Twenty sunsets out from Wedwel Dom, walking down a dusty road, Arjasoot stopped in their tracks. They turned towards Varayana.

“Pour out a cup of water for me,” Arjasoot told their companion. “I want to see them.”

Varayana, silent, took her tin mug and filled it with water from her waterskin. She held it out to the Smoke Spirit.

Arjasoot took the mug with both their hands, staring into the dark, rippling waters. They thought about their parent, picturing their beloved creator and caregiver in their mind’s eye.

An image appeared in the churning water clear as day itself. Arjasoot flinched at the sight of what they saw...but still, they did not blink or look away.

“What do you see?” Varayana asked.

Arjasoot told her:

#

There was a temple, a stepped pyramid with bricks carved from glistened basalt, etched rivulets which channeled the spilled essence from each sacrificial victim. The Temple of Submission, an ugly blight upon the beautiful lands and beautiful jewel-halls of the Hearth-Vale.

Arjasana of the Vale, Chieftain to the Tribe of Glass, lay prone on the sacrificial altar, chained down with chains forged from bitter gloam-ice. They were surrounded by ten Foam Spirits with ten coral-carved spears, bare-chested guards that watched their prisoner in silence.

Arjasana was a broad-shouldered spirit, with well-nourished muscles and deep lungs gained from a life-time of glass-working. Eyes closed, they slept comfortably on top of the altar, smiling blissfully, their round cheeks creased with perpetual dimples.

To anyone else, that smile would be reassuring. But Arjasoot knew just how good their progenitor was at putting on a brave face.

The sound of chimes and bellowing conch horns. Arjasana opened their eyes and sat up, watching as a procession of visitors ascended the temple steps.

There were the Chanters, the traitor-priests who sacrificed chosen victims to the ones who conquered the Vale. There was Cindra, Chief Speaker for the Cloven Council, marching up the steps with a grim resignation.

There was a sedan, a compartment of silk drapes and coral struts, hauled up the steps by a team of Foam-Spirit slaves.

When the procession reached the top, the curtains of the sedan were drawn aside. An imperious, well-dressed Foam-Spirit emerged from the sedan in a spray of vapor, pausing for a moment to kick one of the sedan bearers in the side of the face.

“I felt your side dip, slave,” they snarled to the kneeling sedan-bearer, pulling a coral-carved dagger from their green weed-silk sash and waving it in the slave’s face. “Cultivate more strength, or I’ll give you a taste of conch venom."

The Foam-Spirit slave bowed their head, silent and submissive: only Arjasana (and Arjasoot) saw their water-formed cheeks churn with the bubbles of rage and humiliation.

The Governor-General grunted and turned their back on the sedan-bearer, marching directly towards the shackled Arjasana.

"Thirty days left until the vernal equinox,” they said, twirling their coral dagger in their hand. “Thirty measly days until you’re sacrificed in the place of your spawn. How does the approach of death make you feel, Arjasana?"

"Governor-General Varis!" Arjasana said with cheer, their gloam-ice shackles clinking together as they stood up. "I had a most auspicious dream! I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear it!"

"Silence, chattel," Varis said, a resigned weariness in their tone.

"I dreamt of a starlit night that gave way to a golden dawn," Arjasana said, gesturing wildly. "The winds blew in from the east, and my child, Arjasoot, rode those winds. In their left hand, they clutched a severed Foam Spirit head, holding it by the slick seaweed hair. In their right hand, they held the Godcarver, a cutting arc stained bright with the essence of their enemies. An army of humans and beasts followed Arjasoot as they rode through the sky, and the Cloven Cauldron erupted with magma as they passed overhead."

"Truly, a fascinating dream," Varis sighed. "Why, it’s exactly the same as the last hundred dreams you’ve described to me."

"This dream of mine is a sign from the Deiuos!" Arjasana declared. "Soon, my child shall return, bringing freedom to the Vale and destruction to the Foam!" They turned the full force of their dimple-cheeked smile upon the Governor-General: "Soon, my child will bring your ugly, miserable life to a swift and painful end: isn’t that delightful, Varis?"

Varis rolled their eyes and gestured to their guards.

One of the Foam-Spirits raised their coral spear and stabbed Arjasana in the leg.

"Nngh!"

Arjasana fell to one knee, their chains rattling. Their smile grew grotesquely wide, their ivory teeth clenching hard enough to squeak.

"These delusions of yours used to be amusing," Varis said, "but now they’re just pathetic." They leaned close, whispering into Arjasana’s ear, but pitching their voice so the other Smoke Spirits in attendance could easily hear. “Your child left you to die. To have your throat cut. To bleed out and nourish the belly of Yemish, God of the Crushing Depth.” The words of Varis carried a venom that put the toxins on their knife to shame: “They left you to die.”

Arjasana went very still. The smile on their lips grew ever so smaller. “That’s not true,” they said. “My child is too noble to abandon me, and too much of an idiot to get themselves killed.”

“How can you know that?” Varis asked, stepping back, spreading their arms wide, gesturing dramatically. “You ramble on about dreams of your child’s glorious return...but what makes you think these dreams will come true? Your fellow Smoke Spirits would love to hear your reasoning!”

Arjasana fell silent. Governor-General Varis fell silent. The entire procession fell silent.

Cindra, Chief Speaker of the Cloven Council, looked visibly angry and frustrated at their powerlessness. Spargus, leader of the Temple Chanters, smiled obsequiously as they always did.

Varis was the first to break the silence. “As I thought,” they said. “Your dreams are dreams, your words just words.” They turned their back on Arjasana. “I trust this should quell any thoughts of rebellion you lot might have…?”

“It’s a gamble,” Arjasana said.

The Governor-General froze. “Say that again," they demanded, turning back to Arjasana.

Arjasana rested a hand on their perforated leg and concentrated. Tendrils of smoke drifted from their fingers, seeping into the spear-wound and sewing it shut.

"You asked, in so many words, why I keep smiling and prophesying," Arjasana said to Varis. "It’s a gamble. If my child doesn’t return to save me from sacrifice …” They shrugged, “...then at least I’ve kept them out of your clutches. But if everything I said comes true –– my salvation, the Godcarvr, your wretched demise…” The smile returned to their lips in full force. “...I’ll be a mighty prophet that brings my people hope.”

“Foolishness,” the Governor-General said.

“Not foolishness,” Arjasana said with a sigh. “Hope. Not that I’d expect you to know the difference.”

Varis gestured to one of their guards. The Foam-Spirit lifted their spear and moved to skewer Arjasana again.

“Become one with Earth, embrace her strength, and no weapon forged from Earth can harm thee.” –– The Sword Fern Codex, Verse 19, Line 2

Arjasana’s arm lashed out and caught the spear mid-thrust. “Careful, Governor-General,” they said slyly. “You wouldn’t want to kill your sacrifice before the big day, would you?”

They tightened their grip, a strong grip refined by years of work blowing glass and smashing boulders apart. The tip of the coral-carved spear crumbled to dust in their hands.

Governor-General Varis took a step back, droplets of water falling free from their liquid brow. “Why shouldn’t I order your death now?” They blustered. “There’s no shortage of worthless Smoke Spirits to sacrifice in this land.”

The Foam-Spirit Guards leveled their spears, surrounding Arjasana with a ring of barbed points.

Arjasana, undaunted, unshaken, stood tall, thrust out their chest and cut the heart from their enemy with a few simple words:

“If you’re trying to silence me...does that mean you fear what I hav to say?”

The water-formed face of Varis, gaunt, smooth and transparent, simmered with fury. Bubbles churned within the Governor-General as they glared at Arjasana with a look of utter hatred.

And in response, Arjasana simply raised their brow, looking past the Governor-General to observe the subjects they lorded over.

“Very well,” Varis said, waving their hand. The ten Foam-Spirit guards stepped away from Arjasana and lowered their spears. “I accept your wager, Arjasana Glass-Child.” They leered. “And in 30 days, it will be my absolute pleasure to collect.”

“And it was a pleasure to see you too, Governor-General!” Arjasana said with nauseatingly large grin. “Come back soon!”

#

“And that is what I saw in this pool,” Arjasoot said to Varayana, handing the tin mug of water back to her.

Varayana nodded and drank the water dry. “Hmmm,” they whispered. “I had a feeling I’d come to like your parent.”

“I’d be honored to introduce you both,” Arjasoot said. A shadow passed across their ashen face. “But you won’t get the chance if we don’t reach the Hearth-Vale in time.” They paced back and forth, resting their chin in their hands as they thought out loud: “We need to quicken our travel speed somehow. This detour around the Sodden Coasts is taking too long...perhaps we could fashion some kind of boat?”

“Arjasoot,” Varayana said gently.

“We could sail through the marshes with a decent enough boat, or perhaps along the coastal waters themselves!" Arjasoot rambled. "We’ll need a boat anyway if we’re going to sneak into the Coral Fortress and assassinate Yamish, the Crushing Depth….”

“Arjasoot!” Varayana said more loudly.

Arjasoot looked up.

“Breathe,” Varayana advised, reaching up to their face and loosening their veil of copper links. “We can still make it in time. We’ve overcome greater hurdles.”

Arjasoot took a deep breath. Then another for good measure. “That’s right,” they said. “We have, haven’t we?” They laughed deep from the belly. “I feel like a fool for forgetting it.”

Varayana smiled and ran a hand through her long, curly locks. “It’s easy to forget our merits under stress, I’ve found,” she whispered. “Our qualities lie within, and we’re not equipped to see inside ourselves.”

“Unless you’re a Foam-Spirit,” Arjasoot said with a snort.

“Really?” Varayana said, blinking.

“Oh yes,” Arjasoot said, pointing towards their burning orange eyes. “Their foam-flesh is transparent, after all! If they still their inner waters, they can flip their eyes around to examine their innards...or even look out the backs of their heads.”

Varayana shuddered. “How grotesque,” she said.

“I concur,” Arjasoot.

The smoke spirit and the human fell silent. They stood by the edge of the sandstone cliff, gazing down at the landscape strewn out before them. To the west, the Ocean with its churning wine-dark waters. East of that, the Sodden Coasts, with humid bogs and colossal ferns veiled with a silver mist. Far, far north, the Hearth-Vale itself, smoke and smoldering light pouring from a great, cloven volcano.

“It was so hard to be an exile before I met you,” Varayana said at last, her soft, melodious voice groan hoarse. “Without a city or a people, I felt alone, unwanted.”

“Without a tribe or a family,” Arjasoot said, “I had no purpose, no tomorrow.”

“And then I pulled you from that swamp,” Varayana said.

“And then I heard your strange story,” Arjasoot said.

“And I wasn’t alone anymore,” Varayana said wistfully.

“And I wasn’t powerless anymore,” Arjasoot confessed. They chuckled ruefully: “It was hard to be an exile...but if we hadn’t been exiled, we wouldn’t have gained so much from each other.”

“A curious way to put it,” Varayana said, a sudden knot of tension in her voice. “It almost sounds like you’re saying everything we suffered was for the best.”

Not long ago, Arjasoot would have cringed and over-apologized and turned into a blubbering mess. Now, they simply turned and looked to Varayana without a hint of shame.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” they told Varayana. “I’m just happy that something good came out of our ludicrous number of hardships.”

Varayana, to Arjasoot’s surprise, flinched and looked away. “I am sorry,” she mumbled.

“Ah, Ah!” Arjasoot held up a chiding finger. “It’s unseemly to apologize too often, don’t you know?”

Varayana’s left eye twitched: “You’ve gotten cheeky…”

Arjasoot smirked in response.

In response, Varayana did something that completely surprised Arjasoot. She giggled melodiously, with a warmth that the Smoke Spirit hadn’t heard in her before.

“They say that enduring hardship makes you wiser,” Varayana mused, “but it seems you’ve grown wiser than I.” A shadow passed over her contenance: “I’m still too quick to cast judgements –– towards gods and morals, it seems.”

“I’d gladly cede the mantle of wisest if you could figure out a way to shorten our travel time," Arjasoot stated bluntly. They turned to look at the distant ocean, taking a deep breath to stoke and calm their flickering Heart-Flame: “For the life of me, I still can’t think of a fast means of travel that doesn’t involve the ocean.”

“I may have an idea on that,” Varayana said.

Arjasoot practically jumped in place. “You do?” They squeaked.

Varayana loosened the straps of their bag, sliding it off her shoulders and laying it on the ground. “Potentially,” she said, brushing aside some pebbles with her foot before seating herself on the ground. “I’ll need to sleep on it, though.”

“This is hardly the time to indulge in your appetite for slumber, Vara…!” Arjasoot cut themselves off mid-chide. “Oh. Oh!” They bent down at the waist, examining Varayana closely as they composed themselves. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“It certainly won’t if you keep distracting me,” Varayana replied, resting her hands in her lap and composing herself. “Hush, please.”

Arjasoot restrained their sudden desire to both apologize and make lots of noise, and instead backed away. Positioning themselves to shade Varayana from the sun, the Smoke-Spirit watched with curiously as she lulled herself into a state of slumber.

As she willingly called forth the Curse of the Gorgon Sleep.

When the change happened, it was different from before: no warping of meat or cracking of bones. The blessing of a Goddess, a change in disposition...whatever the root, Varayana’s flesh melted and reformed with the gentle ease of a sculptor working clay...or a Smoke-Spirit changing shape, for that matter.

Quickly, painlessly, Varayana transformed from a human into a half-Gorgon creature: wild, writhing hair, a distended jaw, long rending tusks, and slender galloping limbs. Her loose traveling clothes now clung snug to her body, and her sword belt and hip pouches dangled from her back.

Varayana’s eyes opened, turned from dark to gold. She looked up at Arjasoot -- really, truly looked at them, with a piercing, intelligent gaze.

Arjasoot brought their hands together and clapped. “Marvelous!” They said to Varayana. “Well done! I could have done it better, of course, but for a human, this is a truly excellent transformation!”

Varayana yawned in reply, a long, pink tongue shooting out as her long jaws hinged wide. She walked in a circle, prowling on all fours, and picked up her rucksack between her pearl-white tusks. She gave Arjasoot another look, a look that challenged the Smoke Spirit to back their bold words up with actions.

Arjasoot laughed out loud: “Of course, course!” They said. “You’re absolutely right, friend!”

They closed their eyes and expelled the air from their body, bright orange sparks flying from their open mouth. Their smoke-formed flesh melted and reformed, threads of ash recombining into an exact replica of Varayana’s beastly Gorgon form.

Arjasoot scrapped at the ground, carving furrows in the dry sandstone with their claws. “How about it?” They asked Varayana, speaking slurred yet comprehensible words from their beastly throat. “Care to turn this into a contest?”

Varayana responded by breaking into a sprint, tearing their way down the rocky slope, kicking up dust with each stride.

Arjasoot let out a loud, spark-spitting snort from their swollen nostrils. They took off after Varayana, racing after the transformed human, fire pot and jeweled travel pouches clattering loudly together on their back. A fierce and wild joy set their heart-flame ablaze as they rushed home with their friend.

You see, Arjasoot of the Vale, Heir to the Tribe of Glass, Swordmaster and Wish-Granter, had done many strange deeds over the past season –– traveled to new lands, fled from Behemoths, sought old relics, clashed with undead, smitten Devos, conversed on life and love.

But it was only now, with the wisdom of hindsight, that they recognized what all this was:

An adventure, and with a friend a that.