You all take the long, gradual tunnels around and around, up and up toward the entrance. The long stretches of walking, slightly upward, wear on the determination. The second floor, full of the papers and books of sylphs and ifrits ; the first floor, crowded with food and livestock and markets and wagons ; and then you are outside again, and the sheer height of the place strikes you again. The arched entrance faces north. Wamblee notes that the distant Elder belongs to Tall Oaks. Marianne looks avidly to the river system--known as the Fingers--to the east, which leads to Light.
Samen, head down, mutters to himself all the way down about the snobbery of those who have knowledge but refuse to share it.
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Wamblee's eyes linger on that Elder for some moments then continues on his way.
Wamblee, you see several elens wearing the traditional garb of oread guides. They are gathered around a fountain, nursing new year's hangovers with water or beer, each to their own. One strange-looking fellow chews sulfur, tucking the foul-smelling rock in his cheek as he glares at the others.
He looks around the crowd, and sees you approaching the group of guides. He intercepts you, scarred face frowning at all of you. "All them's taken. I don't charge much, and I know east, west, and north, and I jus' wanna get the hell out of here and away from those mudholes. Fair?" His speech is slightly muffled as he speaks around the lump of sulfur.
Wamblee speaks up, eyeing the figure.
A grim habit, though not the worst I have seen.
"You are well-travelled then?"
very gruff, a bit of a jerk, but seems honest
"S'long as'yer stayin' in Ferist, I know the paths. From the Horns to the Grays! Don't travel to no ifrit cities, but I can take ya to the edge of that sylph city, whatdoyacallit, Light, if ya want."
He spits a small yellow glob on the ground, frowning at Samen's tattooed visage. "Magicians is extra. Don' like may-jik."
Ahh, that's a refreshingly honest hateful reaction!
"Brave of you to say so, old timer. Who knows, I might curdle your milk with my evil eye." He gives him an exaggerated stink-eye.
"Ha! Joke's on you! I don' got no milk! Now you payin' me?"
Wamblee half-smiles.
"If you know the ways to the Breathless Valley nearest Light, you will have our custom."
"I'm not takin' ya into it, as I prefer breathin' to dyin', but yeh I'll show ya the way."
He waggles five fingers at you. "Five golds for the trip, and you feed me on the way. Take us mebbe two weeks, 'less we get lucky and scrounge a ride from a icyboat."
He spits again. “Name’s Chankoowashtay, by'd'by. Call me Chankie."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Chankie. I'll try not to curse you if you'll do me the same favor. Let's get moving."
"That is acceptable, Cankle. I am Wamblee Firenze and these are my kin. Let us get moving."
The high plateaus of Branch slowly fade from view under distance and canopy. You trudge through ankle-deep snow, seeing the heavy tracks of stone deer and calcite squirrels. Cankle grumbles about the cold, wondering why if that blasted Volcano is a god, why he can't make things warmer. His voice seems loud in the muted forest of white and brown.
Marianne attempts to train the unusual chicken over the next several days.
And the chicken stares back, giving nothing.
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Samen observes Marianne's efforts with the monster with disappointment. "Thank you far trying, Mar, but I don't think you're going to get anywhere with it. The more I think about it, I think I've successfully converted it from a meat-based body to an elemental-based body. Whatever sort of soul a chicken has, this thing doesn't have it, nor is it inhabited by an elemental.
I could channel the creature in the woodcut into it, but given the cryptic warning I received and that thing's pure malice, I don't think giving it any kind of body is a good idea."
"I'll begin researching how to attract elementals to inhabit the creations. Catch me a hawk, and I'll attempt to at least create an air-shell out of it for you."
Wamblee notes to Cankle:
"Volcano's heat can be a bit much to bear, if his angry servants are anything to go by."
A rude-lipped noise. "Pfft. I've'd enough cautious sayins from all the monks 'round Branch the last few weeks. Yar hot air ain't keep me warm neither."
"Suit yourself.", replies Wamblee, not bothered by Cankle's reaction.
Wamblee has sought out mid-watch, so he settles down to rest now, drawing what cover he has close, and thinking of Chapawee.
Marianne takes the early evening, eyes wide with thoughts of catching hawks. She sleeps soundly after waking Wamblee for his watch.
The night is uneventful. Somewhere, a loud frog is croaking, but it is not here.
Sleeping through the night, snoring through all three watches, Cankle wakes with a start. "Who's got some jerky, or maybe some nice rocks to share? I'm hungry."
"Have you no supplies of your own?", Wamblee asks with a quizzical eyebrow raised.
"Norm'ly I'd've wandered Ferist and found this and that to eat, but you so obvously have too much fer yer own damn backpacks, I can't've helped but think you'd've been inclined to share." He sticks a fresh lump of sulfur in his cheek.
Cankle rambles through stories and jokes and old sayings as he leads you through the green pines and dead branches of southern Forest in winter. "Them ain't boulders, that's the droppin's of a right nasty stone bull. We'll head further on south for'bit instead. Which gives me time to tell ya ' bout..." You travel safely, if not always quickly. Tiny white pogonas, like living ice, creep here and there, leaving no trace of their passing in the freshly fallen snow.
"We accumulate against disaster.", replies Wamblee.
*********
Wamblee is fine with the diversion and with sifting through the stories of Cankle, in the hope of learning something useful.
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Samen doesn't have much use for a guide that can't feed himself and will judge him for his life choices, so he's going to mostly ignore Cankle and spend his time thinking about useful ways to construct aberrations.
Wamblee, you are unsure if there is anything useful among the ramblings of your colorfully dressed, sulfurous guide. You encounter no dangers along your way; it could be competence or simple luck.
Samen, the chicken hangs limp-necked from your shoulder like a damned thing.
Samen regards the pathetic former-bird with sadness. At a moment when they are stopped for a rest, he speaks aloud to no one in particular. "No sense leaving this thing in this state. Let's see what happens if I try to add an element after the lattice has been established. Worst case, we don't need to worry about it anymore."
He sets the bird down and carves some high Ifrit runes on it. "Fire, Earth, and Air... Smoke? Let's see if we can make this dusty chicken a smoke chicken."
He channels a thread of fire magic into the beast to see if it will build onto the scaffolding or simply immolate the thing.
You now have a pile of burnt dust, a pair of singed eyebrows, and a renewed appreciation for the destruction potential of fire magic in all its various applications.
Without a sound, Marianne leaps down from a tree as a hawk is diving on a small soil mouse. She holds it close to her body so it has no leverage. She binds it quickly with rope, and transfers it to a large bird cage she bought at the Branch market.
Wamblee continues to listen regardless, taking a pause to look at Samen.
"Brother, your eyebrows did not need such a drastic trim."
Samen coughs and sputters, waving away the acrid smoke. "Eugh! I was expecting that result, but not that smell! Why did I have to pick fire?"
Samen sees Marianne with her bird. "Alright, you caught your bird.
Would you like me to attempt to convert it to a being of air now, or would you prefer we begin the procedure somewhere closer to assistance, should it be necessary?"
Marianne's face is unreadable. "I want to do it in Light. If anything goes wrong, they certainly have enough doctors running around. For now, I'm getting to know the hawk."
Samen nods. "It's just as well. I can prep your flesh for the grafting, and provide you with a vessel, but I'll need help from someone with surgical experience to make it work safely. Er, safer, anyway."
After an early lunch of acorns, rocks, and jerky--depending on your wont--the air becomes wetter. A cold, thin fog rolls in, and you hear the rushing of water nearby.
"A'right, les follow this little Finger river, see if any icyboats come our way."
"The little Finger it is then."
After a few candles of fog and dripping pine needles, you come upon a larger river fed by the Little. Your guide has named this wider, faster water the Umunwe Okhohlisiwe, the Crooked Finger.
Suddenly, there is a loud buzzing sound that is almost like a faraway swarm of bees; it slowly resolves into a single note.
A powerful, deep-throated baritone song rumbles down the water, announcing the arrival of a master watersinger and a huge, three-tiered mansion of a watercraft. The iceboat is immense, larger than most elen's houses in Rokerenge.
Wamblee turns to his kin.
"Would you create light to attract the attention of that iceboat's crew?"
"Sure."
Samen casts light on the tip of his staff and waves it around, as high as he can reach without going airborne.
A downshift to minor chord turn the boat port, bringing it closer to shore and within shouting distance. It stands still in the current. An officious-looking undine--not the watersinger himself, but an advisor perhaps--calls out in a friendly enough tone, "Hello travelers, seek you passage down this small brother of River?"
Wamblee waves curtly.
"Yes, we would. Would you take us on board?"
The polite undine gives a small bow. "Yes indeed. All we ask is to share what food you can spare, as we do with less fortunate travelers we come across."
"Sure! Acorns for everyone!" At the sound of Marianne's voice, the hawk squawks under blanketed cage.
Gruffly, "Thanks for the ride. We'll try not to be any trouble."
"That is acceptable. Thank you."
A few minor voices add notes to the master watersinger, creating dissonance for a moment. A gangplank of ornate stairs, complete with curlicue hand rails, grows from the side of the iceboat, offering you entrance.
A few curious undines--guards, cooks, scouts--look your way, taking in your strange garb, weapons, and tattoos. The officious undine approaches you, stopping a safe distant away. His overly fine robes clash with the rustic surroundings of the river and endless forest.
"We are always happy to aid fellow elens. A pleasure to meet all of you. What are your names, if I may ask? I am Tuan Sho." He smiles as though greeting ambassadors from a far land.