With a hint of a high-pitched humph, an unkind wind blows from the east, pushing the flames from the oil-spilled forges to the nearby alehouse and the all-purpose store. It spreads to a handful of residential homes to the north.
To the east, the stone Temple sits uncaring amongst the wreckage. The school is scorched but unharmed. The Mayor's mansion jovially looks down from the top of Toenail Hill. Within ten minutes, the rest of the buildings in town have been reduced to burning timber and ashes.
The wings are gone, and no one knows where they are.
Wamblee does not burn the image of the flaming town into his mind, nor does he avoid doing so.
The ones who matter are either dead or leaving. The things can burn.
"You are welcome on the road, Bertrude. I make no promises, but I do my best to not allow harm to come to those with me."
"Where are the wings?", asks Wamblee, his eyes darting about.
Samen pats Wamblee on the back. "And a great track record we have, don't we?"
Samen frowns at Wamblee's question. "Didn't you leave them in the hole? I haven't seen them. They're probably an artifact of whatever was possessing Bree anyway."
"No doubt the air elemental took them. Maybe the wings will poison it," says Samoon. "Why something that is intangible and can fly needs some floppy bits of flesh is beyond me."
Still overlooking the last burning embers of the town below, four Firenzes and a witch contemplate the roads. Or, road, that is. North is more of a trail - an impression in the swishing grass, nothing more. East is the only road out of town, which eventually branches south to Forge and north to the Desert and Forest. Bertrude gives Samoon a sideways stare as he continues to look obsessively toward Volcano, but says nothing.
Wamblee shrugs.
"We have saved some. Not others."
He looks up into the sky, as if seeking the wings.
"Perhaps the air elemental needs flesh to clothe itself in? It would explain why it seized them in the first place."
After a quick chorus of murmurs, the family decides to head north. Amidst the empty buildings, Samoon finds a small pogona-and-wagon to load Bree. Somberly, the procession of Firenzes leaves town, fading into old smoke and new snow.
Marianne does not join in the debate. She walks north with her family as if it were the only natural direction to travel. Walking lightly through the steep, rolling terrain, she occasionally scouts ahead. She mostly keeps to herself. There is still a hunger in her eyes.
Wamblee keeps a watchful eye out, but he cannot help but try to massage his left shoulder and arm.
After a long silence, Samoon replies to Wamblee. "It needed flesh for a time--who knows what it needs now. I think we helped whatever agenda it had. For something supposedly related to sylphs, it didn't seem to have any sort of loyalty."
He rubs his chin.
"Which means it's either extremely powerful, or working with something else, or there are more of its kind. But such casual enmity is on the scale of the Dark. Perhaps it was corrupted, like everything else around here."
New candle is quiet. Albreane's ears do not hear.
The trail rolls up and down hills. The grass swishes around you, whispering secret nonsense. The wagon bu-bumps with an unseen burden. A few strange, twisted trees offer frozen salutations in the prebright pink peaklight. A few predator lizards take note of you for several miles, but eventually slink off. Hawks and kestrels screech the rough music of hill country.
Bertrude mutters to herself now and then as she walks. Sometime before bright, she begins to squawk and complain of aching joints. She offers to take first watch while her 'bones settle'.
You find a bit of shelter from the wind behind a steep hill. It is the best that the sparse, dry land has to offer. The witch finds a comfortable spot to observe the surroundings, and watches them with a nearly-unblinking glare.
Wamblee awakes, more stiff and sore than usual.
But he feels energies where he could faintly or not before.
While he waits on his siblings, he meditates, exploring these flows.
Samoon looks around. The land is not as thrilling to him as when he and Mar and Bree would take walks...or with his father. His mouth sets in a line.
"Higher. High as the cart can go. I can always take her myself if we want to maintain a base camp."
"You have my back if needs be, Samoon. Though my climbing may be slowed by this damn shoulder. Can you or Mar do anything about it?"
Wamblee, Bertrude arches an eyebrow at your shoulder. She makes a pleghmy sound of disgust. "Plegh! You've near ruin'd the thing, ye big talking rock. Less ye want me hackin' it off at the shoulder, ye'd best rest yourself while potion boy goes and does his business." With wrinkled but strong hands, she steers you against a rock. Nearby, Marianne is silently sharpening arrowheads.
Without looking up for her work, Marianne says, "You know that no one in this family ever learned to be a healer, brother." Her lips almost smile when she says it.
"You may have learned something.", Wamblee says with a slight smile.
"Bertrude, I will listen. And for once, take heed. I shall rest."
Samen looks at Samoon with compassion, unsure how to comfort him. As is his way, he tries to offer a practical solution. "If you want, I can fly her to a nearby peak. Carve me a pole to put her on, and I'll make it as respectful as possible."
He looks up for the inevitable crown of buzzards above them. "If we wait too much longer, they'll stop waiting too."
"They are scavengers. They will only attack if we are not vigilant or if we show weakness.", comments Wamblee.
"Samen, I thank you for the offer...let us walk up for a while. I'd like to say some words with her as we leave her to her rest," says Samoon.
"And Wamblee, yes, I can fix your shoulder."
"I will remain here if you cannot. You can carry on with Bree."
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"I could always dip in it acid, but that seems a little crude."
He nods to Samoon. "Let me know when you're ready to let her go."
Still sharpening a stubborn burr, Marianne says, "Will you be alright here at camp by yourself, Wamblee? I don't want to lose yet another loved one so soon."
"Bertrude can warn me if anything comes, and I will warn you by beating it senseless.", he says with a dry smile.
"Seriously, I will be fine. You should go."
Albreane Spelunk lays in the arms of Samoon Firenze. There are ways this could have been a happy occasion - but today is not a day for joy. She is so light. Less than a day after her death, and she is already misting away. Away, away. Lighter still.
Bree is heavy in everyone's mind. Two, three candles go by as the hills becomes steeper and rockier. Samoon does not falter. Marianne silently finds the simplest paths to take. Four, five climbing candles go by.
Finally, arms aching with a burden of memories and cloud, Samoon lays her down. A small outcropping off the path ends in a sheer cliff - a high place. The wind howls here, in the high place. There is no other sound but the wind, blowing away all other noise. It is cold.
Samoon surveys the site. He shows Samen how to place Albreane's body in the fetal position, after they solemnly remove her clothing. Face as stony as his oread brothers, he offers an open hand towards Marianne's blade, pointing to the joints where Albreane is to be disassembled, to facilitate an easier meal for the wheeling buzzards. He pulls out a dagger, ready to remove hands and feet.
Wamblee sits by a rock, feeling its solidity even as his true focus is elsewhere.
As long as his siblings are in sight, Wamblee silently gazes after them and their burden.
Once they are out of sight, he finally relaxes his head against the stone.
And waits.
Wamblee, Bertrude speaks gently, such that you do not recognize her voice at first. "Is Mari alright? She seems...broken." She is darning a thick pair of socks, not looking at you.
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Without turning his head, Wamblee takes a moment before replying.
"I do not know Bertrude. With Bree, it seemed that both her friend was saved *and* there was proof through an elemental that Sky was not dead. But whether through caprice or corruption, that elemental is gone and Bree could not be saved. Stone knows, I tried. Not to mention the weeks of being hunted and hounded by forces ultimately loyal to Dark itself. Perhaps she will be well again, perhaps not."
Bertrude nods and clucks as you speak, like a hen pecking seed. "Mm-hm, mm-hm. Well, yer a good one, to humor an old ele's questions when yer shoulder must be smartin' so. I'll leave ye be, less there's somethin' you need."
She is spry for her age - there is a stubborn, wiry strength in her movements as she stands up and makes her way to the far end of the makeshift campsite. Once settled, she begins the smelly business of making her healing poultices for the day.
Samoon, the deeds are done. Everything is arranged appropriately. The vultures, circling high above, wait patiently.
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Samoon stands, wiping his blade.
”The spirit has departed, and now so the shell. Be with Hidden Sky. You shall be remembered.”
As you walk away, you hear the slow swoop of wings. As tradition dictates, you do not look back. Your mind's eye, however, is not so disciplined. It takes a long time to trek back down the rock-littered slopes, macabre images dancing behind your eyelids.
On the way back down, "At least that's one thing we managed to get right this week."
Wamblee sees - or thinks he sees - feathered scavengers up above.
He tries not to dwell on the matter.
Samen, you and Marianne naturally walk ahead of Samoon, giving him space to grieve. Out of nowhere, in a low tone, Marianne says, "Samen, how is it that you of all elens can fly, and I can't?"
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"He's possessed by an air elemental," says Samoon, and then starts laughing while shaking his head, tears leaking out the sides of his eyes.
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"I dunno Mar. It's these volcing cursed relics that you all love so much. I don't know of any other elen than make light bridges, either. I've spent my life trying to learn if an omni-elen is possible, and this lump of wood gives me advanced Sylph powers. At least I seem to be able to control it now. That was embarrassing. Good thing everyone else who saw it is dead now."
He chuckles at Samoon, "Maybe, brother. But I have to imagine any elemental possessing me couldn't more disagreeable than myself. If I start being really eloquent and convincing, that's when you should worry."
Marianne makes a thoughtful hmm, and reaches for her scroll - a nervous habit that she hardly even notices. She unrolls it, idly scanning the words she has already memorized. "You'd think that a prayer scroll of Sky would also grant such a..." She trails off, swallows, then rolls up her scroll.
Clearing her throat and attempting to sound casual, she says, "So what would these 'omni-elen' look like, Samen? Beautiful, perfect?"
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Samen shakes his head. "On the contrary, they'd probably look alien and terrifying. Two options, as I see it. One where all the elemental attributes of each race are present and emphasized. Based on our experience with elementals, this would probably be a monster most hideous and foul. Second, an elen that is an average of the four races, minus any elemental attributes."
"If we assume that the purer an elemental is, the more monstrous it is, this far end of the spectrum, devoid of element, would probably be the most noble creature imaginable. And it would look different, so the first person to see it would kill it on sight."
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Marianne nods. "Hideous monster that kills us, or beautiful creature that will be murdered for being different. Thank you for reminding me I can always rely on your cynicism, Samen. Why would you want to search for such an awful being, again?"
"'Language' is the short answer, Mar. Of the eight elemental languages, especially the ancient ones, there are obvious cultural, regional, elemental, and temporal elements. They are a product of elens. It can be clearly traced
What about common? It has no known history or culture. No thread of succession. It simply 'is'. It's elementally balanced in its idioms, but all elens learns it with ease. As a means of communication, it seems perfectly designed. Some culture must have developed it, but who? Much was lost in the Darkness, and I wouldn't be surprised if the 'Frits erased evidence of our common heritage when they came to dominance so they could lord over us with their kinship with Volcano.
I know you probably won't agree with this, but based on what I've seen, there's not much difference between Dark and Sky and Volcano. Maybe they're all divine interlopers."
I don't disagree," says Samoon. "I don't find much evidence for any caring forces in this world."
Marianne's mouth becomes a flat line at her brothers' opinions concerning the gods. "That elemental, if that's what it was, was corrupted. There's still a Sky out there somewhere, beyond what we know." The words lack her usual fire.
As they walk back into the camp... "...Anyway, you asked why I'd want to search for it. If I'm brutally honest, I simply crave the validation it would offer. I don't even know what I'd do with one if I found it."
Your sister offers her last thoughts on the subject. "Perhaps you would be the only one in the land who wouldn't kill a noble creature on sight just for being different."