time, Inga was surprised at her continued growth. “What happened?”

“Where ta start?” Cascata shrugged. “We won, fer starters. Take a gander’t that kill.”

It took a moment to get her bearings. The matron and elder were on a hide blanket in the field, not far from camp. An enormous carcass jutted out of the foliage between. Her family was crawling over it like ants, slowly peeling bits of armor and flesh away and walking it back to camp. Whatever it had been in life, it was now the single biggest butchering the clan had ever attempted.

“Is that a type we’ve seen before?” Inga squinted and shielded her eyes.

“Nah.” Cascata shook her head. “We callin’ it Fleahorn, and we’re pretty sure it’s like Stinger and Chomp. I doubt we’ll ever see one like it again.”

There was smoke on the air. Wincing as her back protested, Inga twisted to look behind her. Countless fires were burning a good distance away.

“The enemy?” Inga asked.

“No survivors, near’s we c’n tell. Some were dumb enough ta get ate by the herd, and there’s th’ one you killed. I guess there could be more, but we think they all grouped up when Fleahorn came out.”

This was all good news. Inga was sure there would be bad news to come with it, and she had to force herself to ask. “What did this cost us?”

“Three hunters,” Cascata took a swig from her waterskin. “Nor, Uda, and Hadar.”

Their faces flashed in Inga’s mind as Cascata recited their names. She felt like her heart had been pierced. Falling onto her back and covering her eyes as she wailed at the sky. Nor and Hadar had been born to the clan, and Uda had been in his mother’s arms when she stumbled into camp. They were all children to Inga. Why did they have to be taken before she was?

Inga fought the grief as best she could, but trying to suppress the sobs only sent them wracking through her body. It made sitting back up that much harder. All the while, Cascata remained silent, taking long drafts from her waterskin and staring straight ahead.

“You think crying makes me weak?” Inga hated blubbering like this in front of her children; this child, in particular. It added a touch of indignance to her grief.

“Nah. Does not crying make me a monster?” Cascata replied.

Inga sniffed and wiped her nose. “No, dear, no. Sorry.”

They sat without speaking for a long time, taking turns on Cascata’s waterskin as Inga let the tears dry out. There was much to discuss and much to be done, and Inga didn’t really know where to start.

“Trent’s okay?” Inga asked.

“Everyone’s fine. Lael took a couple too many slashes, but yer healers’re lettin’ Jedrek practice on ‘er, so she can’t be that bad. Everythin’ else is jus’ scratches n’ bruises.”

“How many enemies were there?”

“Thirty-odd.”

Too many. This didn’t make sense. “How did you beat so many, Cascata?”

The younger woman rubbed the back of her head. “C’mon, ya know I ain’t good with numbers. There were like four for e’ery one of us, jus’ like when Kirana’n them killed the first ones.”

“The first wave was exhausted when they found Evan and Nuray. I’ll count the numbers, dear. Just tell me how the fight went.”

“Oh, ‘kay!” Cascata seemed more excited now. “So I was kinda duelin’ one guy far from e’eryone else…”

“I wish you hadn’t been,” Inga interrupted, pointing at Cascata’s injury.

Cascata just shrugged. “... so I couldn’t really watch. But Kirana’s story kin’a explains how e’eryone did it! First off, numbers weren’t so bad ‘cause some died away from our fight.”

Inga killed one, and Cascata claimed the herd killed three more. 26, at fewest.

“They ambushed us ‘fore we knew they was there, righ’? We los’ 2 and they los’ 1 then, so whatever that brings us to…”

25 to 11.

“Then when the real fight started, that’s when it went bad for ‘em. Kirana says e’eryone did somethin’ like her: two or three were rushin’ one of us, all aimin’ for soft spots like Svara ‘ad us practice. So we moved all unpredictable, right?  Kirana jumps torward ‘em even though she’s usin’ a bow, and they get all confuse’ and she takes one down before the other two know what ‘appened. About ‘alf my hunters did somethin’ like that, they lost lots on their first charge.”

20 to 11. Cascata had claimed it was originally four to one, but Inga expected it was more like three; by this point, it had become two to one.

“Then it slowed down lots ‘cause Fleahorn was in play. It killed 2 o’ them first, an’ the second guy was they leader. They sorta panicked or got angry after that. Fleahorn got half of the rest, we did the other half.”

Then the monster brought us to one-to-one. Not so miraculous as it was just bad fortune for the enemy. We were prepared, and Fleahorn was much worse for them than it was for us.

Inga sighed. The price was still far too high, but… “We were fortunate. They could have ended us. With so few hunters home, their numbers were enough to kill us all.”

“Well, the herd woulda been fine.” Cascata argued. “Soko might even get bothered ta sic ‘em on the enemy, if it got bad enough.”

“They were many and they were skilled, Cass,” Inga said. “Were it not for for Svara’s guidance, the herd might be all that was left of us now. If it had been 30 against 13, and especially without Svara’s tactics, their survivors could have killed the rest of us at their leisure.”

“Aye,” Cascata admitted. “Aye. It coulda been much worse.”

Despite the night’s overexertion - Inga knew it could have killed her - she now felt restless. How many children will I sacrifice before I’m satisfied? How long can this go on before I lose them all? She’d lost count of the years, but she knew it must be close to a century since she played in Midway’s sunny meadows. Was there any hope for reclaiming her homeland?

There were still no traces of Robin Priest, or even the city’s ruling council. They must have fallen to that faceless enemy who took the light away. Without speakers of their caliber, what chance did the clan have?

Is there anything left to save? Do I risk leaving this agenda as my sole, spiteful legacy?

“It may be time we abandon the woods, Cascata.” Inga hated the thought, but she could bear the guilt even less.

The hunter matron laughed. “Good luck with that! Ya got enough argument ta convince the hunters - convince anyone - o’ that?”

It wasn’t the response Inga expected, but she knew Cascata was right. Inga had never shared her own agenda with anyone; she wasn’t the original leader, and her predecessors’ purpose here had never involved Midway. Hers was always a secondary objective. Why had she thought she was subjecting anyone to unnecessary danger?

“Perhaps,” Inga bluffed. She still had concerns. “If we remain, I think we need to increase the amount of hunters. No, increase the amount of warriors. We are always finding family among political exiles, and while none of them have lead to a confrontation until last night, we also need to confront the possibility that we encounter a group who doesn’t need such a reason to attack us. We’ve become too big, we have things that other people are willing to kill for. We need to have a force devoted to protection at all times.”

There was movement near Fleahorn’s carcass. Inga recognized Svara as she emerged from the crowd. It looked like she was headed their way.

“Sounds good ta me,” Cascata shrugged. “I have lots o’ time to train youngin’s, and we got lots o’ chil’ren who ain’t apprenticed yet. Idris n’ Jaquan’re both prime.”

“Really?” Inga was surprised she said those names first. “Jaquan’s fears will be hard to conquer. They’re very deeply-routed. And Idris? He’s a large boy, but something in his body doesn’t work right. I don’t know if he’s capable of the endurance he would need.”

“Combat’s compl’cated,” Cascata replied. “I know ye’re used ta thinkin’, but ya only got yer first kill las’ night, right? War’s a new kinda math fer you, I been doin’ it longer. I got some ideas on how ta use cowards n’ sloths. Trus’ me, they got potential.”

Inga shuddered as she remembered the boy she killed. For decades she’d been lecturing on how traumatic the first kill was. As she feared, her imagination had fallen short of reality.

“I suppose I’m not as worried about their competence as I am about their wellbeing,” Inga confessed. “Won’t it break them?”

“It’s jus’ work, like any o’ the other duties,” Cascata replied. “If they’re suited for it, they’ll be fine. If they’re not, I’ll let ya know, they can do somethin’ else.”

Like any other duty? Inga had her doubts, but she trusted Cascata’s judgment more than most - perhaps any- of her childrens’. It wouldn’t hurt to let her try.

Svara was close enough for Inga to be certain of her destination. She sighed, expecting she was coming to say goodbye. It was bound to be a bittersweet conversation, but she supposed she ought to finish this talk before that one started.

“So Idris and Jaquan. Do you have any other names in mind?” Inga asked.

“I have one!” Svara called. Inga furrowed her brow. How had the girl heard her?

The older women watched as Svara increased her pace. Each step was more like a leap, but the jumps lacked any sign of exertion. It looked like she was skipping in reduced gravity. Inga felt a pang of envy; it looked like fun.

Svara came to an abrupt stop at the edge of their blanket. “You should accept me as one of your warriors.”

Inga nearly choked on her breath, but Cascata didn’t seem surprised. “Oh? Weren’t ya gonna move on?”

“When I was being chased, yes, that was the plan,” Svara nodded. “You freed me from the chase. The way I see it, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe us,” Inga argued. “If you stay, it should be because you want to. Don’t get me wrong, you’re welcome to! But don’t do it for the wrong reasons…”

“I have to and I want to and I need to. Right, wrong, I’m doing it for every sort of reason there is.” Svara’s smile was so sincere that Inga couldn’t muster any more resistance. She wanted this daughter, and she wouldn’t turn her away.

“Then welcome to the family, child.” Tears began to cloud her vision again. “Still, are you sure you want to be a warrior? It sounds glamorous, but there’s a heavy cost. To take a life…”

“She can ‘andle it, she done it once,” Cascata pointed at Fleahorn. “She and Dahlia done him in.”

“That monster?!” Inga’s eyes bulged a little. “How? And why did you allow them to fight?!”

Cascata rubbed the back of her head. “I didn’t really ‘allow’ nothin’...”

“I was raised to spy and kill, Elder Inga,” Svara said. “Well, raised to teach those arts, at least. It’s more or less the same.”

With a thoughtful frown, Inga considered. She glanced at Cascata. “She’d be your charge, matron. What do you say?”

“I wouldn’ let ‘er hunt yet. I’d let ‘er fight. Well, maybe. We’ll dance wit’ ‘er, get her ta add the things we do well ta her art.”

“In the meantime, I’m an ideal scout,” Svara added. “I can cover lots of ground, and the wind brings me rumors. I came over here because I heard your voice on the breeze.”

If that was true, then Svara was uniquely qualified for keeping watch. If the wind acted as an extra sense for her, then she could serve a warrior’s purpose without endangering herself. Inga didn’t need any more convincing.

“I’m satisfied. You have auspicious timing, dear. I fear we might make immediate use of you.”

“Yeah?” Svara tilted her head. “Why’s that?”

“The Elder’s jus’ rattled ‘bout last night,” Cascata claimed before taking another gulp of her drink.

“Cavalier as ever,” Inga grumbled. “No, Cass. I appreciate your resilience, but we’ve taken big losses. Kadmus, Gelilah, Nikhil, Conan…” Inga counted them off with her fingers. “Seven hunters between the last two camps. That’s about as many as we lost in the entire year before, Cass. Something is changing.”

“Hm.” Cascata smirked. “Maybe ye’re right. Maybe something fun is comin’.”

Inga sighed, but she actually envied Cascata’s attitude. It would help see them through this. “The entity who took the light away is still in there. It’s still perverting the woods with monsters like Fleahorn and Stinger, and it can’t be a coincidence that Fleahorn appeared when the Breathers did. We’ve now killed two of the war-types, Cass. Its creator might not appreciate that.”

“Ya can’t create beasties,” Cascata scoffed.

“And you can’t take the sun away from an entire nation!” Inga retorted. “But something can, and we’re neighbors with it. If it had any affection for Fleahorn, then we might have earned its anger.”

Svara looked pale, even for a Northerner. “Have… have I doomed us?”

“What? No!” Inga smiled and shook her head. “No, child, it had to die. You should be proud, you did a great thing. I’m just saying that survival has consequences.”

“And we’re hopin’ these cons’quences’ll be fun, lass,” Cascata said. “Ya done me two favors by killin’ Fleahorn.”

Inga groaned. “You reacted to the circumstances. That should be celebrated. I’m just trying to prepare for what comes next.”

“Only so much we can do when we don’ know what’s comin’,” Cascata observed.

“Could we actively try to find out?” Svara asked. “Or maybe find a more defensible place we could go?”

“Yes, to both!” Inga said. “But we’ll need to wait for the hunters to return. Our next camp is unique, and I’ll feel much more comfortable once we’re there.”

Thinking of the destination was comforting, though it would mean skipping one of their usual stops. Inga had a sister and a son waiting at the end of the coming trek. Their unique nature inspired them to make a permanent home there. The reunion was always joyous, but there would be an extra layer of comfort this time. The two of them had survived the longest excursion into these woods than anyone she’d ever known. They were certain to have some insight.

“Avoid the city and don’t follow any roads; don’t make extra stops on the trail and don’t extend the migration; if you hear a river or reach the silence, you’ve gone too far.” Her sister gave lots of advice, but was reluctant to share the memories related to that wisdom. Perhaps it was time to ask a difficult favor.

That would have to wait. The clan needed to get there before it could solicit advice, and Inga doubted this would be the leisurely hike they were used to. The path had been safe for a century, but the currents of history were as fickle as the winds. Sooner or later, they would have to shift.