《Katabasis》


 Awareness

    Blood flickered in the air, the small orbs of scarlet red combining into vaguely human figures. The heavy reverberation of a warhammer striking armor separated the weak structure back into smaller flowing rivulets. They flapped smoothly like banners held in gentle wind, waiting for their chance to reform. Viscera became man, man struck man, and viscera became nothing once more.


    The stone surrounding him was cold and tight, unyielding to the macabre display outside and just as much so to his senses. What little he could make out were echoes of incomprehensible shouts and vague, if not imperceptible scents that settled on the ground.


    His mind flashed between his surroundings and snippets of vague memories real and imagined. Slowly, he drifted down until the steel of his helmet met ruined stone below. Thoughts flashed white hot, then faded, then melded together in an ever-flowing sea of jumbled emotions until the world went completely dark.


    A jolt of energy sent his body back into awareness. Horrific shapes made of stone surrounded him, appearing in the corner of his feverishly searching eyes until they became too heavy to move. His arms feebly swatted at the air, whimpering and groaning until the movements slowed to stopping. He curled sluggishly into a ball, pareidolia following his closed eyelids from the shattered stone and settling into his vision. Armored steel clattered from the tremors ripping through his body, eyes squeezed shut against the outside world.


    The sun¡¯s rise and the fall of its soothing rays blessed his face, warming his cold and blood drained body deep in the shadows as he was. He blinked slowly and gazed hesitantly around his enclosure. The figures of the night prior were gone, only vacant dim space greeting his vision.


    He swallowed, throat painfully contracting and rubbing against the dry swollen flesh of its own interior. His face contorted unconsciously settling on an expression of pain. The movement of his leg explained why; he stretched it slowly, groaning as the numbness left it and pins flooded in. The cloth crackled harshly, hardened substances pulling apart because of the new movement. Small hairs on his leg pulled away with the substance until the cloth was finally unglued from his leg. He groaned and settled back down into a limp sprawled out position on his side, panting heavily. It wouldn¡¯t do any good to look back at the wound.


    A small movement brought him to his stomach, and another to his hands and knees. There he stayed for long moments until his breathing slowed. Shimmying over to the opening in the rubble revealed nothing but a body blocking the entrance. He sunk lower in dismay. Enemy or ally didn¡¯t matter; a rotting armored carcass was a rotting armored carcass.


    Bootsteps caused him to lock up and freeze in place. Whoever it belonged to said something akin to his native tongue but too muffled to carry its original meaning. He waited stock still listening to the noises that leaked in from the outside.


    The object in front of him was wrenched upward with a grunt and a clattering of metal. He skittered deeper into the darkness and waited for the heavy footsteps to recede trembling softly all the while. Time crept on, sweat soaking into his arming cap, until the shadows changed their direction and form.


    Slow, deep breaths reassured him that he was still alive and reinforced his nerve. He ran through the possibilities in his mind. Being captured or outright killed were the most likely, and the alternatives remained equally as dire. What would he do if he escaped from the safe confines of his shelter? Starve when all the land around him had already been picked clean? Go into feverish delirium and hope the animals did not pick him off while he slept? Even if he found a village by some miracle he¡¯d never muster enough strength to directly oppose those who wronged his people. He grimaced and set his forehead down against the ground. Good or bad, any decision made required him to leave his makeshift rubble cave.


    He wriggled forward slowly, forced to make himself smaller by the narrowing passage of rock. The light graced his hand, welcoming him with warm rays, and he pushed himself forward out into the sun.


    A piece of his armor stuck to an outcropping stopping his advance. He wriggled gently at first, then violently, trying to flee from the shelter that held him captive. The passage seemed to constrict tighter around him locking his arm in place and forcing the other one to stay extended. His breathing picked up in pace, racing along with his heart and mind. He kicked at the ground behind him bucking his legs with all the force he could muster, gouging the stone beneath him with steel sabatons, but failing to make any meaningful progress. So close to the light, so close to the promise of freedom, but caught in in a net that previously saved him. His fighting slowed. Perhaps it was simply his fate to die there.


    Something came lose. He tumbled painfully onto the ground, the brightness of day stunning him and burning his eyes with painfully radiant light. On his back, staring up at the sun unmoving, the lava-like panic slowly receded out of his fingers and toes. He waited there limbs spread out in a star waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change. When it became apparent that they would not he slowly rolled over to his stomach and groaned. He was not meant to die cold and alone trapped in a stone coffin, and that was a relief, but was the alternatives that much better?


    He pressed on with eyes closed tightly shut, groping the soaked and sticky dirt around him in blind search until his hand hit something. He swallowed, throat still dry and utterly painful, and gently caressed its form. Even through the thick leather of his fingers the object felt cold, and as he continued to explore its form, he found it taking a familiar shape. From the sharp metal of its blade to the spiked handguards near its base, and further the crossguard and heavily engraved pommel, the name of the item became apparent. His eyes adjusted to the light achingly slow, but when he opened them, he was greeted by one of his greatest friends and allies. The sight of his blade in all of its glory put a minute smile on his face. It was not all lost to him, then.


    He took deep rapid breaths before attempting to stand, grabbing a nearby outcropping to steady himself as he rose. Despite his preparation his vision blurred and blackened until the world was less light and more darkness. Panting, he stopped mid rise. The journey would have to be taken inchmeal.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    He settled instead for a stooping walk, dragging his sword along the ground beside him. His pride demanded that he stand tall; it was his own home and land he walked in, but the sheer weight on him dragged him down into a low slump.


    Clarity brought a deeper level of perception even in the depths of exhaustion and injury. He looked up to truly intake the world around him. The sun shone in fractal patterns of random colors, fading to pitch black in large void-like areas as it filtered down from the heavens. In some spots the patches of darkness reached the ground and made contact with the mortal world below; just three feet in front of him someone lay dead, seemingly absorbed into the inky nothingness and forever intertwined with the breach in reality. The stonework of the walls that kept the small fortress safe before fared no better. Sections of the protective barrier simply vanished. There were no shattered bricks on the ground or signs of the winking runes that adorned the proud bulwark. The walls, for all their magically enhanced protectiveness and regal nobility, disappeared from existence in large broad strokes of absolute void.


    The air he breathed felt contaminated, perverted by scents long since forgotten by mankind. His body, unaccustomed to the foul air, rejected what kept it alive. He doubled over and retched. Bile raced up from his stomach into his mouth in a vile flood of digestive juices. Panicked he put a hand to his helmet and nearly tore it from his head. His hand stopped just below the helmet¡¯s visor. Shakily he removed it. It would do him no good to remove the very thing protecting him from the outside world. Slowly, he swallowed the acidic burning flood, slowly, he took his hand from his knee. Slowly, he trudged forward.


    A rune on his helmet blinked out. The air stopped flowing into and out of his enclosed visor. He slapped against the faceplate, the rune refusing to come back to life despite his panicked fumbling.  He leaned on his sword, hands clenching on its handle hard enough to drive the blood from his extremities. Each breath presented a challenge, one his already weakened body was unable to complete. Light slowly faded from his eyes and he stumbled to the side, dropping his sword with a clang and slamming into a hard wall. Black spots grew in his eyes and diminished the worlds visibility until he was left completely blind. He scrabbled against the rune he needed, uncoordinated fingers failing to trace its complete length and awaken the slumbering power held within. He slid down the wall, eyes fluttering open and shut, until unconsciousness took him.


    Bricks, dirt, blood. Where was he again? He weakly pushed himself to his hands and knees. The world around him was out of focus. His thoughts were a jumbled mess of sounds, images, and concepts stringed together in nonsensical fashion he could not consciously interpret. A coughing laugh emerged from his bone-dry lips, and his body threw itself into a fit of shivering. Unable to hold himself together any longer he curled himself into a ball and cried out loudly. Vulnerable, alone, afraid. Where the sensation of exposure and overwhelming emotion of terror ended, confusion began.


    A desperate gamble from his brain sent his hand up to his helmet, searching shakily for the word of power on his visor. He traced through the individual patterns and eventually came across the one he searched for, tapping it with trembling and unsure fingers. A light shone dully from his face as it activated.


    He gasped greedily at the influx of air. Spots cleared from his eyes and the vague animalistic thoughts suddenly took solid comprehensible form. He rose from the floor to his knees panting heavily. He looked up from the ground, one hand on his sword and the other firmly on the rubble beside, and locked eyes with something in front of him.


    Something was still alive. Its chest moved up and down gently in slow agonized breaths as it lay slumped against one of the only portions of the wall that still remained. Momentarily he deliberated if this was his end. Man stared at beast unmoving as dictated by his instincts. Beast remained still and nearly lifeless.


    He stumbled closer and paused to catch his breath, then continued his long trek. He stopped just in from of it and collapsed to his knees.


    The things helmet was almost too heavy for the injured man to lift. Much to his surprise, the being inside the armor was truly bestial in nature, covered in dull swamp green scales and brown puffed up feathers. The closest he knew of were dragons and smaller drakes that populated the mountains near his homeland. Things that they were very much at war with. He reached towards his belt and grabbed his dagger. Better to be done with the thing here and now than let it escape to kill another day.


    He clicked his tongue and removed the gunk that held his flask closed. When he put a hand to the thing¡¯s jaw open it he noticed the sheer difference in size between him and the creature; its maw was more than large enough to hold a human skull without much trouble. He shook his head and brought up his flask to its lips, tilting the bottle lightly. The contents poured out into its throat and the runes etched on the bottle grew hot. Magic discharged energy into the mixed water and alcohol in a reaction that produced a dull glow from the liquid ambrosia. Its survival now depended on its own ability to use and heal with the vitality it received. He unclasped his own visor and opened it to the side, tilting the bottle and dribbling it into his own mouth. He grimaced and rescrewed the cap, then redid his own visor and waited.


    The beast slowly came to consciousness and blinked unsurely, unaware if the man in front of it was salvation or oblivion. He held a finger up to his helmet and scanned the area around them. When nothing appeared out of the corrupt morning air he turned back to the creature before him.


    ¡°We''re leaving. You have until I run out of patience. If you aren¡¯t up and able to walk by then I am going by myself. Do you understand?¡± It nodded and groaned weakly, clutching at its stomach with weak hands. As if forced by invisible strings, the arms wrapped around its belly quickly moved back to its side.


    It spoke. The voice came not from its mouth, but from somewhere deep inside its stomach, an androgynous echoing thing that lacked key characteristics of human speech; flat and lacking in the warmth and resonance that even a dying man had. ¡°Thank you. Give me a moment¡­¡± its eyes widened. ¡°And, come closer please, I need to¡­¡± it paused to suck in deep rasping breaths and continued. ¡°To tell you something.¡± He glared at it suspiciously. Despite his misgivings he leaned forward positioning his ear next to the thing¡¯s mouth.


    A light sweet scent almost too faint to be noticeable tickled the very edges of his senses. He felt dizzy. ¡°Helmet,¡± It whispered, ¡°take off your helmet.¡± Its speech sounded manipulated and difficult, not matching the movement of its mouth. A mouth which spoke something else entirely with its lips.


    He declined to oblige and stared hard at the creature. The aroma intensified and he unconsciously moved his head further away. The smell emanating from it was on the surface inviting and pleasurable but held an undercurrent of something detestable, an aftertaste in his mind that made him want to reject the odor altogether.


    He waited for it to continue, not noticing at first that his mind was becoming more addled the longer he stayed. By the time he noticed, it was far too late. Something shifted through his wandering thoughts grotesquely shoveling his thoughts to the side like wet clay. The coherent never ending voice in his head became stuttered and malformed, words taken from their logical flow and displaced in time and the now almost physical space of his consciousness.


    Something wet touched his chin.

 A Brief Walk

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 Desperation

    Ranald stumbled to the side of the gate¡¯s entrance and leaned against the stone, then put his back to it and sank down. The lizard man panted silently in front of him, splayed out on its back. He stared down into its eerily large eyes.


    ¡°Can you fight?¡± It shook its head. He squeezed his eyes shut and sagged lower. ¡°Listen,¡± he said, letting the beast focus its eyes on his helmet, ¡°I may not come back. Understand?¡± It nodded. ¡°There¡¯s a town some days journey down the road. The paved one, I mean.¡± He thought for a moment then unbuckled his belt and stripped the surcoat from his armor. The creature¡¯s head followed him as he placed the loose cloth on the ground next to it. ¡°If you make it there without me.¡± It stared at him blankly. ¡°Give it to them, I mean.¡± It nodded. He took it as confirmation of its understanding and stood to his feet using a protruding stone to help the process.


    His limbs were already burning with the effort. He wobbled forward a step before he could properly mask his weakness. Every pace forward took a conscious effort on his part to move as if he wasn¡¯t nearly incapacitated with weakness.


    He rounded the corner sword sitting comfortably on his shoulder and measured the area. The sun which previously had been at the beginning of its arc was now at its zenith, shining down its odd light in constantly shifting patterns and just illuminating the gateway. Where the portcullis should have been there was nothing. No splintered wood or jagged pieces of broken metal, no bodies alive or otherwise. He didn¡¯t stop to question why nor did his condition allow him to care.


    An enemy banner stood where the fortress¡¯s native flag stood before. His eyebrows knitted themselves together and further resolve blossomed in his gut. The disrespect of the invaders, both to the castle and the land itself, worked his choler into a whirling frenzy. He walked to the flag and raised his leg, kicking down on it until its shaft snapped and the flag fell. He took a grim satisfaction in the act though he knew it was at best a meaningless performance.


    A flash of white steel and brown wood whistled past his head, embedding itself into the stone beside him. Energy shot through his body and the runes on his armor glowed slightly brighter in response, projecting their images onto the shadowed walls of the entryway. By reflex he leaned his left shoulder to the right, throwing his sword out in a warding cut. The next javelin streaked out but was intercepted by his blade¡¯s arcing swing and bounced off into the light of the sun. Ranald used the momentum from his slash to circle his sword around, bringing it up over his head and grabbing onto the handle firmly.


    His opponent was an armored figure that had been cloaked in the darkness, now only made visible by the reflection of the patterned runes on his armor. Ranald made his decision.


    In three large steps he covered the ground between him and his opponent, swinging diagonally. Ranald¡¯s adversary blocked his attack and attempted to counter with a strike that came from above, bringing its javelin up and stabbing at his face. Ranald parried the thrust then telegraphed another overhead strike, lifting his left leg up as if he were about to stomp down with force. His enemy saw this and tried a defense, lifting its shield once more and protecting its own left leg with its javelin. Ranald brought his sword down at its shin rather than its head and sliced through the wooden shaft of his opponent¡¯s weapon. Bone crumpled underneath chainmail armor and his enemy fell to one knee, still sheltering behind its defensive bulwark. Another downward strike removed the shield and an upward cut with the blade¡¯s false edge slammed into the mail on its chin, snapping its head upward.


    Footfalls echoed in the enclosed space, and he pivoted, throwing up a guard above his head. A spear and an ax sped towards him in tandem, one glancing off his left pauldron and the other hammering into his counter, the force of which made him drop his guard. He attempted to back away when a previously unseen polearm slammed into his knee and made his footing unstable. Ranald roared and began to swing his weapon in large circular arcs, backing away from his opponents who followed at a safe distance. Both he and his opponents paused for a long, excruciating moment.


    Time stretched onwards as the belligerents considered their next moves. Ranald shook and breathed heavily. His vision swam and his body ached, arms trembling as he held his sword pointed downward in front of him. Its point hovered above the ground and shook with the tremors in his arms. He attempted to raise it, dragging the blade upwards towards his aggressors. The act felt monumental; all at one his body was hot and cold, shivering even as his skin burned against the cloth of his armor. His blade fell for a moment. Visions of burned bodies and butchered friends flashed through his head, thoughts of inadequacy in failing to protect those around him ripping into his mind and taking hold deep within his psyche, eyes failing to focus on the figures in front of him. What good would living do now?


    He shut his jaw with an audible clack and ground his molars together, drowning out the thoughts with images of revenge and triumph. The fire in his eyes, previously fading away in the cold wind roared to life again.


    Ranald¡¯s armor changed from a light blue glow to white hot, no longer kept restrained by its master. Boiling air poured from the steel into the area around it in roiling waves of heat that completely filled the massive enclosed space around him. He charged the Axman and lead with a rising cut, taking his left hand off his sword¡¯s handle and allowing the blade to fly into the air. The attack missed; its target long since danced away from the strike, but it served its purpose. The spear snaked out once more and whistled through the air but found itself stuck in the hand of its target. Ranald strained his hand and wrist, cracking the spear¡¯s haft but was unable to snap it. His sword came around driven by the force of his previous attack and hit his arm with its flat edge. The Spearman drew his weapon back to find it headless and declawed. Something struck Ranald¡¯s guard, slamming into the blade that sat rested against his forearm. The force of the blow moved his entire upper body to the side, forcing his arms down.


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    The axman closed the gap to take advantage of the opening, weapon drawn to its side for a brutal strike and gave no room for thought. Ranald stepped forward and threw his gathered momentum into a desperate punch, dropping his sword into the hand by the blade and rocketing the one previously on the hilt forward. He stepped into the blow and slammed into the axman with his body, both combatants failing to land their strike and bouncing off the other with a clang.


    Ranald recovered first. He grasped the hilt again and pressed forwards, sword tip pointed at the ground, charging the axman and hooking the pommel behind its neck. He twisted his body and threw the stumbling warrior behind him, pivoting in time to see a sword already coming forward to stab at his eye. It hit his helmet just above the eye slit, pushing his head back and sliding upwards along its curve. Something impacted his belly hard, but he ignored the sensation and leaned his torso to the left, lip curling as he prepared to drag the sword in his hands up the back of the axman in front of him. The spearman grabbed his ally and wrenched him out of the way, moving both he and his friend out of Ranald¡¯s range.


    The brief pause in the assault was enough. He grasped the long tube shaped object from his waist and drew it, pointing it at the poleman that still pursued him. The explosion was enough to light up the entirety of the portcullis, creating a flash so bright Ranald saw it even through his shut eyes. He opened them quickly and was greeted by the sight of hope. The poleman lay collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath and clutching its cuirass. Ranald stepped forward and stabbed down towards the injured warrior¡¯s head. It met with the chainmail of its arm instead, breaking through the links and impaled the wounded¡¯s arm, eliciting a scream of pain that spurred its allies back into action. Ranald attempted to wrench the sword free to no avail.


    The blade of an ax caught him on his helmet and wrenched his head to the side. He stumbled backwards stunned by the blow and was caught with a follow up blow from the spear turned swordsman. The consecutive attacks sent his head spinning and nearly sent him to his knees, leaving him open and vulnerable as his eyes became unfocused on the things around him.


    A barrage fell upon him; each hit resounded with a clang that tore through the reserves of his strength and mental fortitude alike. His eyes regained some focus on one of the fighters in front of him, the other having already circled around to his rear. Everything slowed down. The axeblade cutting its way through the air towards his head seemed to stop midair, the soldier behind it snarling as he swung.


    Emotions were the first thing he noticed. The pain overtaking his senses, the exhaustion begging him to stop and the fear. The fear of losing. The fear of dying when there was still more to be proven. Despair tore him down, whispering its hateful truths and disgusting facts. His life spent fighting, warring, for a gift he was never even certain of getting. Spent on meaningless battles and pointless frivolities, acting as others wanted him always listening and following and never speaking, never daring to tell others of what he really thought of them. His eyes snapped into clarity in that fraction of a second; the rage building up inside of him, the indignity of being attacked as he was, the annoyance of being unable to fight back the weak insignificant insects that hounded his heels. Why should he face death here? Why should he allow himself to be slain by enemies who¡¯d not know or care of his name? Why should he let the world around him continue to play with him at its deranged and disgusting whims?


    The rage boiled over inside of him, scorching the voice of despair in his head and burning it to ash, wiping away the fear in fire and ripping the pain in his limbs to shreds. The anger flowing through his veins forced his overtaxed and utterly drained muscles into use uncaring of the damage pushing beyond their limits would cause. His eyes came alive, veins bursting and leaking scarlet blood into his sclera, teeth and fists clenched in berserk fury that could only be expressed through violence.


    He roared as he struck, diving forwards underneath the ax and propelling his fist over his head like the shell of a cannon. The impact was a gross mess of broken teeth and jaw and mangled skin. The axman¡¯s face seemed to no longer be human, jaw ripped from its socket and nearly torn from his body entirely. The sheer brutality of it was enough to send the warrior crumbling down to the ground in a pile of armor and meat.


    Ranald stumbled forward only able to stop his absurd forward momentum through the crackling of his legs. He pivoted and was met with a gauntleted fist slamming into his helmet snapping his head upward, rattling his brain and forcing any thoughts beginning to form out of his consciousness entirely. He swung wide fist arching over the swordsman¡¯s head who stepped under it and stabbed upwards with its sword. It caught Ranald¡¯s throat and shut his breathing through sheer force. Ranald ignored the sensation entirely and swung upwards into his foe¡¯s head, failing to hit its target as it moved up and away but nonetheless cratering into the swordsman¡¯s chest. Something cracked, and his opponent dropped their sword.


    Metal sabatons clatter against the floor. Ranald pivoted around the fighter to its back, wrapping his hands around the stunned individual¡¯s waist and pulling upward. Steel clanged against the ground and shattered rock clattered off into the darkness around them. The impact of two armored men slamming into the stone centered all its force around the stunned warrior¡¯s conical helmet. Ranald slid out from underneath his opponent who spasmed on the floor. The rage drained out of him at the sight.


    He grimaced at the very thing he¡¯d caused. Mixed remorse and disgust flooded his mind and settled in his stomach. Ranald unstrapped the dagger from his hip and positioned himself kneeled by the side of his fallen foe. He poised the weapon just over its throat and breathed out shakily. The dagger trembled in his hand. He swallowed.


    Perhaps by mistake, he glanced into the man¡¯s eyes. They lay open staring at the ceiling, the orbs of brown faded but still filled with life. His lip trembled. Not an it. A he.


    Ranald slid the dagger back into its sheath and stood. His mind wrestled with itself. He knew they¡¯d kill him when they woke. He knew he wouldn¡¯t have enough strength to even protest. He reached for his dagger again but stopped. Ranald made a decision.


    When he turned to walk away, his legs failed him. He hit the cold stone with a clank and lay still.

 Gathering

    ¡°I¡¯ll admit it when you stop doing it. And couldn¡¯t you have at least gotten angry at me? You¡¯re much too young to be acting as mature as you do.¡± Louresa frowned and walked to the cabin¡¯s door, holding it open for her compatriot. She caught the look on Clair¡¯s face as she followed behind. Cool air blasted them, escaping into the heavy damp air outside. Both women rushed to close the door, unwilling to let their only escape from the heat be compromised.


    ¡°Too much piss and vinegar are sure poison for the heart, you¡¯ll always need something sweet to balance out the tart.¡±


    Louresa mimed throwing up and continued to walk. ¡°Absolutely horrible. Can¡¯t even put my disgust into proper words, they wouldn¡¯t honor the feeling.¡± She opened the office door and walked to the desk, staring down at the documents spread out on the table intently. She smiled. ¡°Same retinue. Well, us and another. I can¡¯t recognize the name.¡± Louresa gathered up the papers and set them in a stack on the table. The notes left her hands dampened. ¡°We¡¯ll wait outside for him. Paper says he was told to come here today too.¡±


    ¡°Not even going to tell me his name?¡± Clair took interest and rifled through the sheets, briefly scanning through them until she reached the object of her interest. ¡°Doru. He¡¯s a¡­ a cat. Is this a joke?¡±


    Louresa sighed. ¡°Wish it was. And before you ask, I¡¯ve honestly no clue what he is either. We¡¯ll just have to wait and see.¡±


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    A thought came to Clair. A thought so horrible she could do not but smile evilly and utter its contents to her already drenched friend. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we do that outside and not in here? How¡¯s he going to know anyone¡¯s home if we aren¡¯t ready to greet him.¡±


    Louresa gulped and beads of sweat formed on her head once more. ¡°Outside? I don¡¯t know about that. I¡¯m sure if he really wants his papers he¡¯ll knock, why go back out in the heat?¡±


    Clair turned and her smile broadened into an even larger grin. This was an opportunity for great things, and not one she planned to miss. ¡°Come along now, out the door we go. You¡¯re a big strong woman yes? Shouldn¡¯t a superior nobleman be able to take the heat better than a scrawny little peasant girl like me?¡±


    Louresa groaned but followed her friend through the door, shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand over her eyes.


    Both women waited below the sun and looked out for their new companion. Neither were willing to be the first to abandon their post and face ridicule from the other. Clair, however, stood stronger and sharper minded than her companion even as Louresa¡¯s thoughts became addled in the heat.


    Louresa noticed a trail of ants and crouched down to better see them, observing their march from the close by anthill to a grasshopper that¡¯d been caught by the swarm. The ants eventually shied away from their single-minded duties and retreated to their fortress, taking what spoils they could and abandoning the rest to rot. The rising sun won even against their clockwork behavior and forced them into a rout. One and, left behind by the others, struggled to pull a morsel. Another ant turned from the receding group, perhaps realizing they¡¯d left a member behind, and dropped its own prize to help its ally, settling in beside its brethren and tugging.


    Louresa blinked hard. She turned her head to her own friend, eyebrows slightly pulled together. ¡°Do you think it feels good to be missed?¡±


    Clair regarded her friend quizzically. She thought for a moment. ¡°¡­suppose it does. Do you think it hurts to be forgotten?¡±


    Louresa stared at the ground. ¡°Suppose it does.¡± Clair looked up at the white blobs in the sky, drifting and disappearing beyond her sight at the skyline.


    ¡°We¡¯re all ephemeral, aren¡¯t we? It¡¯s not like any of us will be remembered come next generation. If I were to be a cloud¡­¡± She tilted her head slightly, finger pressed into her chin as she thought. ¡°I think I¡¯d not mind that fact at all. Connected to nobody and nothing, so close to all my peers but still drifting all alone. I think I¡¯d get used to it, maybe, and it wouldn¡¯t hurt so bad.¡±


    Louresa hugged her knees to her chest, still staring at the ants working below. ¡°I see.¡±


    They stayed silent for a time. A shadow as mercifully cast on them, bringing with it a brief period of relief before sliding away from the pair and over nearby houses. It was quiet, save for the breathing of the pair and rustling of leaves against the stone pathways.


    ¡°It¡¯s a kitty. An ugly kitty.¡± Clair stated simply. Louresa raised her eyebrow and looked in the direction her friend stared. Her heat exhaustion was replaced by sheer curiosity; indeed it was a cat, though not like any she¡¯d seen before. It had no fur and stood on two legs, taller than a child but slightly smaller than most human woman might. The eyes that stared back at them were huge on its face and doe like in their seeming innocence, its tail was much thicker and longer than the tail of a cat¡¯s might normally be even at its size. The women continued to stare at the alien creature before them, unsure of what to make of it. The thing stared back.


    Louresa broke the quiet. ¡°Hello. Are you lost? We can help you if you are.¡± She made a pspsps sound with her mouth in an attempt to attract the oddity before them, rubbing her fingers together. It shook its head and walked into the cabin, leaving Clair and Louresa outside to discuss what they discovered.


    Louresa softly voiced her concern to her friend. ¡°That¡¯s not a cat.¡± She reached up to her head and rubbed her eyes in an attempt to remove whatever caused her to hallucinate.


    ¡°Louresa,¡± Clair said with wide eyes, ¡°I think you just offended it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not real in the first place Clair, just a figment of our imaginations. Must be the damned heat messing with our heads. We need to go find some shade and rest for a bit.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t do that yet. If we don¡¯t make sure it¡¯s real I¡¯m not going to be able to sleep tonight. Take the cup, you¡¯ll need it.¡± Clair handed over the tankard to Louresa, who opened the container and poured the rest of its contents onto her own head. The cool water soaked into her hair and provided a flood of relief from the oppressive daylight.


    ¡°So, the plan is just to wait for it to come out then?¡± Louresa stared at Clair with resignation in her eyes. She knew well that her friend¡¯s natural curiosity would not allow either of them to quit without answers.


    ¡°I suppose it is, Louresa. We can¡¯t just corner the poor thing inside the cabin, it¡¯d be rude.¡±