Iconic Encounter: Lost and Found

The fifth time he saw the same grey-furred ysoki hawking her basket of cosmic cratannes (laser-fried dough, hot off the therm, dipped in some kind of sugared orange), Zemir had to admit he was hopelessly lost. No matter the path he decided to walk, all roads in the Spike seemed to bring him back here – the same makeshift food stand in a nook off an alley, the same would-be chef touting freshness and flavor, the same bits of dough stacked tight in a basket that smelled like his kind of delicious. Maybe he’d buy some to bring back upside. Once he figured out where he was in the station. In this version of it, anyway.

Most realities had their own Absalom Station, and there had to be one he could draw on for help, ideally where the resident Zemir had some sense of where he was going. Maybe one where the Spike led back up to the Freemarkets, connected by a daisy chain of hatches, vents, and ladders. Or one where part of the Spike was the hub of the station, with signs and vendors everywhere, and if you paid attention you could find a quick way through. He could almost see himself there – confident stride, cloak trailing behind him, trading nods with passersby who respected his age-whitened hair. All he had to do was glance a bit past the here and now, pull from something beyond the world he currently stood in, and—

stomach lurching, nerves on fire

A station just like this one, the hallways bitter cold,

filled only with the echoed sound of dying

A station where the ground beneath his feet

was devoured by the emptiness of space.

A station where a little girl reached for a snack

before something splintered and ripped her apart,

turning everything to debris.

Zemir blinked the other realities away—once, twice, three times—and did his best to ignore a tiny bit of moisture threatening the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help that girl, he knew he couldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to. He’d learned that lesson years ago, the night he lost his team—his friends—to some trap of reality he would never reach again. Maybe not so different than whatever stalked him now.

A feeling of something wrong had been hanging in the air for weeks, sloshing deep inside his guts, making his skin feel too tight— It was what had brought him down here, walking through the maze that was underneath the station, hoping he would figure out where it came from and why. But that flash of realities? That spinning, dizzy whirl of worlds? That was something stronger than the creeping sense of ill at ease. That sent a wave of sick and spin crashing into his body that only his long years of discipline in times of chaos kept him from spilling back out in bits of bile onto the metal ground.

Zemir tapped at his chest, felt for his anchor. A small piece of obsidian, singed but unbroken. All that remained from a former life. Touch something real, he thought as it danced beneath his fingers. Shake off the fear and steel yourself. You know that you can do it.

It was time to go home.

Zemir bore right at the next set of hallways, ignoring the ones that slipped out of his vision, filled with the voices from some other dimension, thick and indistinct and always a touch out of tune. Left, then right, then right again, feet firmly beneath him, until the last hallway ended in an unexpected alcove, sparse but still in use, with a cot on the floor and a chair at the wall and clothes hanging from a spigot. The light was dimmer here, somehow, and the air hung stale and heavy, as if it had been folded up and shoved into a corner, waiting for someone to stumble into its maw.

skin crawling, hard to breathe

The air thick with a poisonous haze

curled around a family’s remains

their hands reaching for relief

that isn’t going to come

The air bitter cold, stealing the breath

from huddled bodies grasping tight

Leaving nothing but frozen arms

And frost-drenched tear-stained faces

The air, smells of burning

and then, something else.

Something delicious.

Something warm and hearty and fried.

“You really should have tried the cratanne.”

The ysoki was there again, behind him. She smiled wide as she offered the basket of fried dough. “They’re best when they’re fresh, you know. Everyone says so. Might have kept you out of some trouble.” Her voice sounded odd. Minor key, a touch out of tune.

Zemir grabbed for power before thinking to do it, a gesture as natural as taking a breath, bringing his quantum field to life with the ease of years of practice. Other Zemirs were with him now, flickering in and out of the alcove, in and out of this reality. Some close enough in look to be his twins, at least at a cursory flash of a glance; others, dressed up like they owned the place, and still others looking bruised and beaten by a life of struggle he’d never known. But they were all there, facing down the ysoki chef who still stood in the doorway her teeth bared half between snarl and smile.

“Who are you?” Zemir let the voices of all the other Zemirs echo like thunder. No two of them sounded quite the same. Some voices spoke sharp with harsh demands, some were soft and curious, but all were a little out of tune and hollow as struck bells. Just the way the ysoki’s voice sounded. He cleared his throat and began again. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“The real question is, who are you?” asked the ysoki. “A guard patrolling? A rival shopkeeper snooping?” She backed away as she spoke, trying to get past the reach of his spells.

He did not understand, but Zemir knew that he had to take some expanded precautions. Zemir let his quantum field slowly expand as he spoke, putting the ysoki back in its reach. If she noticed, she didn’t let on.

“You’ve been following me,” the ysoki said. “Every time I pick some new alcove down here, try to sell my goods in peace, there you are. I’m just trying to find a place to sell my cratannes. I don’t have anywhere else to go. Please just leave me alone!”

The more the chef spoke, the more Zemir was sure. She was from Absalom Station, not from this reality. He’d heard of witchwarpers who fully displaced their bodies, or who anchored themselves in someone else’s reality, but usually there was deep magic involved, and it was always dangerous. Sometimes it wasn’t voluntary.

Zemir kept his voice calm to mask himself reaching out for more power, casting detect magic to see what it told him. He followed the potentials in his mind—haste and fly would get him out of here if she was dangerous, or lightning bolt if all else failed. But all he detected was a pulse of something warm inside the basket filled with food that she still held. There was more in those cosmic cratannes than fat and fry and flavor.

“I wasn’t following you,” he said, though it didn’t seem to matter now. “I just kept running into you. It felt like something drew me toward you. Perhaps those snacks you’re so insistent I enjoy.” Zemir could feel his voice grow tense. He clenched fingers to unleash a bolt in case she moved against him, but something flashed across her face and before he could decide to cast, he saw her in some other place. Some same but different version of this station.

swallowed laughter, sudden pain

She is in a kitchen laughing

Smells of food and talk of flavors

Promises and joking threats

Recipes passed down

She is in a closet hiding

Lights are flashing, klaxons blaring

Smoke chokes out the sound of screaming

Hands that held her, forced to stillness

She is all alone

She is trapped but won’t go easy

Reaching out for some new power

Pulled to somewhere safe but different

Recipe scrap in her pocket

Nothing left of home

Zemir inhaled sharply as the images—her memories—left his mind, a truth within them that erased whatever he was planning. The quantum field faded. The other Zemirs disappeared. He wondered if one of them was from wherever she came from, and if that version still survived.

“Why show me this?” he asked. “Why draw me to your food stand?” Perhaps this was the only way she knew to ask for help.

“I didn’t,” said the chef, in a small voice, clear but shaky. “I only tried to put some of the place I’m from into my food. The orange sugar is confectionary from my home. It’s just a bit of magic to connect you to the ones who you break and share your bread with. I can’t go home now so… it’s the next best thing.”

“And the visions? The smoke?” He had a feeling she had caused them. She must have some kind of hidden talent. Some reason she’d survived.

“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to show you what happened. That’s it’s all gone.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a challenge. It was the plain and simple truth of things.

Zemir thought back to the feeling of loss, the spinning lack of center, the sickness roiling around in his stomach for weeks. Whatever she had done had hit him harder than intended, but something told him he’d have to search somewhere else to find any way to help her. Or himself.

There were questions to be answered, but not in the here and now. He forced his face into a smile, tried to inhale the scent of the treats that she was carrying. They did still smell like his kind of delicious.

“I understand,” he said. “About those cratannes… I can introduce you to some people who will buy the whole lot off you right now if you come to breakfast. How do you feel about coffee?”

Illustration by Bastien Jez

---

About the Author
Erin Roberts (she/her) is a writer of stories and games whose work for Paizo includes the fiction series The Godsrain Prophecies and contributions to 10+ books, including Lost Omens: Rival Academies, Lost Omens: Travel Guide, and Interstellar Species. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a 2023 Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner along the way) and talks about fiction writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. You can find her on Bluesky as @nirele and on Linktree at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

About the Iconic
Zemir (he/him) is a male human witchwarper who casts powerful magic spells and warps reality, using a simple souvenir from home to keep him grounded in the vast multiverse.

About Iconic Encounters
Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Learn more about the witchwarper class in Starfinder Player Core, releasing at Gen Con 2025, on paizo.com, and at your friendly local game store! Be the first to play Starfinder Second Edition by subscribing to the Starfinder RPG or Starfinder RPG (Special Edition) lines and receive a free PDF when your book ships!