Choking Vines (Closed for BewareTheDream)

Details are sketchy and the surviving recorded accounts few, but it was generally accepted knowledge that the world hadn’t always been in the gloomy state it currently existed in. The sun wasn’t always red, for instance. Plants used to be a bright and vivacious green rather than their current sickly, pale brown. A multitude of brightly colored ‘flowers’ had grown the world over, and could still sometimes be seen depicted in the rarest and most expensive of antique paintings.

And the ever present, thickly misted fog that choked the land during the evening hours? Absent entirely. But the gloom and decay were small prices to pay if one believed the world truly had come so very close to annihilation centuries before.

They called it ‘the great evil’. It had come from deep within the earth, crept to the surface through networks of caves and naturally occurring tunnels. It sullied all that came into contact with it, blackening, twisting, and corrupting life as all knew it. The histories and even the priests were vague on just what exactly the ‘great evil’ was, but all agreed that the now esteemed Varric the Immortal, Lord Emperor of Essenia had been it’s fatal foe, back when he was just a minor lord from the eastern forest passes.

He hadn’t been the first to attempt it. Many had traveled to the crater in an attempt to defeat the menace, and many had died there. Kings, armies, great heroes of lore-only Lord Varric had stood triumphant.

But not even he could undo what had already been done. And so he allegedly abandoned his ancestral lands to a younger brother and taken to the rebuilding of the sullied lands himself. His power grew, and his empire spread, and the tales became more murky with each passing decade until only the secretive, violent priest class really had any idea what any of it meant. Even the religion that the common man practiced, Lord Varric the god-it too had its contradictions. But his tyrannical hold had been ironclad for centuries and surely would be for centuries more...or so the people hoped, for without him their world would surely perish.

What else was there to believe in? The Emperor had stomped out all other faiths generations ago.

~*~

The town of Ivers had been built mere miles from the border of Essenia, decades after the Emperor’s last expansion. For all the conquering that had taken place during his reign, he had for some reason never really pushed eastward-some thought it because remnants of his family, the descendents of his long dead younger brother yet ruled there, admittedly a small, sparse holding only loosely ‘ruled’ in the first place, but all the same-Varric had never sought after it, and now forbid travel too far into such lands. Traveling within Essenia was expensive and limited-traveling more than a few miles outside of it unheard of.

And so Ivers was at once a wealthy village and a poor one, little more than a hub rather than a producer of goods. They managed, and the people there lived well compared to most. They were fortunate enough to have walls built around them, fortifications against the beasts that strayed from Essenia on occasion. There were even fields of yellow, almost green grass-one such meadow was currently hosting yet another mass exchange of goods between various caravans, venders, and traveling craftsman.

She would have been fairly easy to miss in the bustling crowd, had she not been petting one of his loyal draft horses. She’d slipped up from nowhere it half seemed-just suddenly there, murmuring to the large animal and rewarding a nudge a gentle stroke to his nose.

The woman was on the small side-no more than five foot one or two, if that. She was a bit diminutive, delicately built-but no child. Even in the loose fitting, flowing clothing she wore-a pair of dark green, calf length culotte pants and a lighter green poncho-she was clearly a matured woman. Her skin had a tanned gold color to it, warm-and it was complemented by long tousled waves of honey blonde hair, currently held together in a thick braid over her shoulder. Her eyes were round and a smidgen too large for her face-fringed in light gold lashes and a matching dark honey hazel in color. The only jewelry she had was a thin cord around her throat that disappeared beneath the poncho. She lacked a cloak and her boots were wrapped cloth rather than leather, and the only thing she carried was a simple wooden walking staff across her back, one end curled into a spiral and hardly taller than she was.

She didn’t look like a traveler. She certainly wasn’t a local, either. But there she was, petting his horses.

The weight of the coin pouch brought a ghost of a smile to Bastion’s face. He didn’t realize it had been days since his last smile, but what he did realize was that the town herbalist had just paid him one silver more for every medicinal mushroom compared to the last shipment, and he barely had to negotiate for that extra price.

Ivers must have been experiencing a shortage of medicine, he reckoned. After all, the herbalist’s shelves did look a little bare. As he tucked the heavier-than-expected coin pouch into an inside pocket of his thick, long coat, Bastion made a mental note to gather more of the shrooms and sell them here as soon as he could. Of course, doing so would mean returning to the Mardare Forest to the northwest, just over the Essenian border, and that place was filled with plague hawks. The prospect of having to deal with plague hawks again made the tiny smile on his face vanish.

As soon as he rounded the corner to the street where he parked his wagon, Bastion spotted a stranger messing with his horses, which meant his wares may have been messed with, as well. Immediately, the corners of his mouth got weighed down by a scowl, an expression that came more naturally to him than smiling, nowadays.

Marching directly at the stranger from behind, Bastion waited until he loomed over her before he barked a warning. “Step away from my wagon.”

His voice was deep and intimidating - a fine match for the man to whom it belonged. Although he wore no visible weapons, Bastion still looked dangerous. He wasn’t especially tall, but his body was especially thick. With broad shoulders and a barrel chest, he seemed as wide and sturdy as the stone houses that lined the street. Dark-eyed and dark-haired, he had two days’ worth of beard on his face. There was a good amount of gray in his beard, but the gray hadn’t invaded the hair at the top of his head nearly as much.

Bastion was caught by surprise when he saw the stranger’s face, for not only was she easy on the eyes, she was clearly a foreigner as well. Even here, in the lands just east of Essenia, she looked like an outlander.

His expression softened, but only a little. “Petting a horse you don’t know can be dangerous.”

Sylvie jumped, hand freezing mid stroke-but she oddly didn’t whirl around or scurry away. She was just surprised, not alarmed-she gave the horse a regretful final pat and then she turned, head tipping back slightly to better see what was definitely a decisively unhappy face. Honey hazel blink at him once, openly and mildly curious as he spoke again-and then she cast a thoughtful glance back to his horse, musing.

“They seemed too gentle to mind.” The girl’s voice is soft and naturally soothing-gentle. It was quiet, but also direct in a way-one would be hard pressed to ignore her, the way she carefully enunciated her words.

Dangerous horses weren’t the cause of his upset however, and Sylvie colored a little to realize her statement could be misconstrued as-and possibly was-an argument.

Oh no!

She was quick to bow her head after that, an apologetic half curtsey. “I am very sorry to have caused offense, sir.” They had seemed a little lonely, was all-she should have resisted the temptation to meddle with another person’s things. Still, the horses weren’t the only reason she’d been drawn to the wagon.

She straightened again, hands lightly clasped before her chest. “This is your wagon?” Obviously it was-he had said as such. She smiled, again a little apologetic, an attempt at diplomacy despite his scowl. “You are from Essenia, perhaps returning there?” She’s a mixture of curious and hopeful, and while most young women would have probably shied away from the man and his wagon entirely after a bark like that, Sylvie failed to be cowed. Other than a worry over having been rude, she wasn’t the least bit nervous, either.

It wasn’t bravery or stubbornness that kept her there, a resistance to fear-it was just a complete and utter lack of it. Despite his rough continence and the harshness in his tone a mere moment before, she wasn’t afraid of him.

As if she had never encountered hostility or ill will in her life, and therefore-expected none.

It was certainly a strange quality, in this age.

It took some effort to stop frowning, especially since the stranger chose to argue with him rather than step away from his property, like he demanded. But he did soften both his expression and his tone, for he knew a business opportunity when he saw one. This woman was about to talk business, and even he didn’t talk business with a frown.

“Yes, this wagon’s mine,” he repeated himself. He stepped forward, grabbing the reins of one of his draft horses - the red roan - in an easy grip. By moving toward her, he intended to use his big body to get her to finally move away from his wagon.

“And yes, I’m from Essenia. Born and raised.” He actually didn’t look like your typical Essenian. While most Essenians were pale, Bastion’s skin was a natural, light, reddish tan. His complexion, sizable build, and the shape of his eyes suggested that someone in his not-too-distant family was a horse warrior from the far eastern steppes. His hair was shaved on the sides, a classic military cut that revealed a long, thin scar that reached diagonally from above his left ear toward the back of his head. If his black hair were longer and tied into a topknot, his resemblance to a horse warrior would’ve been more complete.

Although he didn’t look like a typical Essenian, his accent was clearly of that region.

“Why do you ask? Do you need directions, or transport? In either case, I’m the right man to ask.”

Odd as she was, the woman clearly didn’t wish to impede his movements-she took a graceful, fluid step around him, a clean, slightly sweet scent to her hair and skin. She afforded more space between them with another step back, if only so she didn’t have to tip her head quite so far back-and to hopefully put him at ease given his earlier upset.

“In either case, I’m the right man to ask.”

Sylvie brightened.

“I was very much hoping this was the case, sir…?” Curious, inquiring. He did look different than most she had seen so far on her travels, but few strangers but Essenians passed through the village. Indeed, it was rare for a traveler to be heading into the place. Perhaps if it were not, poor Chaucey would have found her passage by now.

But that was alright-she had decided to help him, and thus her visit into the town proper, the investigation of the heavy wheeled wagon, it’s strong horses-and now, the sturdy, surly gentlemen who might be able to help her.

“My name is Sylvie. I am seeking passage into Essenia, as far over the border as you can take me.” A nod. She has been told of the travel restrictions laid upon the Essenians, and while passage straight to the capital would be a boon indeed-she was willing to accept any distance, if only to be once more on the move, another leg of her journey completed. She had enjoyed her time here in Ivers and was grateful to her hosts for housing her-but she must continue.

So very much depended on her doing so.

“This is something you might be persuaded to do?”

“Sir?” Bastion scoffed. “‘Sir’ is a title meant for knights, and there are no knights in Essenia. My name is Mr. Bastion.”

He considered what Sylvie was asking for. Traveling through Essenia was dangerous even for imperial citizens, and it was especially dangerous for outlanders like her. It could also be illegal, depending on the specifics. And yet she wanted to go as far into imperial lands as he could take her?

It was risky, to say the very least. Risky and potentially lucrative.

“Silver and gold can persuade me, just fine,” Bastion said, glancing to the right, left, then over his shoulder to make sure there was nobody within earshot. When his gaze returned to Sylvie’s face, he continued, his voice noticeably lower than it was moments ago.

“Now, before we talk about cost, I need to first make sure you’re aware of some things.”

He raised the index finger of his right hand, which was kept warm inside of a wolf-skin glove. “One: Essenia is more dangerous than the stories say.”

Another finger was raised. “Two: The laws, including the travel laws, are more restrictive than non-citizens know. People can be arrested for traveling certain roads without the right authorization. And the laws are especially rough on foreigners.”

Finally, his ring finger was raised. “And three: Only those with an Imperial Badge of Passage can use all the roads in Essenia without restriction. Monsters, bandits, and other hazards are still a concern for them, but at least the law isn’t.”

He reached into his collar, hooked a finger around the thick, iron necklace he wore, and pulled a metal badge out from his shirt, just enough for her to see the top of it. The badge was rectangular and made of pressed platinum. Letters of Old Essian - the language of imperial law - were etched upon the shiny rectangle.

“Lucky for you, I happen to have a Badge of Passage.” He hid it inside of his shirt once again. “I can transport you anywhere within the empire, with few exceptions.

“Now, about my fee. Because of the risks involved, I charge a premium: five silver per day of travel. You must also cover the cost of your own food, supplies, and other necessities. While you travel with me, you can stay within my wagon, where it’s a little warmer.”

It was fairly common knowledge that transport on a covered wagon like Mr. Bastion’s would cost one or maybe two silver per day.

“I know that the extra charge is substantial,” he said, anticipating a possible objection. “But so are the risks, I assure you.

“Also, you’ll need to be a little more specific about where you wish to go. I’ve traveled all throughout the empire, so I can tell you how long it will take to get somewhere, and thus how much it’ll cost you.”

Bastion.

Sylvie had studied many languages, was particularly interested in varying dialects and the changes in the meanings of words-she was interested in names. Her name, for instance, was tied closely to so many things. Her people, her mother, her faith…

What did Bastion’s tie him to? A bastion was a shining example or a gatekeeper of an ideal...or, in more practical terms, a defensive structure, a fortification. “Mr. Bastion.” She repeats thoughtfully, weighing the significance in such a name.

“Silver and gold can persuade me, just fine,”

Perhaps not. But wasn’t a man entitled to his living? Besides-Chaucey had struggled to find such an expert. Cost had not been the issue, but availability. And Mr. Bastion was available. A very fortunate day indeed.

Sylvie paid close attention as he spoke of enlightening her, eyes moving to his lifted, gloved hand. Each time he lifted a counting finger her eyes would flick to it, then back to him. The first point she merely gave a nod, a trace of determined seriousness-but still no fear-entering those honey colored eyes. The second, oddly, received a small, almost rueful smile. And the third-well, the third sounded like a problem.

Sylvie’s brow furrowed. She does not have one of these badges.

Before she can inquire if HE might happen to have one, he produced it, or at least a glimpse of it. Sylvie relaxed again. She absently notes the symbols were familiar-the same as some of the oldest of her people’s tablets. She should not be surprised...after all, this...Varric-he had been one of them.

Sylvie mentally waved away these thoughts, chiding herself for letting her thoughts drift-when he revealed the badge allowed him to travel anywhere within the empire.

Her pulse quickened. Anywhere in the empire! He could take her straight to where she needed to go, assuming he knew the way-this was a very fortunate day indeed!

“My people are not…” The figures he listed off did not entirely mean much to Sylvie. He might note she wasn’t carrying a coin purse. She smiled, again a small, quick little curtsy. “Coin is not my expertise.” The petite beauty revealed apologetically. “We will need to speak with my host, Sir-Mr. Chaucey. This is a thing he will arrange for me. Given the length of time he has been looking for someone such as you, I am sure your terms will be very agreeable to him.”

Sylvie gave a nod. “Shall we go visit, a moment? As for where I wish to go-I am on a journey to your country’s capital. Or rather...the walls of it. I am told I would not be allowed inside.” The woman’s graceful fingers caught at the bottom edge of the poncho, a bit of nervousness. This is a part of her task she does not much like to think about, not yet.

Sylvie finds her smile again. It’s just as pretty as before, if a little more wan.

“Let us go to Mr. Chaucey, rather than waste your figures here on me. He lives at the edge of the village, the western most field.”

A foreigner going to the imperial capital sounded like an invitation for trouble - for her, not for him - but Bastion didn’t say so. The ‘why’ of it wasn’t any of his business, only the ‘how’ and the ‘how much’. If this Mr. Chaucey, who he assumed was Sylvie’s sponsor, agreed to his terms, that meant he’d get paid a nice sum of coin for taking her someplace he would’ve eventually gone to anyway.

This certainly wouldn’t be a safe or easy job, but at least certain aspects of it were convenient.

“Very well; let’s go talk to your host.” Bastion used his most friendly-sounding tone. “Hop on board; I’ll drive us there.” He stepped to the back of his covered wagon, unlatched and lowered the tailgate, and waited for her to climb onto the wagon bed. If she indicated she wanted help to get up there, he’d offer her a hand, otherwise he’d simply wait until he could close the gate.

The wagon bed was less than half-full with crates, and inside the crates was Ivers wool. He knew that the wool fetched a decent price in many parts of the empire, and that the price got higher the closer one traveled to the capital. If this transportation gig to the capital panned out, he may as well sell the wool there.

Even with the crates, there was enough room in the back for Sylvie to roll out a sleeping bag (if she had one) and lie down. Or, for this short trip to Chauncy’s field, she could sit on one of the crates near the front to watch where they went or ask the driver any questions.

After she got on board, Bastion stepped to the front, released the brake, and hoisted himself into the driver’s seat, a move he had done countless times before. He may have been a big man, but he moved as easily, as smoothly as someone much smaller. A gentle snap of the reigns and a few clicks of his tongue got his two draft horses - Stampede and Biscuit - to start moving.

Nice and easy, he guided the horses into turning the wagon around so they could head toward the westernmost field.

Sylvie’s smiled again, appreciative of his friendlier tone. She was a woman whose smile showed in her eyes as much as it did on her lips-warmth to those honey hazel eyes, a sense of secret sharing. On top of that, she was rather trusting. The golden skinned woman accepted his helping hand gratefully, staff slipped from her back and set down first before she climbed into the wagon. She knelt on the floor boards and cast a curious glance around the interior. Despite the mundane cargo she seemed highly interested, almost as if this were a rather novel experience.

Which, in all honesty, it was. She’d walked or ridden most of the way so far, and had started her journey in one of her people’s canoes.

She’s still pleasantly smiling when she turned back to him just as he was closing the tailgate. “Thank you, Mr. Bastion.” Her delicate hands curl over the top, apparently set to watch them pull away. It was a little childishly expectant, all told.

He walked around to the front and the cart shifted under his weight. They were on their way, Sylvie idly watching the shrinking space as they drew away from it, waving to a few passerby she recognized and some she didn’t, cheerful.

After a few moments she sat back on her calves, the rocking of the wagon not too terrible, her hands leaving the tail gate to rest on her lap. She was relieved to have found her way forward-she had been starting to worry, and the guilty feeling of...sloth? had grown with each passing day. The fingers of her left hand crept to linger just beneath her collar bone, while her right hand found and rested on her staff lying beside her.

Yes, it was more than time to be on her way.

Sylvie sighed, pulling her head from the clouds in order to-slightly unsteadily-make her way to the front of the cart, a steadying hand to a crate as she watched the road ahead.

“I meant to ask, but what are your horses names? They seem very sturdy.” Indeed-the horses she had seen in Ivers had been some of the largest she had ever seen.

~*~

The house was just a smidgen past modest, a solid stone work dwelling with wooden interior walls and large, shuttered windows. A woman sat darning just outside the door, comfortable but straight backed in a wooden chair. Her fingers continued to move as she looked up at the approaching cart, curious-and then she saw Sylvie, who waved cheerfully at her.

She rose to stand, a clear look of confusion as she set her sewing on the seat beside her-Sylvie disappeared back towards the back of the cart and hopped over the tailgate rather than wait on Bastion-there was no small amount of happiness in her graceful stride as she hurried over to the older woman, picking up her hands in either of her own, excited.

“Miss Gloria, look! I went into town, and I found an escort! He’s come to speak with Sir-Mr? Chaucey, he’s still here, isn’t he?”

The woman’s eyes darted to Bastion, face slack with surprise-and then she forced a smile as she looked back down on the younger woman’s beaming face.

“I-well, he may have retired for the evening, perhaps-”

“So early?” Sylvie became concerned. “Is he ill?”

“Oh, no dear, it’s just-”

A portly figure passed by the window, a likewise dismayed look towards the cart-and moments later he exited the building, putting together the scene in a hurry. “Sylvie, I have been-was most certainly searching for an escort-”

“I know you were, kind Sir Chaucey. I hoped to help you, given all the time you’ve been searching-and fortune has found us! This is S-Mr. Bastion.” Sylvie beamed at him, a friendly gesture of introduction. “And this is his wagon, and his horses, and he is permitted to travel all the way to the capital! That is better than the starts and stops we had anticipated, is it not?”

Silence.

And then- “Well, we best get you ready then, ought’nt we? Come along dear-” Gloria wrapped a kindly arm around the girl’s slender shoulders and guided her towards the house-behind Sylvie’s back however, she shot her husband a look-and Chaucey turned his attention back to Bastion, his lips pressed into a straight line.

“Bastion, is it?” He finally starts, slowly. He retrieves a handkerchief, wipes at his mouth. “That would be a long journey, here to the capital. Are you sure it’s worth your time? That, and it’s not always entirely safe associating with foreigners, is it? Not that the girl’s capable of lying, but she doesn’t much look like an Essenian...and neither do you. That’s two to draw attention.”

He’s gone from dismayed to suspicious, as well as...sly. He’s apparently set to negotiate, but if he was looking to pay less, he was certainly going about it the wrong way-his points only supported that the trip had risks.

Distantly, one could almost pick up snippets of the two women conversing, the soothing, quiet voice of the one not quite as audible, and the cajoling tone of the other a bit better heard.

“Have you spoken to this man before? It isn’t safe to travel with just anyone, Sylvie.”

“I will endeavor to be as safe as possible, and Sir Bastion is a good man with good horses.”

“Not everyone has good intentions, and we would prefer to find...” Chaucey paused and waved for quiet, half turned towards the house and straining his ears-but the words were now too quiet to hear. He waited, and then his wife must have finished with her plea, because Sylvie’s quiet, soothingly sweet voice could be heard again.

“I could not ask for more kindness on either of your parts. Perhaps someday we might spend time together again-but for now I must go with the rare gentlemen we have been waiting for. Please, you must understand-lovely a town as it is, I did not come so very far only to squander the health afforded to me in Ivers.”

Gloria dispensed with her kid gloves, tone grave and serious with warning.

“Sylvie, listen to me-you’re not the first to have come here on this pilgrimage. The-” Inaudible. “-is never done, and they never come back. They do not make it, and it’s thought the Red Ones-” Again inaudible, but the anxiety had been unmistakable-and the only further words the two men would manage to catch was ‘take a miracle’.

A long pause, and then, finally-the Sylvie spoke once more. “Then I shall find one.”

Chaucey ran a hand through his hair, defeated-and when his wife appeared in the doorway, shook her head-he seemed to age ten years on the spot.

He turned back to Bastion, and did not meet his eyes for several moments.

“...what will you be charging?”

“That one’s Stampede.” Pointing at the horse on the left, Bastion replied to Sylvie’s question about names. Then he pointed to the one on the right. “And that one’s Biscuit.”

Both of the draft horses were, indeed, big and sturdy. Both were mares, too. Stampede was a sorrel whose mane and tail were the same light reddish-brown as her coat. Biscuit was a red roan with a much darker mane and tail, and four white socks. Judging by how easily and quickly they responded to their driver’s unspoken commands, it was obvious they were well-behaved and well-trained.

The ride to the Chauncy property was a short one. In the back, Sylvie got a brief preview of what the wagon ride would be like for the many days the journey would take - bumpy, boring, but easy.

Bastion didn’t make any small talk. If she had any questions, he’d answer to the best of his ability, but it didn’t seem like he was the talkative sort. Instead of chatting, he checked out the fields that they passed. The plants therein looked sickly, but they were still among the better-looking crops he’d seen in recent years. Like everyone else, Bastion knew that the food made with such crops was bland at best, but eating bland food was far better than starving.

He performed a quick study of the Chaucey property upon their arrival. It definitely looked like Sylvie’s host had money; he must’ve been in the running for richest person in Ivers.

Before he had a chance to steer the wagon to the front of the house and then turn it around, his passenger leaped out of the back to talk, excitedly, with the lady of the house. The wagoneer shook his head and hoped she wouldn’t make a habit of jumping out of a moving vehicle. He’d have to make a rule against that if the transport job was agreed upon.

Minutes later, everyone was inside of the house. Mr. Bastion and Mr. Chaucey conducted negotiations while Sylvie and Gloria spoke in the next room.

Right away, Bastion knew that he didn’t like Chaucey. For some reason, he and his wife were trying to keep their young guest stuck in Ivers even though she obviously was eager to leap into the wolf den known as Essenia. Perhaps that was why they were trying to trick her into staying - because they feared for her safety?

Something told him there was more to their reluctance than worry about the young woman’s safety. And whatever that reason was, it wasn’t wholesome.

The wagoneer didn’t dwell on the ‘why’ too much. He also didn’t speak that much during the negotiations. Instead, he listened while Chaucey did almost all of the talking. It was an old merchant’s trick: if you met a potential customer who’ll talk your ear off, just let them. They’ll talk and talk until they poke holes in their own position, making it easier for you to get the upper hand.

So Bastion remained mostly quiet, giving Chaucey the opportunity to undermine himself. At the same time, he couldn’t help but overhear fragments of what Sylvie and the wife discussed in the other room. What he could hear didn’t make much sense to him. Red Ones? Disappearances? The only part he understood was the bit about a pilgrimage. Once he knew Sylvie was a pilgrim, some of her behavior made more sense.

Finally, the young pilgrim put her foot down, making it clear that nothing Mr. or Mrs. Chaucey could say would dissuade her. Bastion watched the two hosts exchange a look, then he watched Chaucey wilt like one of the sickly crops outside. He knew the job was his.

“Five silver per day,” he replied when asked about his fee. He then repeated some of what he had told Sylvie earlier that day. “As you’ve pointed out, Sylvie doesn’t exactly blend in, and transporting a foreigner comes with its own risks. My Badge of Passage will mitigate some of that risk, but not all. And since imperial law enforcement is only one of many risks this journey will entail, I’m sure you can see why I must charge what I do.

“The five silver per day only covers transportation and the passenger’s safety. Sylvie will also need to pay for her own food, supplies, gear, and so on.”

He paused in case Chaucey had any questions so far. If none were asked, he would continue. “Now, if the capital is her final destination, then I the journey should take at least three weeks. That’s how long it should take if we take the most direct route, we only stop at night, and if there are no significant delays along the way. If, for example, Sylvie needs to visit a village that’s out of the way and spend extra time there, then that would obviously add to the travel time, and my fee.”

Bastion quickly did the math in his head. “Twenty-one days at five silver per day equals one hundred and five silver, or ten gold and five silver. Again, consider that the minimum; the actual journey could take much longer and cost much more.

“Payment for each day of transport and protection can be rendered at night, when we stop to rest.”

Bastion glanced at Mrs. Chaucey, but it didn’t take long for his shark-like gaze to lock back onto Mr. Chaucey.

“Do you agree to my terms?”

Chaucey nodded along almost absently, not even attempting to haggle. “There may be a few deviations…” He murmured, weighing things out further, finding some of his spirit again, more businesslike.

If he could not discourage his charge from continuing on into Essenia, then he would at least do what he could to ensure her safety-as much as it could be assured, anyway.

The man Bastion was large enough to be a threat of his own. Considering Sylvie’s size and fairer gender...who was he kidding? The girl could be a six foot tall amazon and she’d still be little more threat than she was now. Still, for all he knew Bastion might be the sort to slit a woman’s throat if it meant an easy payday. He mentally kicked himself for not finding an escort, even considered if he could somehow, somehow persuade Sylvie to wait just that much longer for him to earnestly do so.

But he’d played his hand, and she’d unwittingly trumped it.

He moved to the small desk in the corner, opening a drawer. “There are...friends across Essenia. I won’t hand over the girl with a bag of gold upfront, risk having her killed as soon as you turn the corner. You’ll be paid for the first leg in your trip, and then paid ahead again for the next leg once you reach each friend. I'll write a quick contract with your terms, something you can produce if anyone balks."

He found what he was looking for, a mostly accurate map and then a list of towns and villages across Essenia, all mostly on the way to the Capital. “There should still be flexibility in the path-you need not visit all of them, just what will be on the way.” Three stops by his estimation. He handed the papers over, then discreetly removed a stone from the mantle of his fireplace-and retrieved a pouch of coins. He guessed the first leg might take four, perhaps five days-and counted out the five silver per day, plus a few extra. That should account for any hold ups on the way. He paused just before exchanging the money.

“...if, at any point, Sylvie decides to abandon the journey...or expresses doubt enough you can convince her to do so-"

"Return her safely to Ivers, or any of the friends along the way.” He hesitates, worrying at his lip a little. “And I will pay for the trip in full, and whatever extra expenses incurred. Understand?". Extra motivation not to leave her stranded somewhere, he hopes.

"If you will agree to that, I will agree to five bloody silver a day and your other terms.". And he'd finally surrender the coin for the first leg of the trip.

Bastion didn’t object to the proposed payment process. Chaucey would’ve been a fool to give the trusting, young Sylvie a fat purse of gold or an even fatter purse of silver and then just leave her with someone he hadn’t properly vetted. The man was clearly hiding something, but Bastion didn’t think he was a fool.

He was, however, surprised by how quickly and easily Chaucey agreed to hire him. If he were in his shoes, he wouldn’t have agreed to let Sylvie travel with anyone he didn’t personally know, or at least know by reputation. He began to reconsider whether or not the sweaty man was a fool, but quickly abandoned that line of thought, for it didn’t matter.

A job was a job and coin was coin no matter who did the paying.

The wagoneer took the map and the list of stops, but he didn’t study either for long. After so many years of traveling up and down the many roads of Essenia, he had all the major routes and many of the smaller, lesser known routes committed to memory, so the map wasn’t needed. And one glance at the list was all he needed to learn which towns and villages had to be visited on the way to the capital:

Hornwhal’s Stead. Ljanivic. Bluemton. He’d been to each of those places in the past month or so, and he’d stopped by each many times over the past decade. He didn’t consider himself to be an expert on any of them, but he knew where they were. The map and list were both slipped into one of his coat pockets.

“Yes, I get you,” Bastion said in response to the part about bringing Sylvie back to Ivers or leaving her with one of those ‘friends’ if she wished to cancel her journey. “For what it’s worth, everyone who’s ever paid me to be their transporter or guide arrived at their destinations unharmed. I’ll make sure Sylvie gets where she needs to go.”

He accepted the purse with the payment for the first leg. He didn’t count the contents, for he watched Chaucey count it before. “Thank you, Mr. Chaucey,” he said with only a hint of a smile on his wide, reddish-tan face.

“Now, as for the contract: please write my name as ‘Mr. Bastion.’ It’s spelled like it sounds.”

Glancing at Mrs. Chaucey, Bastion wondered why neither of his hosts bothered to offer him anything to drink or eat. Not only was that rude, but western Essenians considered it bad luck to mistreat a guest. He didn’t believe in such superstitions, though, because luck was bad for everyone almost all the time no matter how they treated their guests.

“For what it’s worth, everyone who’s ever paid me to be their transporter or guide arrived at their destinations unharmed. I’ll make sure Sylvie gets where she needs to go.”

Chaucey nodded, but Gloria wrung her hands. “It’s not the going that-”

He shot her a sharp look as Sylvie reentered the room. Her youthful, loose fitting clothing had been swapped out for a more ladylike dress-an Essenian styled, garnet colored A line dress, a form fitting velvet bodice that flared out at the small of her small waist. The garnet color complemented, maybe even enhanced her honey colored hair and those matching hazel eyes, her skintone.

Sylvie was a little older than she had first appeared-still a lovely young woman in the bloom of her youth, but perhaps in her very early twenties rather than the teenager she had, at first pass, seemed to be, when she was petting his horses and wearing the clothes of her people.

Gloria had been quick to turn away to compose herself, making busy with a dusting cloth she’d pulled out of her apron pocket. It doesn’t entirely fool Sylvie however-the warm smile she’d entered the room with dims a whit as she takes in the sullenness of her hosts, setting her knapsack down in the doorway and drawing a thick, quilted dark green cloak around her shoulders, tying it off as her eyes shifted from one to the other. At least Mr. Bastion looks to be in a marginally good mood? She almost absently ties a coin pouch to a loop sewn at her hip-and while she doesn’t like the weight of it, she dislikes the atmosphere of the room even more.

“I picked some of my apples before venturing into town.” She starts, a little uncertain-but she’s quick to regain the warmth in that soft, naturally soothing voice of hers. She heads to a covered basket in the corner. She collects a small armful, hands one to Gloria, then to Chaucey just as he was handing the contract to Bastion. “You will look after the tree, won’t you? I should like to come back and visit it again, someday.”

“Visit” a tree? The girl was addled.

“We’ll look after it.” Chaucey says, a little flat-before he visibly softens, hesitating before reaching out to grasp her shoulder. “It may not thrive as well as it has under your care, but...we will not let it die.”

“Thank you. It should produce apples for a while yet.” Sylvie offered an apple to her soon to be escort, that secret sharing smile again, in her eyes as much as it was on her lips. “Chaucey was able to help you with your figures, I hope? I knew he would.”

“We did come to an agreement.” Her host answers, a second small map for Sylvie with the listed town names. “Mr. Bastion will make a few stops along the way, so you might visit friends of yours, and he can collect his fees.”

“Ah.” Sylvie read the names of the towns and villages. They meant little to her, but her smile was gentle, even fond. “I will be sure to look for our friends, whenever we do stop in one of these places. Thank you.” Neither of her hosts hug her, nor does Sylvie move to embrace them. There was something...oddly respectful about their demeanor, while Sylvie seemed graciously fond.

Not caretakers then? It was a little strange. Much about her was.

“Be well, friends.”

“Be well, Sylvie.”

The couple moved to the doorway and would watch the pair depart if they got going-but Sylvie still held two apples. “Might Stampede and Biscuit have an apple? Apples are supposed to be good for horses, yes?”

The apples were something of a marvel-the skin had a healthy reddish color to it, red that melded into yellow. The flesh was firm and, should he bite it into it now or later-the fruit crisp and the taste a mixture of sweet and tart.

It was downright unheard of. Most fruit bearing trees, what little were left-produced little more than crabapples.

From his seat by the fireplace, Bastion got an eyeful of Sylvie in her new attire. She was certainly attractive. For as long as he could remember, he had been a fool for healthy, tan skin and a pretty face framed by blonde hair. Such features were always rare in Essenia - or for as long as he’d been alive, at least - so they always caught his eye whenever he spotted them in a woman. They always caught everyone’s eye.

The beauty and rarity of Sylvie’s features didn’t only make him stare at her, almost hungrily, but they reminded him how much she would stick out throughout the empire. That could be trouble. Forcing himself to stop staring before it became obvious, he got to his feet. The chair he’d been sitting in creaked in relief once his brawny, bulky body lifted off.

“Goodbye, Mr. Chaucey,” he said as he gave the nervous-looking man a firm handshake. He said goodbye to the wife as well before striding to the front door and waiting there for Sylvie. He expected the young pilgrim to take longer with her farewell, but hers was about as quick and informal as his. He noticed the lack of warmth between Sylvie and the Chauceys, just like he noticed the brief exchange about the apple tree she wanted to visit. These details were noted, but he didn’t spend too much time thinking about them.

No, at that moment, he paid more attention to Sylvie’s boots than what she said to the married couple. The boots he had seen her wearing when he first saw her would not have been ideal for a long trek across Essenia. Yes, the wagon would be used to cover most or all of that distance, but they couldn’t count on having the wagon the entire time. Wheels could get stuck in mud, the wagon could get stolen by thieves or confiscated by imperial officers for no good reason, or worse, the horses could get eaten by creatures of the fog.

Travelers in Essenia needed to be ready to run at a moment’s notice for a variety of reasons, and a good pair of boots were key to that readiness.

For now, though, nobody needed to run anywhere. The wagoneer and his new passenger exited the house and walked down narrow, stone-lined path that stretched from the Chaucey’s front door to the drive in which Stampede, Biscuit, and the wagon awaited.

Bastion glanced at the apples that Sylvie offered. They were, easily, the healthiest apples he’d seen in a long while; perhaps the healthiest apples he had ever seen, period. The sight of them made his mouth water. “Yes, apples are good for horses, and horses do enjoy them.

“I’ll take one and feed it to Biscuit. Thanks.” Before feeding the apple to Biscuit, he took the small knife sheathed in one of his hard, leather bracers - the cleanest knife he had on his whole person - and used it to cut a slice off the fruit. The moment he put the slice into his mouth, he knew it was the tastiest apple he’d ever eaten. Alas, after a couple of bites, the morsel was gone. He savored the aftertaste for as long as it lingered.

Envious that the Chaucey’s had such a healthy apple tree on their property and wishing he had an apple all to himself, he hesitated for a few moments before feeding the rest of the fruit to Biscuit. She had spotted it, and would’ve made a fuss if he tried to feed her a bland oatcake instead of the juicy, red treat.

Sylvie was free to feed Stampede, who was much better behaved than her name might indicate.

He’d turn around to see a pleased horse crunching on the last of her apple-and Sylvie already dipping into whatever was packed in the knapsack. She produced two more apples, because of course.

“I thought we’d eat ours on the way out of Ivers, Mr. Bastion.” She smiled at him as if HE were the one offering HER a tasty treat-but there was happiness and joy to sharing, her people knew that very well. Indeed, it drove nearly all they did.

Her curious eyes flick to the long bench seat at the front of the wagon, an ensuing query. “May I sit up front with you as we eat our apples? At least for a little while?”

She was rather accepting of his answer one way or the other, and whether he’d assist her to the benched seat or up onto the tailgate of his wagon, he’d get a better look at her shoes-and see Sylvie’s cloth boots had disappeared for garnet colored slippers and offwhite stockings that, while they matched her dress with what little were seen of them-would indeed be terrible for any sort of long or arduous trek. Nor did she seem to have gloves, unless they were in the knapsack she toted along in her left hand. Her cloak looked warm, in the very least-but a stop for a few things might be required.

Sylvie’s beaming smile easily made Bastion smile in return. His wasn’t a big smile, but it was the first one she saw on his face since they met earlier that morning. Eagerly, he accepted the apple that she offered him.

“You have my thanks. And yes, you may ride up front with me.”

It occurred to him how easily she lifted his mood and got him to agree to sit up front with him, something he usually never allowed a passenger to do. All it took was a smile and an apple to get him on her side. He then realized that the young pilgrim could be dangerous when she turned on the charm.

Bastion wanted to sink his teeth into the apple right away, so it was with some effort that he hid it away in a pocket instead. Stepping to the side of the wagon, he waited there to offer her help in climbing up to the driver’s bench. When it was his turn to climb aboard, the wagon shifted much more than it did when she boarded.

Before he settled into the driver’s position, the wagoneer reached through the canvas flap behind them to fetch some items from the wagon. First, he removed an axe. Its haft was about as long as a woodcutter’s axe, so it required two hands to wield. But unlike the typical woodcutter’s axe, its haft was reinforced with metal langets, and the blade looked more ornate. This axe was meant for hewing flesh, not bone.

Bastion hung the axe on a sheath he had nailed to the side of the wagon, right behind the driver’s seat. It wasn’t only easy to reach for, it was also easier to spot - he kept it there as a visual deterrent against thieves or anyone else who might mean them harm.

The second and third item that he retrieved from the back was a longbow and a quiver attached to a belt. He strapped the belt around his waist and secured the quiver full of arrows to his left hip. Then he hung the bow over his massive shoulder.

There - now he was ready to get going. With a few flicks of the reins and clicks of his tongue, he goaded Stampede and Biscuit into pulling the wagon away from the Chauceys’ house. Bastion gave the married couple one last nod before turning around and focusing on the road.

Actually, his focus got split between the road and the apple he removed from his coat pocket. Finally, he could sink his teeth into it. When he did, its juices seeped into his mouth, coating his taste buds. He couldn’t remember the last time he bit into a fruit so flavorful.

The wagoneer had to force himself not to devour the tasty treat too quickly. Eating it slowly, he savored every bite as he drove them down the road that would not only take them out of Ivers, but also take them to the closest Essenian border checkpoint.

Riding up front should have been a mundane a thing, was something Bastion did near everyday and had for years-but Sylvie was clearly delighted with the prospect, her honey hazel eyes roaming over the horses, back down her side of the cart (it was certainly high up!), and then behind the wagon proper. That’s where the young woman finally relinquished that sturdy walking stick of hers, carefully leaning it to rest against between two crates before settling back forward again. Her head was up, back straight, and her expression cheerfully expectant as he climbed aboard, the wagon shifting to one side for a moment, before bouncing downward as he took his own seat.

“This is nice! And new, too. Thank you.”

Sylvie held her apple in both of her dainty hands, resting the treat in her lap as she watched him retrieve and hang an axe on his side of the cart, she assumed to making chopping up fallen trees for firewood more convenient-you wouldn’t have to climb up and into the car for your axe if it was on the side of your wagon.

She takes a small bite of the apple, thoughtful, curious as he equipped a bow to wear on the road. She’s seen bows, other weapons since leaving home. Never quite this close, though.

She likes the feathers they had been fletched with…

Another bite of her apple, and then she lifted a hand and waved to the Chaucey’s-who still seemed…

Sylvie feels a pang of guilt. They seem unhappy, and she was the cause of it-but they must understand. This had always been the path...

“You like to travel?” Sylvie asks, distracting herself. She was an inquisitive, curious young woman, and she enjoyed talking to people. She’s certain she’ll enjoy talking to Bastion, and the wagoneer does have her curious, both on his own merits, and because he was the first Essenian Sylvie had actually had the pleasure of meeting.

She can’t help but be curious. What was it like to live in so large a country, and had he seen much of it? Were there really wraiths in the mists, monsters in the swamps? What were the people like, those not in the priesthood and sanctuaries, that was. Sylvie has been warned, at length, about them. Lord Varric…

“What is your favorite place to visit?” Her quiet voice inquires, a slight rush to it rather than the normally calming, soothing note. Yes. Yes, she wants to think about this now, not Lord Varric and not his priests, just the mysterious Mr. Bastion, and the places he has seen.

"I'm sorry, I didn't even ask you how your apple was..." She's lapsed on her own-Sylvie sheepishly takes another bite.

Did he like to travel? That was a question he hadn’t asked himself in...he actually didn’t remember the last time he thought about it.

“I travel for work, and because living on the road suits me.” There was more to it than that, like how it had been many years since any place felt like home. That was not something he wished to talk about with a stranger, nor was it a memory he wanted to explore. Not now.

Syvlie asked him what his favorite place to visit was. He had to think about that. His hometown of Bolksvar used to be his favorite place in the world, until sad times changed his opinion of it. It’s been at least a year since he’d seen it. “I like all places the same,” he finally answered.

“Much of Essenia looks the same. The people are more or less the same, too, no matter what village or town they’re from. All have more than their fair share of worry. No one dares go out at night. Some are friendly to travelers, but I find that number grows smaller with each year.

“The main difference you’ll see is the architecture - the buildings out west look different than the buildings you’ll see in the east.” It sounded as though he was thinking out loud.

“Forests are more dangerous in the east, too. Which reminds me: we’ll need to be protected by walls and firelight when we sleep during the first week of the journey. The empire has set up outposts along the road to Ivers, so that travelers have a place to rest between settlements.

“After that first week, we’ll be in lands that are more heavily guarded by imperial soldiers. The roads are safer, and we’ll be able to camp outdoors. But we’ll be stopped more often. Inspected more often.”

Bastion took another bite out of his apple. If Sylvie looked back, she would still be able to see Chaucey’s house in the distance. Although they hadn’t been on the road long at all, the wagoneer’s apple was already almost down to the core. Obviously, he enjoyed it.

He glanced at her. “You should keep your hood up at all times. Hide your hair, especially. Tie it behind your head, and wear a hat. I have a hat in the back if you don’t have one. We won’t be able to stop soldiers from inspecting us, but you can at least attract less attention from random citizens.”

Bastion found it a little difficult to take his eyes off of her. But eventually he did, and his gaze returned to the long road ahead of them.

"Truly?" Sylvie's eyes are wide, taking what the stoic man tells her at face value. "So large and populous a land to be so...sturdy, isn't it? It must be nice to like all of it the same, and find the people and the land familiar wherever you go."

Sylvie sighs, a faint, absent smile on her lips, pensive. "It would help a person not be quite so homesick."

He speaks of the dangers to be found in the night, the heavy burden of worry the people bore. Even the forests are places of danger, in Essenia. She nods along as he relays their intended precautions, not quite fathoming the idea of mortal danger-but trusting in his knowledge and experience absolutely.

"My...hair?" Sylvie's right hand lifts to touch at the soft, honey colored waves, puzzled. As he continues on she finds herself nodding, no less puzzled but her eyes attentive, trusting. If Bastion believed it would lead to trouble, she would do what he asked.

She retrieved a handkerchief from one sleeve and sets it and her apple down a moment, pulling her hair over one slender shoulder before her graceful fingers began to braid it. As she did so, her head tipped to that side and the various strands of dark and light blonde weaved together-she smiled at him, a bit of sly understanding. "I can dress the part, but not quite hide what I am, yes?"

She slipped the braid off of her shoulder and down her back, drawing the hood to her cloak up. She would retrieve the hat once they stopped. Her dress was more restrictive than her normal attire, and she would not wish to fall while attempting to clamber back there while wearing it.

He had enjoyed his apple, though he did not say so. It made Sylvie happy to share. She took and enjoyed another bite of her own.

After a few moments of companionable quiet, she had nearly finished the fruit, and was currently retrieving a few of the more accessible seeds. But where to keep them? She had a few seeds in her pack, but that was in the back...she was worried she'd lose them before then.

Sylvie wrapped them neatly in her handkerchief, then cast a glance down at her dress- but it didn't have pockets. There was the pouch of coins on that little loop, heavy and awkward-perfect!

"Do you have one of these?". Sylvie inquires. It made no sense for them to carry it separately, have two pouches when one would suffice. And then she could keep these-amd any other-seeds in this one and on her person.

How very handy was this loop!

"Could I pour these into yours, and you might carry them for me? Then I can use the pouch for other things, since I have no pockets."

Sylvie pauses, frowning. "Do Essenian women always wear dresses without pockets?"

It took several moments for Bastion to understand what Sylvie was asking for.

“What? You want me to carry your coins?” He chucked the apple core to his left, into the field the wagon was creaking past. “No, it’s a good idea to hold onto your own money. Your money’s yours, my money’s mine, and they should be kept separate. Besides, if I were to lose my pouch, or if someone took it from me, we’d both be penniless.”

He cast a long, quizzical glance at the young pilgrim seated beside him on the driver’s bench. If she needed to have the importance of money and why each person’s money should be kept separate explained to her, then that gave him a pretty good idea of how much more she would need explained. He grunted mildly, for at that moment he realized that this journey could be a long one.

Her fussing about pockets or the lack thereof didn’t lighten his mood, any.

“No, I’ve seen Essenian women wear dresses with pockets. Either that, or they wear pocketed aprons while they work.

“The next time were in a town or pass by another merchant, you can see if they have a pocketed dress you can buy.”

In the meantime, at least he could give her something to hold her seeds. Reaching behind him into the wagon, he fished around until he found a spare pouch. “Here.” He offered her the pouch. “Keep your coins where they are. Use this one to hold...whatever it is you needed holding.”

A brooding mood fell over Bastion that lasted for the rest of the day. He’d continue to answer any of Sylvie’s questions, but he wouldn’t bring up any topics, himself.

*****

Several hours passed. Their progress was fine - they had traveled no faster or slower than he expected. The sky, which had looked gray all day, took on an angry red hue. The mist rolled in, reliable as clockwork. To the right and left, they could see the mist blanket the land between gnarled, gray trees.

“We only have another hour of daylight left,” he said to Sylvie, whether she was still seated beside him or riding in the back. “We’ll be at the border checkpoint long before then. They’ll allow us to rest there. It’ll be lit and guarded.”

Soon after he said that, they both heard a long, keening howl to the left, somewhere deep within the mist.

Bastion immediately sat up straight, but he didn’t stop the wagon. Stampede and Biscuit began to show their agitation by neighing sharply and shaking their heads, so he tried to calm them by shushing them and whispering encouraging words at them. “Shh. It’s okay, ladies. It ain’t nothing we haven’t heard before. It’s okay.”

Ears perked, the wagoneer listened for more howls or other sounds from the mists. Once the two draft horses calmed down, he unslung his longbow and rested it on his lap.

Sylvie watches Bastion back, just as quizzical-before she nods slowly, accepting his logic, if only because Sylvie would never doubt anyone.

She’s never held onto her own coins before. The very slightest hints of a troubled expression comes to her face as she looks back down at the little coin pouch, the bits of metal within. She hopes-and she’d wait to ask until then-she hopes he would help her when it did come to figures, later.

Unless this was something Essenians did not do? Perhaps figures were a needless burden she was placing on him-he was not of her people or her Friends after all, and shame on her for being so thoughtless. She had not known, but not knowing was no real excuse.

She draws the little purse closed again, a slow shake of her head. “No, this dress suits well enough.” Then she would not have to worry about figures at all, just yet.

He does offer her another little pouch, and Sylvie brightens noticeably, her original problem solved. “Ah, thank you! This is perfect, a very perfect thing.” So simple a gesture should not have warranted the gratitude the girl showed him over it-but her brief bit of troubled hesitation was gone, and she happily let the seeds fall from her palm into the new pouch, and tied that to the loop in her dress alongside the coins.

If she noticed his brooding, it hardly seemed it-Sylvie asked him more curious questions, but she eventually realized just how stoic Mr. Bastion was-he seemed to use the shortest amount of words possible, always. She mostly focused on the towns marked out on her copy of the little map, amd since he stuck to them all being the same, she focused on what he had said changed between towns-architecture. Sylvie had never heard of such things and looked forward to seeing them. According to her, her people lived in open buildings, mostly wood with earthen roofs. He didn't ask, and she didn't elaborate. Eventually she quiets, content to watch the land roll past, a pleasant little smile curving her lips-companionable company.

*****

"Mm?"

Sylvie had retreated to the back of the wagon after a quick stop so she could do so-as much fun as it was to be in the front, the rock of the wagon had made her a little sleepy, and as the trees became more sickly looking, almost pained-she needed to collect her thoughts, settle her heart against their twisted, struggling visage.

So she'd curled up against a crate back there, dozed off for a little while, until he spoke about the first checkpoint, something Sylvie was looking forward to seeing.

"That is very kind of them." She says as she uncurls from where she'd been leaning against a crate, legs drawn up beneath her.

She paused midstretch-then moved closer to the tailgate, studied the mist as it continued to roll in with a frown. It's worse, here. Her heart beats almost tentatively against the oppressive feelings the fog inspires, but this only strengthens her resolve. It is good she had come.

A creature called out in the night, and Sylvie blinked, head tilting. She glances back to Bastion, hears him settle his horses-and watches him unsling his bow.

Oh.

She slips back towards the front of the cart, the place she'd left her staff. Her hands wrap around it and she draws it close to her, comforted.

"Are we far?" Sylvie inquires softly, oddly, (perhaps surprisingly) calm. She's almost directly behind him, head and shoulders turned towards the blackened, gnarled trees on their left.

“Quiet!” Bastion whispered at Sylvie. Although his voice was low, the urgency was clear. He didn’t want any distractions as he listened to the mist - or more accurately, listened for whatever dangers were hidden therein.

Another howl emanated from the mist, still ahead and on the left, but closer this time. A second howl followed the first. Then another, and another, all from the same general direction, all their sources obscured by the haze. The draft horses both whinnied and shook their heads in anxiety. Stampede nearly reared up. Bastion didn’t need to tug on the reins to stop them, for they both refused to move any closer to the sounds of monsters. They would’ve backed away if they could.

The wagoneer had hoped that the first unseen howler would have continued on its way, or perhaps found something in the forest to hunt instead of him, his passenger, and his horses. But like so many hopes in these accursed lands, his was frozen and dashed by cold reality.

The howling stopped, only to be replaced by approaching growls. Judging by the sounds, Bastion thought he knew what creatures now advanced on them. He also thought he knew how many there were - it was a pack of four or five. If his guess was right, then killing four of the creatures by himself would be tricky but doable. Killing five would be difficult. Any more than that would likely be a death sentence.

Their only choice was to fight, for outrunning them wasn’t a viable option.

Bastion stood on the bench, causing the front of the wagon to bounce a bit underneath his shifting weight. In a single, smooth motion, he lifted his bow, nocked an arrow, and took aim at the growls.

“We’re about to be attacked,” he warned Sylvie without turning around. There was no longer any use in whispering, so she heard his deep voice, loud and clear. “Stay in the wagon. Stay out of sight.”

The air around him was cold, and his skin got chilled by a passing breeze. The horses continued to whinny and snort in fear, that fear intensifying as the growling got closer and closer. Finally, the wagoneer was able to make out a shape in the mist. He fired a shot at the fire without hesitation, for he just needed to see a shape, not the details. Another arrow was nocked right when the first one connected and a high-pitched yelp of pain pierced the air. Something slammed into the ground, making the wagon man guess he scored a lucky kill with that first shot.

The monsters abandoned their cautious approach and began to charge out of the mist. Another dark shape was revealed, and Bastion fired at it, too. He now knew for sure what they were even before he could see them clearly - they were mist hounds. Larger than the average wolf and just as shaggy, mist hounds had canine bodies, sharp fangs, and vaguely human faces. Legends claimed that children who got lost in the mists and fog were warped into mist hounds by eldritch forces, and that their forlorn faces and haunted eyes were reminders of their lost humanity.

Bastion didn’t know what the truth behind their origin was, but he did know they were voracious eaters, as well as one of the more aggressive threats to be found between here and the capital. He’d never heard of mist hounds on this side of the border before, but at the moment he didn’t have time to dwell on why they were outside their usual territory.

He fired a second and a third arrow, both at the same hound. His target’s snarls ended abruptly thanks to the arrow that flew down its throat, and it took a rough tumble on the dirt. The wagoneer fired another arrow at the one behind it, hitting it in the shoulder but not killing it.

Two were killed, which was good. There turned out to be five total, which was bad. And what was worse was how quickly they charged. Bastion had to drop his bow, hop off the wagon, and snatch his axe from its sheath, for the remaining three would be on his horses in moments. He couldn’t let that happen.

Axe in hand, he bolted in front of his spooked horses and prepared to fight the three mist hounds, axe against fangs.

Sylvie was quiet. Keeping her staff close to her chest and her ears open, she listened right along with Bastion as another howl tore through the night, this one closer-and joined by a friend-and then more friends. The wagon had come to a stop, the horses unsettled, upset-afraid. For such tame and gentle creatures, it did not bode well for whatever it was that was coming.

Bastion surged to his feet and the wagon rocked, Sylvie’s eyes flying to his back as he spoke loud and clear, told her to stay in the wagon, to stay out of sight.

Sylvie retreated further into the cart, uncertain but still oddly calm-until he loosed an arrow and something out there yelped with hurt. That drew a shocked gasp and widened the pilgrim’s eyes.

No, Sylvie did not like this. She was not at all accustomed to violence, and the death cries and hefted tumbles in the dirt as life was extinguished was almost as disconcerting as the fear in the horses and her new friend’s preparedness for battle. Maybe more so-but it was not Stampede and Biscuit who had asked for trouble, nor Bastion, nor herself.

Still-

!

The wagoneer jumped down from his safe perch and the cart rocked, Sylvie’s eyes flying wide as she scrambled back to the front of the cart before it even settled again, one of her hands wrapping around the top of the seat as she nervously tried to see over the two draft horses.

This was bad, this was very bad-would these creatures try and eat him up?

~*~

Three sets of fangs against one axe was trouble enough, but only if all three converged at the same time. Which initially, they had-but one got smart, and as the wagoneer was forced to deal with one of his packmates-he darted back and around for Biscuit, snarling-and found Sylvie instead, the disobedient passenger in the middle of alighting from the wagon, smaller and much quieter than Bastion’s exit had been.

The woman very nearly takes a spill, the hood of her cloak falling back from that honey blonde hair-which would have been unfortunate, as the mistwolf was easily as big as she was. Sylvie’s left hand thrust out and something very small arced towards the ground, the mistwolf still snarling and intent on wounding the horse- and then she brought her right hand forward, tightly clutching that tall walking stick of hers-and from the small flying dot just now landing on the ground came a bright blast of greenish white light-and an explosive scent of-apple blossoms?!

The snarling human faced wolf yelped in surprise as an entire tree grew beneath him, turning Biscuit and Stampede slightly aside but oddly not running as the fruit bearing tree shot up with impossible speed, interrupting the attack and forcing the creature up into the air. Turned upside down within the apple tree’s twisting branches, the beast was briefly pared down to flailing paws and spitting growls-before the animal fell out of it, landing hard and heavy on one side with a thump, even as the tree flourished further-it’s gardener taking a dizzied step back from the rising wolf and bumping into the wagon, trapped.

One of the three mist hounds decided to go after the horses instead of the wagoneer. Although Bastion was worried about the lives of his passenger and his horses, he also had his own life to worry about. No one would protect them if he were dead.

Ahead of him, a mist hound leaped into the air. Bastion was ready. With a bellowing cry, he swung the axe sideways, slamming the blade into the neck of the airborne creature, causing it to scream in pain and crash to the ground. Its scream was vaguely human, and the blood that splashed against his cheek was weirdly cool. The eerie sound and the touch of unnatural blood gave Bastion goosebumps.

The first strike may have knocked the monster out of the air, but it didn’t finish it. Wounded by still very dangerous, it attempted to get back to its legs. But before it could, Bastion delivered an overhead chop that struck its neck again, this time from the top. He felt a crunch, the hound made no sound, and it stopped trying to get up. Its body twitched as the wagoneer yanked his axe out of its neck.

A snarl warned him that the other mist hound was about to attack. Whirling about, he raised his weapon in a defensive move, which was fortunate, for a mouth full of sharp, twisted fangs closed down on the haft of the axe instead of his neck. The hound pressed its paws against Bastion’s shoulders, and its claws sank into his thick leather coat, his jerkin, and the flesh underneath.

“Nyaargh!” He could feel his own blood begin to soak his shoulders and chest. Man and hound became locked in a standing grapple. Shuffling back and forth or around each other, at times it nearly appeared as though they were dancing.

The mist hound was on its hind legs, repeatedly biting at the axe haft. Bastion was so close to the beast, he could feel its breath - it felt hot against his face and smelled faintly of decay. Gritting his teeth, he couldn’t help but look at the gnarled fangs that kept chomping mere inches away, then up at the thing’s eyes. Just like its face, its eyes were also human-like, with dark pupil and irises surrounded by yellowish-white sclera. What made its eyes look especially human was the hatred they conveyed. Bastion never expected he would peer into the eyes of a mist hound, and he didn’t want to repeat this experience ever again.

He definitely wouldn’t get a repeat experience if he died tonight, he told himself.

The chomping, snarling hound tried to bring him to the ground. As large and as strong as Bastion was, even he knew that he wouldn’t be able to wrestle with the beast for long. And if it succeeded in taking him down to the ground, his chances of getting out of the fight alive would fall, drastically.

With adrenaline surging through his veins and pain exploding in both of his shoulders, Bastion dug his heels into the earth. Up until then, he had been forced backward, step by step, but he refused to be shoved back any further. Screaming, he shoved the axe handle forward, pushing it against the beast’s mouth, pushing it at least a little further away. Then, as swiftly as he could, he removed his right hand from the handle, withdrew the knife from his belt, and stabbed the hound in its flank.

Again and again, the wagoneer shanked the monster that was trying to eat his face. He grunted or yelled each time the wide blade sank past fur, hide, and muscle to pierce vital organs. Blood dribbled from its many wounds onto the ground, or onto Bastion’s boots and pant legs.

The thing didn’t howl in pain. Instead, it kept snarling and trying to break the axe haft with its jaws so it could finally bite down on Bastion’s face. But the more that he stabbed it, the weaker it became. Eventually - finally - its human-like eyes rolled back into its head, and its jaws slackened.

Gasping for breath, Bastion sank his knife into the beast’s flesh one last time and left the blood-soaked blade inside of it. Grasping the axe with both hands, he shoved the dead thing off of him. As it collapsed, its claws got ripped out of his shoulders, causing a fresh burst of pain. He felt exhausted, but he wasn’t so tired that he couldn’t swing the axe onto the hound’s skull, just to make sure it was really dead. The axe blade crunched through skull and brain, so if it wasn’t dead before, it sure was dead now.

Bastion pulled his axe free and whipped his gaze at his wagon. He half-expected to see something horrible had happened to Sylvie or his horses. Instead, what he saw didn’t make sense. There was a full-grown tree where there hadn’t been one minutes before, and as he watched, the tree continued to grow. At the base of the tree, the last mist hound was limping away, for it had broken one of its forelegs when it fell out of the tree.

The wagoneer wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating due to blood loss. His movements a little sluggish, he jogged back to the wagon to retrieve his bow. With it, fired an arrow at the last mist hound, piercing it in its flank. It staggered, but didn’t fall. Bastion had to fire three more arrows into it before it finally collapsed.

A quick scan of the area confirmed that there were no more snarling creatures advancing upon them.

“Sylvie!” Utterly confused by what he was looking at, he called out for his passenger. The smell of apple blossoms wafted to his nostrils, which confused him further.

The creature thumped to the hard packed dirt road and Sylvie swayed back into the cart-she’s briefly more than a little dazed, but the cacophony of continued violence somewhere ahead of the horses…

There was a life and death battle happening paces away, and the screams the foul creatures had issued-

Sylvie ducked beneath the wagon and slowly backed away from the still blooming tree and the rising shaggy creature-but it didn’t come for her. A baleful, hateful look on a human-esque face, worse than anything cast her way before-before slinking away injured. She realizes she’d been holding her breath-and exhales, straightening up on the other side of the cart and having to steady herself against it a moment, feeling ill at the sounds emanating from the mists.

Bastion was in danger, and even as big of a man as he was-the wolves were large themselves, and the look the one had given her…

Regaining focus if not her strength, Sylvie hurried along Biscuit’s side and hesitated just beside her, anxiously straining her eyes to see into the mists ahead-but the sounds were on the other side. She moved back down the length of the cart, intending to go around it-when the sound of battle abruptly ended, sickening an end though it was.

She rounded the cart and found the wagoner firing arrows-arrows she did not follow the course of, ill enough at the sound of torn flesh and thunks of stone into muscle. His back was to her, the apple tree before him, confusion evident in his body language-she has no idea how she will explain it-when he suddenly called her name.

“I am here-” The blonde beauty quickly assured-and then froze when he turned towards the sound of her voice, her already alarmed, frightened eyes widening that much further at the sight of his bloodied clothing and-

“You are hurt!” She moved for him immediately, her gold tan face pale and a slight tremble to her hands. Her staff she slips into the sling across her back, the strap of which now cut across her chest and the dark red velvet bodice of her dress. She reached for one of his brawny forearms, biting her lip as she tries to determine what blood was his and what belonged to the creatures that had so viciously attacked, took in the clear and obvious holes claws had torn into his clothing, his flesh.

She’s all anxious energy now, despite the pull at the edges of her mind, the weariness that came from such sudden, strong encouragement of life.

“You must sit in the wagon Mr. Bastion-my things, I brought something that can help, you must please let me help you.” Her voice is still melodious, but there’s a level of panic there that spoke to her horror and her concern for him, even with that odd bit of ever present calm-her touch is gentle, careful, and she does not pull so much as guide, her steps graceful even in her distraught worry.

“What manner of creatures were these? The one looked at me with such…” She doesn’t know what the word is in English, can’t find anything comparable. It’s not what she wishes to think about-not with him hurting.