The Smoke-Spirit and human wandered north, following the great river as it snaked and twist over the many parts of the land.

Deep, arid canyons grew shallow, gave way to rolling plains of green and gold. The rolling plains gave away to bountiful forests with needles and leaves that cast dabbled patches of shades over the gently trickling river and dusty foot paths.

Varayana enjoyed the shadowed forest path. Arjasoot did not.

“I don’t trust them,” Arjasoot muttered, casting narrow-eyed looks at the armored tree-trunks and sword-like branches that surrounded them.

“You didn’t mind these trees before,” Varyana pointed out. “In fact, you rather enjoyed the taste of their pine cones!”

“Exactly!” Arjasoot. “Now that they’ve got the numbers, what’s to stop them from punishing me for stealing?”

“You’re being silly,” Varayana said, talking to Arjasoot as if they were a silly child. “Moving trees are very rare, you know! The odds of encountering a hostile tree in this forest are a thousand to one, you know!’

The Smoke-Spirit took no comfort from Varayana’s words.

“It’s like I’m being surrounded,” Arjasoot said at last, permitting themselves a small bit of honesty. “Hemmed in, with nowhere to run!”

“I can understand that feeling, I suppose,” Varayana allowed. “Personally, I’m glad we left those plains behind.” She shuddered: “Miles of flatness, with nowhere to hide.”

‘Doesn’t it get to you, Vara?” Arjasoot asked, shying away from a low-hanging branch that had nearly brushed their shoulder. ‘I feel like a thousand limbs are trying to seize me!”

“You do realize that these trees are more afraid of you than you are of them, right?” Varayana explained out.

Arjasoot was taken aback: Varayana’s statement seemed to fly in the face of all reason, yet she said it with such confidence!

“Really?” They asked.

“You could burn this whole forest to ash if the mood took you!” Varayana pointed out. “You talk like you’re the victim in this, but you’re the one with all the power here!” A sheepish look crossed Varayana’s face: "Come to think of it, I could burn this forest down too.”

“Quiet,” Arjasoot whispered to Varayana

“I’m just saying…!”

“Quiet, Vara,” Arjasoot hissed, raising a finger to their lips. “Don’t you hear that?”

Varayana went very very still, raising a delicate hand to her left ear.

Crunch-crunch. Crunch-crunch.

“Footsteps…” She whispered. She drew her Rhomphaia, brandishing the blade with both hands. “Many people running.”

“Or charging,” Arjasoot pointed out, loosening their own sword in its sheath.

The two travelers locked eyes for a moment, unspoken ideas passing between the,. They broke left and right, ducking behind the thickest, widest tree trunks they could find. They held their swords held high, ready to swing, to flash in the sylvan twilight and pierce screaming flesh.

The footsteps drew closer.

Varayana fought to control her breathing, to inhale gently through her nose. Arjasoot exhaled a few stray sparks from his lips, orange beads of light that danced through the shadows before winking out.

The footsteps grew louder. A ragged figure came running by.

Arjasoot let from their hiding spot, sword raised high, a yodeling war cry bursting from their lips....!

A green blur, short and lithe, threw themselves towards Arjasoot’s torso.

Arjasoot let their soot-formed flesh dissipate into a billowing cloud. The attacker burst through their half-dissolved flesh and out the other end, smashing head-first with a tree trunk and collapsing in a tangle of limbs.

Arjasoot reformed themselves and held their blade to the attacker’s throat...

...to the throat of frightened, trembling human child, small and gangly, with round golden cheeks and wide blue eyes that dripped a steady stream of tears.

Arjasoot threw their sword to the side and raised their hands. head. “It’s okay," they said, trying to keep their voice soft and tranquil. "We mean you no harm."

The boy let out a surprisingly fierce war cry and stabbed Arjasoot through the chest with the hunting spear in their hands.

“...I said, we mean you no harm!” Arjasoot repeated, giving the frightened child a glare.

The boy let go of their spear and tried to strand, but only succeeded in tripping over a tree-root. They scrambled backwards on hands and knees, dragging their fancy green tunic through the dirty and moss of the forest floor.

“No, no, no...I surrender!” Arjasoot said, pointing at themselves. “Great Flames, do you even understand what I’m saying?”

“Sura!” The child blubbered, tears running down his cheeks. "Sura ya Aiba!”

“You don’t understand me,” Arjasoot realized out loud. “You don’t understand my language. Merciful Devos…”

How were they supposed to soothe the boy’s fears without a common language, they wondered? What could they use? Picture? Pantomine...?

A solution came to Arjasoot’s mind: not a perfect one, but it would have to do. Violence, after all, was a universal language.

The Smoke Spirit reached for the spear embedded in their chest.

The boy flinched back, sweat beads glistening against his golden skin as he gasped and gasped for breath.

Arjasoot gave the spear shaft one tug. Then two tugs. Then three tugs.

The human boy tilted their head to the side, fear fading to confusion.

“Argh!” Arjasoot shouted, giving the spear in their chest another tug. Still, it would not come out. "Urgh! Mmmph!"

With one last futile tug, Arjasoot fell on their rump, soot spilling from the brass pot dangling from their shoulder. The Smoke Spirit folded their arms across their chest, glaring at the human boy, brow and nose wrinkled up in a comical grimace.

"Look what you’ve done!" They said to the boy, gesturing wildly at the spear shaft in their chest. "Look! It’s stuck! You stuck this in me! How am I supposed to dance with this thing in me? How?"

The boy opened their mouth, then closed it.

"If I could just get the right angle...!" Arjasoot exclaimed, grasping the spear shaft with both hands and giving it an upward yank.

Honk.

A loud squeaking noise echoed from Arjasoot’s chest.

Arjasoot looked down at their chest with exageratted horror. "Oh sweet Devos." They tapped the spear shaft with their finger three times.

Honk. Honk. Honk.

The human boy chuckled. He immediately clapped two hands over their mouth, eyes wide with terror at the thought of angering the inhuman Smoke Spirit before them.

"What have you done!" Arjasoot exclaimed, eyes wide with a similar horror. He tapped the spear shaft again. Honk. "You’ve turned me into...into a duck!"

The boy chuckled again.

"Don’t laugh!" Arjasoot grumbled, pressing their lush lips together in a truly dramatic, sulking pout. "It’s not funny! Well, okay: it’s actually a little funny! And I’m hoping you’ll think it’s funny, so you stop being so scared!"

The boy starred at Arjasoot in silence.

Arjasoot adjusted the posture of their crooked legs...and seemingly by chance, brushed their hand against the spear shaft.

Honk.

The boy fell over and clutched at his ships, giggling helplessly as his sandaled feet beat a rhythm against the forest floor. Arjasoot, their goal accomplished, allowed themselves to join in the merry laughter.

Once the laughter died down, Arjasoot made a genuine effort and plucked the spear from their chest. “Here,” they said, holding the weapon shaft first out to the boy. “This is yours, right?”

The boy tried wiping the tears and snot from his face, but only succeeded in spreading it around their golden cheeks. They reached out, hesitating a moment before snatching his spear back and holding it close to his chest.

“Arjasoot,” the Smoke Spirit said, pointing a finger at themselves. “Arjasoot.” They pointed at the boy. “And you?”

The boy blinked a few times, brow furrowing with thought. “Anyuna,” they said at last.

“Hello, Anyuna,” the Smoke Spirit said, sitting down cross-legged and setting their brass pot to the side. “What are you doing here?” They took note of the boy’s fancy tunic and belt sash–-clothes far too fancy for a hunting trip in the forest. “What are you doing in this forest alone?”

Voices echoed through the ancient forest, the voices of human both grown and old:

“Anyuna!”

“Anyuna fal na?”

Anyuna perked up and turned around. “Fal zim!” He shouted.

The rustling of branches. A human woman in a tattered silk dress burst through a patch of bushes, ignoring how the thorns scrapped red lines against her bare arms. “Anyuna fal zim!” She cried, rushing over to Anyuna and squeezing him tight. “Ail fal zim…” She whispered, her words half-choked with sobs. “Ail fal zim…”

Arjasoot felt a tightness in their chest. The woman’s features–her golden complexion, her dark curly hair, the slanders chin––they were all features she shared with Anyuna, her precious son.

And if Arjasoot had swung their sword with more haste, they would have deprived a mother of her child.

“Za?” The mother noticed Arjasoot for the first time and drew a weapon from her belt: a long jagged cleaver stained with streaks of black and brown from kitchen work. “Ele fal za?” The mother snarled, brandishing the cleaver towards Arjasoot. “Vim Ele tak Anyuna…!”

More rustling in the undergrowth. A dozen more humans appeared and surrounded Arjasoot. Like Anyuna and his mother, they wore city-clothing, tunics and robes and shawls made of fine silks and bark-weave. Like Anyuna and his mother, the weapons they wielded were motley and repurposed: fishing spears, wood hatchets, and belt knives for chopping food.

This was no hunting party or jaunt to the countryside, Arjasoot realized. This was certainly no troupe of bandits either.

“Arjasoot,” the Smoke Spirit said, pointing at themselves again. “A Smoke Spirit!” They tried to convey a hopeful tone in their face and gaze. "Friend?"

Out of the corner of their eye, Arjasoot saw Varayana emerge from her hiding spot and walk towards the group of refugees, hand resting on the hilt of her blade.

“Vara!” Arjasoot shouted. “Stand down! These aren’t bandits! They’re…!”

“Refugees…” Varayana said, sheathing her Carp-Tongue. “Yes, I know.” She drew aside her veil of gold links and tucked her hands into her sleeves. “Hagan Movely,” she said to the ragged refugees, speaking their language smoothly and with the exact same accent. “Ele nay Ava. Grimsoo Jula Wedwel Dom. Ele conva ya polus?”

Varayana’s question was answered by silence and averted eyes. One of the refugees, a mother carrying a child in a soot-stained shawl, started weeping helplessly.

Arjasoot, standing to the side and trying not to draw attention, saw Varayana’s rosy cheeks grow pale. She took a centering breath, then spoke once more. "Does anyone know the Traveling Tongue?" She asked. "It’s rude to leave my companion out of this conversation."

A bearded elder limped forward, leaning heavily on his gold-capped staff. “I know the Traveling Tongue,” he said, his voice choked off by smoke and ash and heart-hollowing despair. “I am Patrium Duvas, Oracle-Chanter of the Temple of Chimes. Turn back, travelers, for there is nothing left on the road you walk.”

Arjasoot felt a flickering chill in their chest.

“What happened?” Varayana asked.

The elder shuddered, his wrinkled hand stroking his tangled white beard over and over in a vain attempt at self-comfort. ”The Strangling Root has devoured our homes, shattered our altars,” he said. “Wedwel Dom, the City of Springs, is no more.”

Next Chapter: Chapter Eight