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While the others gather around Toby, Purpose Creche still stands by the body. He turns inwards, alternatingly lost in thought and murmuring aloud, one hand on his pendant.
"No full rites and no rest for the dead." And what do you know? "Who else would see it done?" Is that your right, to bear him onwards when you will not walk the same way? "Regardless."
He moves to the body's feet.
Progenitor, continue to bear our and my weight.
The air in front of Purpose Creche shimmers in the vague outline of a disk. He steps up and, with some effort, pulls the dead farmer off the box and into the air. The body begins to sag downwards, but the wyrwood ducks underneath the flat, circular distortion and seems to support the body with a shoulder and outstretched arm.
And guide our and my way.
Four silver lights flicker into place above him. He begins moving. He takes the longbow from the wall, and the chalice from where it rolled after the restless spirit hurled it at him. When he leans to pick it up, he can feel the small crack it made in his body when it struck him. The floating body mirrors his dip and rise. Still supporting it, he walks to his companions and plucks three berries from Sil'tchaak's outstretched hand.
"I will do what I can to perform the proper rites. We should bury him near the garden plots. He provided for his community as Erastil provides for his followers." He adjusts his position beneath the floating disk. "I could use help digging the grave. But you don't have to."
He begins walking to the tool shed, his dark coat casting shifting shadows in the silver light. A small and unlikely pallbearer bearing a stranger's burden.
****************
Purpose Creche kneels next to the grave. The silver flecks still float above him. They are few and their light is faint, pitiable heralds for the swath of stars just beginning to appear in the gloaming above. The body still floats next to him as well; at Purpose Creche's mental direction, it slowly drifts over and into the hole in the soil. Though soft, there is the unceremonious sound of flesh falling to earth.
Purpose Creche stands. Moving slowly, he places several objects at the grave's edge: near the man's head, the longbow; near his left hand, the three red berries; near his right hand, the chalice recently filled with fresh well water.
The wyrwood steps carefully around the grave to stand by the man's feet. With precise motions of each then both hands, he indicates the food, the drink, and finally the bow. He looks down at the man. I am sorry. I hope this is enough.
He kneels in the dirt once more, wraps wooden fingers around the shovel, and begins to fill the grave.
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Later that evening, shadows writhe on the rough timber walls while the fire dances merrily in the hearth; the potato was underdone but delicious nonetheless.
As deep night closes over the island, waves crash on the distant shore. They form a constant presence, a song without words. For those in the cabin trying to grasp some meaning, the song holds no answer — hopeless and hollow as the village itself, senseless as the constant tragedies of the day.
Llyu-Llyu naps atop Silt's head, her wide front fins dangling between his large golden eyes. A shapeless straw hat lies heaped against a driftwood club; subtly tooled patterns of coral catch in the firelight on Silt's strange hide armor.
He sips a pungent tea, nodding silently in time with the waves as if he hears an answer. After a time, he gazes Purpose.
Good grave rites. Not their kind. Knowing their ways.
He stares at the fresh-cut timber walls, silent for so long you think he might be finished. But then: Defiling their horned god, severing their means of survival in this place… so short a time here. Why?
He grunts and looks again at Purpose. You seem to know their rites, their words. Why? Beneath the salty air and kelp tea, you can still smell sap in the fresh-cut timber. The waves answer.
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These strange pods seem like poison but can heal bruises, Cedar. Toby, perhaps they can also clear your mind. Here, have some. He holds out his colorfully webbed hands; a single berry in one, a dozen in the other.
"Thanks, Silt, but I'm ok now. Really. I don't know what came over me, just suddenly running and hiding was all I could think of." His voice gets lower and he looks away. "I feel like I've done nothing but hide since we got here." He seems to trail off, his last words barely audible. "Longer than that, really."
-----
Toby helps with the burial service, carrying things and digging the hole, as directed by Purpose. He moves a little slower than normal, saying almost nothing, and with none of the youthful exuberance you saw earlier in the day. When you see him, he seems to be staring off into oblivion, his mouth occasionally moving as if having some internal debate.
-----
When the work is done, the rites performed and the the body laid to rest, the party retreats to what passes for a safe place for the night.
Toby sits by himself as you eat and prepare to sleep, distant and not speaking. A frown creases his brow and he sets his jaw, as if steeling himself for something. Standing, he speaks, hesitantly at first, but gaining strength as he goes. "I...I want to tell you all something. I don't want to hide any more." When someone begins to speak, he looks pleadingly and continues. "Please, just let me get through this."
"I told you on the ship that I left home because I wanted adventure, and....well, because I wasn't a very good shepherd. That was true but...that wasn't the whole story. You've all seen it now anyway, so there's no sense in hiding anymore.
"Weird..." he hesitates, as if searching for the right words. "Weird things happen around me sometimes. Have since I was about fifteen. I came home one day bruised and soaking wet, and told my folks I had fallen into the creek. I've fallen in the creek plenty of times," a brief smile crossing his face, "but that day it wasn't true. Really, I fell out of a tree I was climbing when water just burst outta my hand for no reason! It was parta why I wasn't very good at shepherdin', too. Scares the wool off 'em when you hit 'em with a jet of water outta nowhere. I learned to control it a bit, but still, in a little village like mine, people start to talk. You can't hide something like that, not for long anyway, and I began to get weird looks. My parents too." Softer, he adds "That's why I left home." After a moment, he continues. "Everywhere I traveled I tried my best to hide whatever it is, but the more I try to suppress it, the more likely it is to happen when I don't want it to. Eventually someone would see or something would happen, and the next day I would pack up and keep going farther down the road.
"I thought on this expedition I would be able to hide. I thought, who's gonna notice a little more water on a boat, or on the island? No one here knew me, and I thought maybe I could just be normal. Just more running and hiding, I guess...
"Anyway, I had a lot of time to think this afternoon, and I've decided I don't want to hide anymore. Hidin' didn't do anyone any good today, and anyways none of you even so much as gave me a funny look when we were fighting that creepy drunken thing. So, I'm not gonna try to hide whatever I am anymore. You all know, and eventually so will all the other folks on the boat. After all," he looks around, "it's an island, isn't it? Nowhere left to run to, really." With that, he sits down again, and regards you all. A weight seems to be lifted from him, though he still scans your faces nervously for reaction.
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Inside the Felton house, Cedar sits in his bedroll, propped on his side, listening to Toby as the waves crash in the distance.
When Toby finishes, Cedar smiles and says, "Toby, thank you. I'm honored that you would share your secret with us. That's a very brave thing and I admire your courage. From the very beginning, when the four of us first became bunkmates, a very long six weeks ago, I had a feeling that we were all going to make a great team. And we did! I can hardly believe what we went through in only one day. And we certainly couldn't have done it without your abilities Toby."
"I know what you mean about wanting to find a place where you could just be normal and not have to hide anymore. That's what I was hoping for too when I signed up for this venture. But seeing what happened to the first colony, and how they turned on each other..."
Cedar sits up with a newfound intensity and looks from Toby to Silt to Purpose.
"I think we should make a pact, or an oath of some sort, right here, on our first night in Talmandor’s Bounty, that we'll always be honest with each other and support each other as friends do. That we'll never lie or betray one another, no matter what happens. That we will learn from those who came before us and not fall to the same mistakes they made."
"What do you say bunkmates?"
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Purpose Creche sits cross legged, thin sandy-grained legs emerging from the long coat fanned out behind him. It spreads across more of the the uneven floorboards than it usually would; the iron waistband that holds the garment against the wyrwood’s body lies on the floor before him, resting in between the dark wooden splinter and the sheathed Azlanti longsword. Ruddy firelight glimmers on the golden wire and polished leather of the blade’s sheath. Purpose Creche’s dark eyeband reflects the dancing flames’ partner in this chiaroscuro waltz.
He listens to the others’ stories. He notes Toby’s uncertainty and Cedar’s mercurial excitement, and speaks when they have finished.
”There’s no shame in the power your wield, Toby. No shame in coming to a new place to start a new life.” He begins unbuttoning his coat. ”No shame in trusting others to share your burdens. Or in learning from those that came before us.”
The dark leather parts to reveal a torso of the same sandy wood as the rest of Purpose Creche's sleight body, but wrapped in the same horizontal iron stripes that band the wyrwood’s gently pyramidal head. It would seem emaciated, were such a physical concept so clearly incongruous with the construct’s existence. In the center of his chest, between two of the iron bands and partially hidden by the pendant, is a small circular indentation. He rests one hand beneath the pendant’s iron spiral, and the middle sections of his sinuous fingers seem almost to flow and settle into the depression; more clearly than ever, his digits bend rather than articulate.
”That’s what I did. Learned from those who came before us.
”Most wyrwoods live in Arcadia, across the ocean from Avistan. My small community traveled to the Inner Sea region hundreds of years ago. They did not share the same isolationist views as their Arcadian kin.”
He gestures to his body and head with his other hand. ”Wyrwood are strange to most people. We look strange. We act strange—we don’t feel emotion like others. I don’t think we have the capacity. For now.
”My exclave wandered Avistan. They did their best to learn from those unlike them. But they always dwelled in a space apart. Too alien. When Andoran formed, they journeyed there to be part of this new society founded on the idea that all could live freely together. That is mostly true.
”I was made some hundred years after my kin settled in Andoran. There are few of us. We prosper in our way. But even those that know us are unsure how to act around us. Most of them. I don’t blame them.
”I’m sure I’m strange to all of you. I don’t feel frustration, but I wouldn’t even if I could. It’s true that, compared to other sapient beings, I’m strange.”
He reaches out and places his hands between the implements arrayed before him.
”I want to change that.
”I spent most of my fifty-two years learning how others feel. I still struggle, but I understand emotion. I can’t feel it, but I try to express my thoughts emotively. I speak of hope and sadness and anger and joy. I hope framing my thoughts in this way helps others to understand me. But what if the wyrwoods who come after me didn’t have to learn all of this on their own. What if they could be made with that knowledge already inside them. What if they could feel as others felt.”
He puts his hands on the splinter and the band, and his palms' passing shadow briefly quells the firelight’s dance on the sheathed blade.
”These are what remains of my progenitor. The one who made me. She helped me learn. She explained our place in the broader world. I would fill that roll for others. Not as mentor, but as progenitor. To make other wyrwoods who more easily fit into the world in which they dwell. Without learning, but as instinct. I think that Talmandor’s Bounty, that Ancorato, can help me.”
”The Azlanti created wyrwoods; we now create ourselves.” He taps the shallow hole in the center of his chest. ”Inside each of us is a stone. Its magic animates our wooden forms. Magic is mutable. Magic lies below material existence. Surrounds and binds it. Could I not change how magic binds me? Binds other wyrwoods? Are there secrets beneath this island, forgotten Azlanti knowledge, that could help my progeny feel and understand as others do?”
Fingers bend and twine around the iron spiral. ”Would they have souls? Do I have a soul? No Pharasmin clergy to whom I’ve spoken know. Would fulfilling my goal be blasphemy?” He taps where his collarbone would be, cracked by the restless spirit’s missile. ”I don’t care if our bodies remain fragile and our substance cold. I want a better place for us in this world.”
His odd head moves, his indistinct gaze passing from one companion to the next. ”You have all welcomed me. You’ve treated me as a person. I’m strange, but you care little.”
”You’ve heard my truth. I swear the oath. I’ll support and trust you all. We’ll learn from those who came before. We’ll make this island a place for all to start anew.”
****************
Purpose Creche watches Sil’tchaak drink his tea and express his musings against the backdrop of whispering waves and crackling flames. ”Why? I don’t know. I’ve studied others’ rites, seen how they ease a soul’s journey to the Great Beyond. That offers insights. But not enough to know what happened here, or why Silas Weatherbee met such an end. Maybe tomorrow we’ll find the answer.”
****************
Later, Purpose Creche fully removes his armored coat and folds it carefully. He places it before him, next to the band and blade and splinter. His thin little body doesn’t shiver or sweat, nor does the wound on his shoulder bleed. He still sits crosslegged, surrounded by his possessions. He stops moving completely, still as a tomb for some time, and the cracked wood by his neck slowly knits shut.
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Purpose Creche nods. "Many cultures and faiths carry their dead with them. This is another facet of the same practice. And facets of my progenitor reside within what remains of her. They are not inert as most such things are."
He indicates the iron banding. "She speaks from this. Her willingness to change, to adapt. The example that drove me to do the same, traveling here, as proxy for my people."
He picks up the fragment of dark mahogany, turns it in sinuous hands. "Her ambition, could we feel such things, lies in this splinter from her body. You've seen it manifest already." He places it back on the floor.
"This is not literal. We do not have spirits as Silas Weatherbee did. But I remember her. I remember her actions and thoughts. These pieces of her are a focus for my memories. They resonate when I hold them, draw out the power inside of me."
He shakes his head in four small motions. "Other objects do as well. None as strongly as these pieces of her."
He looks at Cedar, face inscrutable as ever. "I understand I'm strange, and that this is strange. That's the best I can explain for now." He turns to look at the others. "But I don't mind questions. I can't really be offended."
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Before the group can get to sleep, there is suddenly a loud commotion from the nearby building with the anvil. You can hear several small creatures running around, shouting in a rhythmic fashion.
Goblins come to burn it down.
But first we take their real fun toys!
Ghosthater goblins, make some noise!
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Silt listens to Toby's story, pouring cups of tea for those who will partake; it warms their hands and bellies.
He grunts. Sift sand, turn waves. Strange things welcome in all places… doesn't matter who disagrees.
----
The little turtle crawls down Silt's arm and onto the table, peering at Purpose while he tells his tale. She seems unable to decide quite what he is, or how to react. However, soon she grows bored and nips at a strand of moist kelp left next to the tea bladder.
Silt looks confused at Purpose's dilemma. Coral divides itself, pieces of the mother becoming the young. Coral has a soul, they speak to me… why should Purpose be different?
----
Silt gazes at Cedar for long moments. A useless oath; betrayers betray. His third eyelid blinks, Insulting to be asked. He turns to the window, and growls …in other circumstances.
His meaty hands gently pick up Llyu-Llyu, stroking her beak a moment before delicately placing her atop his head. We swear. Something unknown has pulled us here… something strange. We swear.
Silt pauses. Cold currents, they say, begin beyond the map. They flow up the Arcadian coast, turn East and run the Northern edge of the Azlant. They then turn South, into my home along your Mwagani coast. Once, they burst with life. He absently places a big hand on the club. Now, they come to us dead.
He sips the tea, clearly uncomfortable talking at such length. Water dies, all dies. So we farm elsewhere. Brothers, sisters, traded with your kind before, the Company's kind. Was trust. And need to show them how to harvest the ocean, not bring cattle to trample lands and poison shores. Silt trails off again. And find why the water dies. A calling.
He looks at Cedar. Us Locathahs know your kind, in trade, as guides. A teacher once told me that this is important to us, that "the absence of society is the seed of destruction." Here, though, I wonder. Perhaps instead, society plants the seeds of its own destruction. Here friends sit sharing tea, swearing strange oaths not to destroy each other —
The goblins sing, cutting short his thought. Llyu-Llyu cowers down into the spines atop Silt's head. He places the farmer's hat securely back on, and grins at Cedar with his sharpened teeth. Destruction calls.
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"I...I swear too. I won't run, I won't leave you all behind. I promise."
At the sound of the commotion, Toby's ears stand up and he dashes to the window. "What's that? What are they? Does anyone know what they're saying?"
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Purpose Creche holds Llyu-Llyu while the others talk through their thoughts. After he passes the turtle back to Silt'chaak he even holds a cup of tea for a while, it seeming the socially acceptable way to reinforce the group's nascent comraderie.
The wyrwood shakes his head when Sil'tchaak uses coral as an analogy. "I'm not so sure. I am not birthed, not part of the natural order of the planes. I do not know where I stand in the Lady's sight. I will, some day. Maybe on my last." He continues, flames dancing in his pitted eyeband. "But you and I both seek to create stronger societies. To mitigate the forces that threaten our people."
****************
Purpose Creche cocks his head when he hears the sing-song voices, and answers Toby's question.
"Longshanks leave their little town. Goblins come to burn it down. But first we take their real fun toys. Ghosthater goblins, make some noise."
He begins donning his coat and fastening the iron band around his waist. The garment hides his small, sleight body; he looks less vulnerable now, in every sense.
"They won't give us a chance to hide. Too many questions left unanswered for them to burn this settlement."
He fastens the Azlanti sword's scabbard to the memento of his kin. Its emerald green leather is stark against the dark coat with its rigid, armored patches.
"Oathsworn seek to build anew. Bound by words and pungent brew. Remnants stand, still timber-strong. Won't be razed by goblin throng."
He straps his shield to his arm and draws the sword, standing in its pool of pale green light.
****************
"Cedar, you've heard our stories. You said you know what it is to hide. What have you hidden from?"
****************
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Black waves rolling. A woman’s throaty cackle. Dark eyes flashing in a cave by the sea.
”Come to me, my beautiful daughter.”
Cedar lowers his eyes and smiles at Purpose Creche’s question.
”Of course I had my problems growing up, just like anybody. Was an orphan, like I said. Got picked on a lot. Called all sorts of names. Crazy Eyes. Freak. Changeling.” He flexes his knotted fingers with their dark nails.
”Maybe you guessed, or sensed it, but I’m not quite human. It’s not a big deal now. I’ve met plenty of people who aren’t quite human. But as a kid it was tough. I didn’t want to believe it, those things they said about me. That I was a monster, the child of a hag. It was hard. But then one night I heard her. She called to me.”
A large wave crashes on the shore and Cedar turns toward the sea.
”She’s out there still, my mother. Somewhere. But I decided long ago to resist her call and reject her invitation. It gets easier and easier all the time.” He looks at Purpose Creche. ”And now you know how we both carry pieces of our mothers, although I’d much rather not.” Cedar laughs and adds, ”Of course there’s always the chance that I grow weak and accept the call, become a hag, and try to kill you all in your sleep. But we’ve taken our oath now. I’d never do that.”
Another large wave crashes on the shore.
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Purpose Creche nods. "I thought it rude to ask about your hands." He goes utterly still for several heartbeats. "I know about monsters. You aren't monstrous. You brim with energy. With life and spirit. The expedition is lucky to have you, I think." He looks at Toby. "You as well."
He buzzes faintly. "And I don't sleep."
Silt gags on the last raspberry, then spits into the fire. He slaps the driftwood club in his meaty palm and grunts, Some calls, should not resist.
Slinging his backpack onto his shoulder, he steps out the door.
What’s our plan? Walk up and confront them?
Silt shrugs. Ahh… Mighty Mitzli. Is crushing little Goblin skulls in poodle jaws a way of "confronting"? A fine plan.
The party approaches, Mitzi in tow, and the goblins scramble for cover!
Silt
Cedar
red goblin
green goblin
Toby
Purpose
blue goblin
Double move up.
A ten-foot extension connects to the building on the east side. This extension has only a northern wall and is otherwise just a roof sheltering the space below, which is open to the outside. Underneath this cover is a forge with an exhaust flue directly above it, a worktable, a small tub of black water, and a partially sheltered anvil. The worktable is covered with a few blacksmithing tools and pieces of metalwork, such as weapons, tools, or farming implements abandoned halfway through being forged or repaired. The water in the tub is filthy with soot, ash, and charcoal residue.
The red goblin stabs a shortspear at Mitzi!
But thanks to a glare from Cedar, the goblin can't seem to connect.
You hear a rustling noise from inside.
Silt
Cedar
red goblin
green goblin
Toby
Purpose
blue goblin
"Grrrrr! These things smell horrible!"
Toby moves up and fires at the red goblin, spraying Mitzi's wiry coat with a fine mist as his blast goes by.
Purpose Creche hangs back as the others advance, focusing inward. Mitzi's barking and the goblin's cries fade into silence, from which spring sounds of rustling and running feet.
Sap-speckled mahogany legs flicker through tall grass, stalks waving in a windblown wake.
Energy suffuses his limbs. He races Toby's projectile, reaching the door just before the bolus of water slams into the goblin by the anvil and spatters his coat with quickly evaporating liquid.
"Monkey goblins."
He leans into the doorframe, his sword and shield at the ready and his senses alert for movement inside.
Toby's burst of water hits the monkey goblin square in the face. The shrieks of profanity echo through the quiet town.
You hear more rustling from inside.
Silt
Cedar
red goblin
green goblin
Toby
Purpose
blue goblin
Monkey goblins are pretty similar to regular goblins: no natural attacks or special defenses. They do have prehensile tails, which can carry objects.
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Seeing that Toby and Mighty Mitzi have things well in hand, Silt marches up to the door, shouting a poem in tune to the goblins'.
Goblins hide and goblins sing
Here comes Silt, big club to swing
He punctuates the doggerel with a strong kick to the door:
Mitzi snaps her jaws in the air just in front of the red goblin, not quite connecting. Sil'tchaak easily kicks the door down, but finds an unwelcome surprise waiting!
Luckily, the goblins have poor aim, and both daggers tremble, stuck tight in the doorframe.
The red goblin strikes at Mitzi with her shortspear once again, but the poodle easily deflects the blow.
blue goblin
green goblin
Silt
Cedar
red goblin
Toby
Purpose
"You leave Mitzi alone! Grrrrrrr!" Toby advances so that only the anvil stands between him and the goblin, unleashing another furious blast, the backsplash making Mitzi's celestial fur glisten.
Flecks of silver light herald Purpose Creche's entry. He steps through the door, shield up, and rushes towards the window on the room's western side. He interposes the shield between himself and the goblin, deflecting blows with the glowing Azlanti blade, measured thrusts and swings seeking an opening in the creature's defenses.
Dark flickering forms surrounded by austere silver and emerald light surge back and forth on the room's wooden walls, a simultaneous pantomime of the smaller figures' struggle.
Toby's attack hits! The goblin sways precariously.
Purpose charges in, surprising one of the goblins who has just thrown a dagger, and thus can't take advantage of the opportunity to attack. However, the rush into the filthy room throws off Purchase enough that his attack goes wide.
Inside the smithy building, the space is divided between personal living quarters and an indoor tool storage and work area. A pungent animal smell lingers in the air and a tussled pile of blankets on the wooden cot is soiled. The room is in a state of disarray, with tools such as tin snips, pliers, and files carelessly strewn all over. A few weapons and pieces of armor are strewn among the debris.
Both of the goblins inside draw shortspears. The blue one attacks the wyrwood while the green one attacks the locathah.
blue goblin
green goblin
Silt
Cedar
red goblin
Toby
Purpose
Silt grunts in pain and strikes back.