More Tales to Tell (Closed for WatchingCloud)

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

Minu sat at the foot of her daughter’s pallet, graceful hands stitching back together a night shirt the child had torn accidentally. She was a laundress for the camp-one of three, and always very busy. Too many men and not enough wives, as her mother might have said-but it was a good life she had here, especially given the death of her husband two years before.

As she worked she continued the tale she'd started to lull the child into sleeping-an old tale her father, a foriegn born farrier-had once told her. One of many from his homeland, all revolving around long ago adventurers and heroes, kings and warriors of their eras.

This one was about Leah Lizka, a sometimes hero, sometimes thief and scoundrel that her daughter idolized. She remembered doing the same, when she was younger.

“And her most trusted man, the one who always spoke his mind said ‘What is this job you’ve taken, and how much more shall we stand?’ Castle Laansher you see, was built high in the mountains. It was on cliffs overlooking a city also built on cliffs, nestled in a mountain basin with even steeper cliffs behind it. And it was cold there, sweet. Very cold.”

“Snow!” Her daughter delighted-and it was a phenomenon neither of them had ever seen, not in these lands. Fantasy indeed.

“Yes, snow. ‘We haven’t enough rations nor men for campaigning-let us be done with these brothers and their warring.’” Her deeper ‘man’s’ voice gave way to her soft, clear one again as she continued, the needle and thread going through the cloth over and over as she repaired the hole.

“But the red lady Lizka, she did not fear, nor did she answer in the usual sense. Instead, she ordered the usual rounds of ale-and each man drank eleven flagons before returning to their rented beds, more agreeable to their furs than they were before. On the morrow, they would meet the army promised to them-but it was perhaps worse than imagined.

The good king’s promised army was as ragged as expected, if not worse. Assembled in the dead of winter, they were poorly trained and outfitted, and made for a sorry sight. So too did their supplies-but still their leader did not worry. Oddly, she set them to woodworking.

In three days time, the men at the lakeside village had doubled. Leah Lizka split the King’s army into two-she left the larger force to set up camp on the frozen lake, and tasked the smaller to advance on the cliffside town in full view of the distant watchers in a week’s time.

That was how long she believed crossing the mountains would take her and her men, you see. For among her many treasures, the lady Lizka had a map-”

“A magic map!” The starry eyed child giggled, quieted with a tender bop to her nose.

“Yes, a magic map. And the map showed her a path down the unscalable cliffs at the rear of the fortress-it would take wit and perseverance, but she had both in spades, and was resolved to climb down and take the castle with her only her small contingent of men.”

“Leah’s Layabouts.” The girl murmured contently.

“Yes. But while she was journeying over to then climb and descend those cliffs, King Hrogar, brother to the good king, learned of the force stationed on the frozen lake. He had heard of their bedraggled appearance and their limited supplies. It was all his brother saw fit to send after him until the spring thaw-and should he triumph now, he would be nearly unopposed come the change of season. He knew too of a smaller force already dispatched away from it-but worried little. The secret passages through the mountain were secret and hidden, and he had them well defended.

No, his focus was on the frozen lake, and he had planned an ambush-the smaller force would fight only a small army of his men-the rest he would send on ahead to overwhelm and crush the one at the lake.”

“But they weren’t real!”

“That’s right-lady Lizka had set the King’s army to building men of stone and wood-the ‘standing’ army on the lake was little more than twelve men in a sea of false soldiers! They fled when the bulk of Hrogar’s men came-and by then, it was too late.

Desperate a battle as it was, the good King’s army was able to enter as far the passages and fortify against the returning Hrogar forces, and by then-it was entirely too late for the bad King. Leah Lizka had already descended on the castle, and she and her merry men had swept aside the bareboned defenses left in place there, captured the bad King and his nobles, and had the town suspicious of traitors in their midst.

When Leah put the king to death and offered pardons on the good king’s behalf-many took it, including the bad king’s own generals. And so the good king’s army swelled with the able bodied men of his brother’s subjects, and Leah and her band wintered comfortably in the luxurious quarters of royalty until the spring thaw.

So ended Hrogar at the crafty Lizka’s wit.”

“Tell the one about the magic dagger?” The girl murmured as she held up her arms for the finished night shirt to be slipped over her head, a kiss given to her smooth forehead.

“Maybe tomorrow night-for now, it is time to sleep. I have linens to wash yet.”

Arranging the blankets in a more comfortable fashion, Minu blew out the lamp and exited the tent-returning to the light of the setting sun and her work.

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf’s eyes scanned the shifting dunes of the Sea of Sand’s southernmost extent, alert to any movement. It was easy to see things that weren’t there – mirage or the mind playing tricks in the monotonous desolation. With the Breethan soldiers probing deeper into the Xaumah ancestral territories over the last month, his men’s minds had conjured even more demons.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon and sthe temperature began to plunge from uncomfortably hot to dangerously cold. Wolf unpacked his heavier cloak from the saddlebag and slung it over his shoulders. He knew his men grumbled about camping without fires, but this close to the border it would just be inviting attack. They were tough and would endure.

Movement on the horizon caught his eye. A rider on horseback, closing fast. Wolf strung his bow, eyes leaving the rider only long enough to scan for others. After cresting another dune, the rider’s identity became apparent to Wolf – Crooked Branch Shiera, a hunter from the Yarrow clan, a fellow Xaumah. Wolf spurred his horse forward to meet the rider, certain he bore bad news from the reckless way he rode.

“Morning Wolf,” Crooked Branch said, his voice as ragged as his mount’s breath. “So passes the day.”

“So passes the day, Crooked Branch,” Wolf replied in the traditional greeting for this time of day. “What news?”

Branch looked over his shoulder as if worried he was being pursued. Wolf saw nothing.

“Nothing good, brother,” Branch said, his voice tight. “Breethan soldiers found the Riverbed clan camp.”

Wolf felt a chill pass through the very core of his being. It took all his will to maintain his composure. “How bad?”

Branch, not much older than Wolf, looked ready to crack. Unable to look Wolf in the eye, he said, “Very. Only a handful managed to escape, along with the few that were away from the camp at the time. We think they may have taken a few captive, but most were slaughtered.”

The idea of the Breethans taking captives gave him little reason for hope. His father was supposed to have been visiting Riverbed, to put the final agreement in place for Wolf’s arranged marriage to Dancing Leaf Hossan. As a clan warlord, his father most certainly would have died fighting, even in defense of another clan.

Branch looked up and must have seen the unspoken question. He nodded. “Your father was among the fallen, as were the Hossans. All of them, if the report is accurate. I’m sorry.”

Wolf clenched the reins, but otherwise gave no outward sign of his grief. He simply nodded and sat in silence for several minutes.

“Thank you for bringing word,” Wolf finally said. “Come, join me and my men for dinner and rest tonight. Tell me everything you know.”

#

Before first light the next morning, Wolf’s small scout band of six split up at his direction, each man carrying word of the attack to the other tribes. Those closest to the border would be well-advised to move deeper into their territory. Though it should go without saying, Wolf believed it was time for the tribes to come together and form a war council. Until they knew the extent of the Breethan’s intentions, they had to assume all were in grave danger.

Wolf took it upon himself to return to his own Wind Canyon clan. With his father’s death, a new warlord would be named. He knew he’d be the favorite, but it was not his choice to make. Others might see the wisdom in selecting one who wasn’t in a position of having vengeance fresh on the mind. He knew those voices wouldn’t be wrong.

He rode hard but smart to the east, skirting the edge of the Sea of Sand without risking the health of his horse. His mind and attention should have been on the horizon, on his surroundings, but it was impossible not to dwell on his losses. And what would the clans be able to do if the mighty Breethans really were set on invading? That nation outnumbered them at least twenty to one. Their lands were rich in resources and they enjoyed trade with distant nations, giving them access to fine metal weapons and armor. Wolf would put a Xaumah warrior against any two or three Breethan soldiers, but there were limits.

Wolf entered the canyonlands from the desert with no effort to hide himself. He knew his people would be watching his approach and he wanted them to know he was coming. While he was moving with speed and purpose, he still took the longer path through rocky trails that would obscure his route. Should enemies follow, they would be slowed in trying to navigate the narrow canyons in search of his clan’s camp.

Finally, an hour after entering the canyons, Wolf arrived at their camp – just over two-hundred strong, living out of animal skin tents that could be struck and moved at a moment’s notice. The canyon offered shade and shelter and kept them hidden from outsiders, yet it was possible to be trapped there should an enemy know the area. His trained eye already saw the signs of packing, though the daily life of food prep and wash and teaching the children continued.

Friends and distant family were quick to greet him and offer condolences. Word of the attack had preceded him, which was just as well. With the grief in his heart, he didn’t want to do more than nod and politely accept their sympathy. He dismounted and turned his horse over to a pair of older boys for tending while he made his way through the heart of the camp and across the bubbling brook.

Swallow’s Song, the Wind Canyon clan’s shaman and chief, was tending a cook fire alone. She was already among the eldest of the clan and today, hunched over, looked much older than Wolf remembered. Still, as she looked up at his approach, he saw a sharp, youthful fire in eyes circled with exhaustion and grief.

“The truth of your name is a terrible burden this day,” she said, straightening with a hand on her back. The light, loose fabric of her dress hung limp on the bony frame.

“What do you mean?” Wolf said. The woman was often cryptic in her wisdom.

“Most thought your father named you for the morning wolf’s howl,” she said, just as he’d believed. “I was there, though. In truth, you were named for the wolf’s mourning. That grief. I nearly broke my heart when I heard it.”

Why had Wolf never heard that story before? Why was he only just now learning his true name?

Song saw the confusion on his face. “Your father feared for the omens of the spirits that day, the hardship such a name might hold for your future. He didn’t want to burden you with the unknown future. But neither could he deny the name passed to him from the spirits.”

Wolf nodded. That he could understand.

“So much pain for the Mourning Wolf,” she continued. “First your mother, then your sisters. Two promised wives and now your father. Friends, cousins, and surely more to come with this invasion. You’d have every reason to curse the spirits and lose yourself in rage and grief.”

Those emotions and more were boiling just beneath the surface. Indeed, he felt unfairly cursed in this life. He no longer had any immediate family and prospects for changing that in the near future looked dim.

“The spirits have their wisdom,” he said, quoting her many lessons.

She nodded. “Even if it is not for us to understand. For you, I believe, this loss has prepared you for what is to come.”

Wolf was less sure, but didn’t question her interpretation. He knew where it was leading and was content to accept her decree. If it meant he could fight, if he could share his pain with others in defense of those he had left, then so be it.

Song said, “You will be Wind Canyon’s warlord. Go to the Meet. I’m sure many of the clans will send representatives ahead of the new moon. Represent us until I get there.”

The clans would gather at the Meet in ten days’ time, then. It had been years since such a gathering had happened, but never under such dire circumstances during Wolf’s life. The clans chiefs would likely select a War Chief from among their number, one who would coordinate the combined defense of the Xaumah. Wolf, only just named a warlord, would not be chosen, which suited him just fine. He would have a say and he would have a chance to fight. That was enough.

Wolf bowed his head. “As you command.”

Song stepped forward and took his hand. There was surprising strength in her gnarled joints.

“There is one other thing, before you go,” she said. “Your father wished me to pass on this message, should he go to the spirits unexpectedly. He said he left some things for you, where the hunters cannot see.”

Wolf gave Song a puzzled look, but then his father’s cryptic message became clear. Song smiled at his change of expression. “I hoped you would understand, because I surely don’t.”

“Thank you, Swallow’s Song,” Wolf said. “I’ll wait for you at the Meet.”

#

Wolf made final preparations that afternoon in the clan’s camp, gathering food and passing along instructions to the other warriors now that he was the warlord. No one questioned his authority, regardless his youthful age for the position. He only hoped he’d learned enough from his father not to doom them.

Rather than head back to the desert, Wolf rode his horse deeper into the canyons. Just before sunset, he found the hidden cave where his father had taken him almost ten years earlier. It was little more than a crack in the sidewall of a sheer canyon, easily overlooked if it wasn’t already in a very remote location. He tied and fed his horse, then set about gathering enough dried grasses and small branches from the scrub brush in the area to craft himself a torch. Sparks from his flint ignited the bundle and he squeezed through the crack.

It was several hundred feet of difficult climbing through the cool, dank place. An underground water source made it humid and drippy, despite the outside desert environment. The mass of stone overhead made him nervous. Finally, though, he reached the place of which his father had spoken – a pool of water in the cave some twenty feet across and only a couple feet deep. In the torchlight, he saw the dozens of tiny, pale fish swimming lazily about. They were eyeless, yet capable of hunting and catching the unwary bugs that happened along. Even in his youth, Wolf was sure his father was trying to teach him something by showing him these peculiar fish. Now older, that lesson still eluded him.

Wolf looked around and soon spied an unnatural stack of rocks at the water’s edge. He approached, almost reverently, and carefully took the pile apart one rock at a time. Under the stack was a small wooden box engraved with images of dozens of the animals native to the canyonlands. He remembered it having been his mother’s and he hadn’t seen it since her death nearly a dozen years ago.

His fingers shook as he gingerly lifted the lid. Inside were three things – a rolled-up piece of gray fabric, a gold-plated finger bone, and an amulet on a silver chain. He’d never seen any of them before and was perplexed as to the nature of his father’s legacy being passed on here.

The fingerbone was peculiar and likely a talisman of some sort. He could as Song about that later at the Meet. The amulet’s craftsmanship was astonishing, far beyond any skill among the Xaumah to produce. Not only were the links of the chain so fine he feared breaking them, the blood red gem set in the middle was perfectly faceted to create an oval shape. He’d never seen its like and wondered where his father had gotten it. Wolf didn’t know the exact value of gems, but he suspected this might be worth enough to feed his entire clan for a year or more, were it sold in a market where such things had monetary value. Among the Xaumah, things were bartered for other things that usually had immediate and practical value. The Breethans, on the other hand…

Wolf rolled the amulet over his fingers for a few moments. It had a cool weight to it. He also had a peculiar desire to try it on. Aside from his traditional ear piercings, Wolf had never had a need for jewelry. This felt…different. Like it was meant for him.

He slipped it over his head. Above his shirt, it looked awkward and would draw unwanted attention and questions. He tucked it under his shirt and the cool metal nestled against his breastbone. It felt reassuring, so he left it.

Wolf’s attention then turned to the slip of fabric. He unrolled it and noted markings on the inside. Drawn in charcoal or ink was a crude map. He’d heard of such things from his father, but never had he seen anything more intricate than a hastily drawn image with a stick in the sand. This had symbols and words that he couldn’t read. It might be a map of their home or some distant land. That he couldn’t interpret it bothered him. Why would his father leave him things without any explanation?

He rolled the fabric up and placed it and the fingerbone back into the box, which in turn was placed at the bottom of his satchel. With his torch running low, Wolf hurried back to the cave’s entrance. Dusk was well under way, so he hurried to gather more scrub to build a small fire in front of the cave. He ate a quiet dinner, alone with his thoughts and the narrow strip of stars above the canyon.

Still unable to decipher the purpose of the items in the box, Wolf unrolled his sleeping pallet next to the fire, laid down, and drifted off.

That’s when the first dream came to him…

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

It’d start out normally enough-rolling desert sands, the feel of a horse beneath him, remnants of the day’s ride. But...the dream changed, and next he consciously knew, he was not out in the hot sands, nor even aware of the cooling rock beneath his back-but listening to the most delightful bit of music...

Opening his eyes would reveal not his waking world but a blurred, rapidly focusing new dream, this one unfamiliar, even strange. A great hall spilled out before him, the louder sound of stringed instruments, a flute-men in odd garments played the instruments as they darted and danced between the tight crowd of twirling dancers-women in fur lined, dark colored dresses and silver trimmed hoods. The dancers glided over the polished stone floor, a scent of honey roasted meat and fragrant wines thick on the air, the room shadowed and lit in a roaring fire at both ends, fancy brickwork and fine metal fixtures of gold and silver.

He was on the edge of this scene, an onlooker. Beyond the dance floor the stones of the upper wall fell away soundlessly and oddly outside of the notice of the party goers, revealing a still, wintery scene lit in moonlight. The music stopped, the dancers vanished, and all he would feel was that cool, bitter crispness of cold…

The hall was covered in snow now, an interesting foreground to the distant temperate trees and mountain view. Moments before, life and laughter and song-but winter had somehow invaded the great room, filled the hearths with more of the frozen ice and snow that blanketed the world outside-and left it mute.

This hall was no more, but in its ruin, peace.

Thunk.

Or perhaps not. A glance around revealed a stone archway yet intact, and inexplicably-a sunlit clearing through it. Behind him, still the snowy, ruined great hall, the torn and fallen walls, the distant view of mountains and blanketed lands-but ahead of him, sunshine and lush greenery.

Something heavy scraped over something hollow sounding, and then-

Thunk!

The sound of splitting wood.

Moving through the doorway revealed more of the sunlit clearing ahead of him, a thicker line of trees and temperate forest-and what looked to be an overgrown orchard to his left. In the flickering shade of these trees stood a squat stone dwelling-something haphazardly crafted from the ruins of the ancient hall beside him, and with a roof that badly needed rethatching. A loosely woven bit of trellis sported a purplish blue flower the likes of which he’d have never seen before-and looked relatively cared for, if a little wild. He’d hear the scrape of wood again on the other side of the house, and perhaps recognize it for what it was-someone was performing the menial task of chopping firewood.

The front of the squat dwelling wasn’t any prettier than the back of it, but it did have a few more hints of ‘home’ in the form of a rough hewn bench and, amusedly-a scarecrow of sorts, constructed out of two short spears, and bearing a helm and shield.

Rounding the house also brought the presumed owner into view, or at least her back. She was tall, as tall as most men but most definitely female, though she currently sported a man’s sleeveless jerkin and hose. Her boots were rough leather and lined with fur at the cuffs, and matched the leather and fur vambraces protecting her forearms. Dark red hair glinted a slightly lighter sheen in the places sunlight hit it through the branches of the overgrown fruit trees, and was kept in a low ponytail over one shoulder.

She had just hefted the axe up, her left hand joining the right currently wrapped around the base of the wooden handle-and DOWN came the axe, another resounding ‘thunk’ as it sliced into the thick log of wood-but failed to split it.

Frowning, she took a slight side step to drop a boot on the log, pulled the handle towards her while she kept her weight on the log-and off split a pie shaped piece of firewood, axe freed. The little smile of simple triumph on the woman’s mauve colored lips froze as her eyes caught sight of him-and then glanced away with another little frown, surveying their surroundings as if confirming something for herself. When nothing changes, she visibly shrugs, and steps back from the log to take up a new position on the other side of it.

“Hm.” The woman hums, raising a brow at the log and continuing in a not unfriendly voice, “Don’t quite remember your face.”

Thunk!

This time, the log splits completely in two, and with enough force the two pieces go flying. Unperturbed, the woman moved to pick the pieces up, tanned, toned arms flexing a little with the effort-and carried them to the lean on that side of the house before stacking them up with the others, axe still in hand.

Oddly, she doesn’t seem concerned about the stranger that had shown up-not at all. It was as if he weren’t even there currently, though that was soon to change. She returned to the stump and almost reached for another round bit of log-then stopped with another frown, dropping the axe head against the stump before leaning nonchalantly on the handle, brown (or were they green? In the sunlight they had seemed green, but in the shade-)eyes narrowed to study his face, mouth askew in thought.

“Come to think of it...you might be something new.”

Her voice was...melodious. No, not quite-it was pleasant, certainly, but not quite music. More...warm. There was warmth in that voice. Affable geniality. It's a voice that captured attention, and welcomed reply.

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf was dreaming. Even as the idea hit him, he knew it had to be true. He'd seen things he'd never seen and yet were familiar to him, as if from stories of far away lands. Dreams were things remembered after one woke, though, often fleeting, never aware during.

Was this how Song and the other shaman dreamed? How they touched the spirit world where it intersected with the mind?

He looked back at the curious woman, pale of skin with impossibly colored hair. His people's skin was darker, like the desert sand after the rain, and everyone's hair was black. He'd seen the occasional trader pass through with pale skin, but never hair like this.

Dream, he reminded himself. But this felt different. He tried to cling to the idea it was a dream, but even that was difficult to focus upon.

She'd said something to him. He was new? Was he new? To her? Was she a spirit? They always took animal form, if Song was to be believed.

"I believe you're in my dream," he said. "But how I know this..."

Wolf looked down, as if suddenly uncertain he was actually himself. Maybe he was the one in someone else's dream. Was that possible?

His clothing was his own, though in far better shape that usual - loose shirt under leather jerkin, similar but darker cloth pants belted up, and leather sandals strapped up to the knee. His spear and knife and satchel were nowhere to be seen, yet this didn't seem wrong.

He looked back to the woman, curious.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

"I believe you're in my dream,"

Her lips curved in amusement.

“You do, do you?”

She leaned forward on the axe a little, further amused as he looked down to inspect himself.

“No need to get existential my friend.” When he looked back up, she leaned off the axe handle and swept it up again, a quick, powerful swing to drive it into the stump before she abandoned it. She offered a genial, friendly smile and rounded the stump towards him at a casual, easy pace.

Her movements were graceful, but not quite like a dancer-no, there was power and punch to them somehow; near economical. A warrior’s grace, and a warrior’s physique.

“That’d be an odd thing for a dream man to do, after all. Come on then, let’s go for a walk.” If he did nothing to stop her, she’d slip an arm behind his shoulders and just-start walking, steering them both through the overgrown orchard.

“Sometimes they flower proper, other times they don’t. I got frustrated enough to chop the lot of them down, once.” She says conversationally about the trees, a gesture with her other hand. “Never was much of a green thumb.”

The stranger’s face in profile made for a nice portrait, and the color of her eyes would be clearer now. A sort of amber hazel color, he’d see flecks of a bright jewel green throughout, the cause of their seemingly shifting color depending on the light.

She stops and leans away from him again, mulling over HIS face, visibly stumped but seemingly good natured about it. If he chanced to look back, he’d see that, despite hardly having walked twelve or so steps, they were a great distance from the squat stone hovel. Much too far for the steps they’d taken, even with those long legs of hers.

“No, I really don’t recognize you.” The stranger finally concedes. “I’ve a thing for faces, you know-makes for good dream fodder. But I almost always place them... You though...hm. You look like one of the Sand People. Is that where I saw you? In a market or something? Maybe an unlucky Janissary?”

The woman winced, a darting glance at their surroundings. “This isn’t going to turn into one of those dreams, is it? Look, it was them or us, and I was always going to bank on -us-.”

 

[WatchingCloud]

There was something strangely compelling about the woman. Certainly, she was beautiful despite her foreigner attire and mannerisms. She moved with the grace of a predator, though her words were friendly and engaging and confusing.

He let her lead him through trees, more green and dense than anything he'd seen outside an oasis. Her conversation was something he could follow while simultaneously making little sense. That, at least, seemed typical of a dream. Were this real, he'd have never felt so accommodating to a stranger leading him through a strange place.

After a bit, not far and yet far, she stopped and looked him in the eye, more serious. Those eyes, so captivating and full of life and energy and stories.

“No, I really don’t recognize you.” The stranger finally concedes. “I’ve a thing for faces, you know-makes for good dream fodder. But I almost always place them... You though...hm. You look like one of the Sand People. Is that where I saw you? In a market or something? Maybe an unlucky Janissary?”

Wolf bit back a harsh response to the term Sand People. It was often used by outsiders who knew nothing of the Xaumah or, worse, couldn't be bothered to learn. Her tone didn't appear to carry any negative context. Why was she so curious about him? Was that part of his dream's message?

The woman winced, a darting glance at their surroundings. “This isn’t going to turn into one of those dreams, is it? Look, it was them or us, and I was always going to bank on -us-.”

Wolf's eyes narrowed. "Xaumah," he said. "We're called Xaumah, not Sand People, but yes, I am one. And I've never seen your people before. Who are you and why are you in my dream? Are you a spirit?"

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

The pretty woman lifts her hands, and takes a swift, respectful step back. Her curiosity and, frankly-amusement remained, but she did seem at least slightly apologetic. Or rather...she just hadn’t meant any insult.

“My mistake, my mistake. Shouldn’t loop everyone together like that, you’re right.”

Still holding him in that curious, friendly regard she lets him speak, but as he demands to know who she is, when he asks if she’s a spirit-something dims in that genial smile and those mirthful, intelligent eyes. Her hands lower to her sides and she...stands there, the power and punch briefly absent and a more lost look about her.

“Ah, so it is one of those dreams.” The woman murmured, gaze drifting back to the distant hovel, the ruins beyond that. Her tone is a tinge wistful.

But then the beautiful woman shook her head and came alive again, infinitely more wary than she had been moments before. She pointed back towards the ruins of the great hall, the fields and mountains beyond it.

“My name is Leah Elizabeth Fitzroy. I’ve admitted to this. I’ve admitted to this a hundred times over-humility’s been learned, alright?” She crossed her arms beneath her chest and gave a slightly defiant lift of her chin, as if he were rubbing the fact in. “I was Leah the Red, Leah the Lancebreaker, Leah of the Mountain-Leah Lizka.”

There’s an uncomfortable amount of frustration to the last bit in particular even as the woman bows-something that seemed rather sarcastic, but oddly not towards him. As if she was saying ‘fat lot of good that does me now’.

“And no I’m not a damned spirit. At least…” Some of her temper dims as she straightens, again a little lost, the slender fingers of her right hand running through and catching in her hair.

“I bloody well hope I'm not.” She murmurs to herself, continuing to talk, lost in thought and memory. "Xaumah...No, no, I don't think I ever really...the Breethans, a Breethan would make more sense, but-"

Her eyes flick back, and her hand lowers. She's uncertain, and watchful, and grimly expectant.

"Do you...have a name, then?"

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf took in the woman, Leah, as she denied being a spirit. There seemed a bit of uncertainty about her, though, and he wondered if she might not be trapped between worlds. Had she been a real woman, waylaid on en route to the afterlife? She certainly seemed more real than any dream he'd ever had, and he couldn't imagine conjuring up someone like her in a dream on his own.

“I bloody well hope I'm not.” She murmurs to herself, continuing to talk, lost in thought and memory. "Xaumah...No, no, I don't think I ever really...the Breethans, a Breethan would make more sense, but-"

Wolf tensed at the mention of his enemy, though she didn't sound like she was endorsing any support for them. He supposed, to a foreigner, there might be a superficial similarity in appearance between the Breethans and Xaumah.

"Do you...have a name, then?"

Still uncertain as to whether she was friend or enemy or something else, Wolf was hesitant to tell her anything. She had been forthcoming about herself, though, and something about all this didn't feel like the action of an enemy. And if it was all in his dream, what point was there in refusing?

Wolf drew himself up. "My name is Mourning Wolf Xocha, warlord of the Wind Canyon clan."

Compared with her easy talk, he knew his words were stiff, possibly rude. He'd seldom dealt directly with anyone not of Xaumah and found himself out of his element. Now in a position of leadership within the clan, though, he could ill afford to reflect poorly upon his people.

He forced himself to relax a notch. "So passes the night, Leah Lizka of the Many Titles." Wolf even managed a slight smile when he said that, hoping not to offend her for having already forgotten some of the many she'd listed.

"You know of the Breethans?" It was the sort of question he could imagine his father asking - open-ended without hint of why he was interested.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

"Not just a wolf, but a timely wolf." The woman says with a wan hint of a smile that, this time-doesn't reach her eyes. She seemed to still be expecting something unpleasant, somehow.

In fact, she was still trying to place him. But no-she's never met or heard of any Morning Wolves, or the Xocha family, or-any of that. The Wind Canyon clan likewise didn't mean much to her. She's never encountered any of them, not to her knowledge.

So...she had invented him, then?

"So passes the night, Leah Lizka of the Many Titles."

That he went with not the bastard surname but Lizka settled her some, as did the conclusion she did not know him, that he was a dream-not a memory or remnant of her past. Her lips curve a little further, and it's again the genial, carefree smile, the one that does reach her eyes. "So passes the night." She repeats, weighing the greeting-and seeming to like it.

She rested her hands on her curved hips and finally relaxed from her watchfulness-he didn't seem to be here to torment her. It wasn't one of 'those' dreams after all. Matter of fact, she's not sure where her subconscious was going with this-perhaps HE was the 'spirit'. Leah had never much believed in such things, but hell-maybe.

"If by 'know of' you mean 'have vexxed', then yes." She answers without much reserve, a shrug. Her first instinct was not to comment or commit to a stance-but what did it really matter, here? She's long past the point of secrets. If her mind wanted to conjure pleasant nonsense in the form of a man named Wolf, she'd welcome the change and, frankly-conversation.

"My men and I skirmished with them, here and there. Worked for a Lord with a fat purse-he had some kind of claim to something or other, used us to press it. Another time, I rescued a repentant runaway daughter who had become a bride. The third-well, they had something I thought would be better with us. It was amusing work, and my first foray into those lands-though I suppose I shouldn't still count that as a boon, hm?"

Leah turned, starting back towards the distant stone hovel. "I have seen much of the continent, but a sea of sand...? Well, I wanted to traverse it too. Even my map ends at its borders. Anyway-that's an odd thing for a dream man to ask about."

 

[WatchingCloud]

"If by 'know of' you mean 'have vexxed', then yes. My men and I skirmished with them, here and there. Worked for a Lord with a fat purse-he had some kind of claim to something or other, used us to press it. Another time, I rescued a repentant runaway daughter who had become a bride. The third-well, they had something I thought would be better with us. It was amusing work, and my first foray into those lands-though I suppose I shouldn't still count that as a boon, hm?"

Wolf was less interested in the specifics of the woman's interactions than the fact she had clashed with the Breethans. The way she spoke, it sounded as if she led men in battle and other conflicts. A woman? That was unheard of. Clearly the spirits playing in his dreams were having a good laugh at his expense.

And yet, she seemed so real.

Leah turned, starting back towards the distant stone hovel. "I have seen much of the continent, but a sea of sand...? Well, I wanted to traverse it too. Even my map ends at its borders. Anyway-that's an odd thing for a dream man to ask about."

Curious that she brought up a map, mere hours after he found his father's hidden map. Yes, this was definitely a dream, despite how real it felt. His mind was trying to fit things from his day into his dreams. Why the red-haired foreign woman? Maybe he was conjuring up someone for whom the amulet would be a suitable owner? Red gem, red hair?

A curious clomping sound intruded upon the periphery of Wolf's hearing. The woman gave no indication of having heard anything. He looked around and found no obvious source, only an unsettled feeling.

"You say you've 'vexxed' the Breethans before," he said, turning his attention back to the dream woman. "I'm happy to hear this. The enemy of my enemy, as they say..."

The clomping returned. There was an agitated aspect to it.

"Do you hear that?" he said. Leah's expression made it clear she didn't.

The ground under Wolf's feet began to tilt sideways. He fell to his knees and scrambled to grab ahold of grass and tree roots to keep from falling. Leah, oddly, stood upright and seemed unaffected. To his eyes, the ground was almost straight up and down like a wall with her standing impossibly sideways. He reached for her, hoping she could stabilize him, but he started falling.

As his body hurtled down toward a tree, the world began to fade to darkness. Dim, flickering orange replaced it, and the frantic clomping sound overwhelmed him.

Wolf sat bolt upright, sweat breaking out on his brow in the cold night air. His camp. He was awake, freed from the peculiar dream, sitting on his blanket beside the dying fire. His horse, still tied, was severely agitated, clomping hooves against the stone ground and whinnying frantically.

Wolf scanned the area and immediately spotted the sand viper sliding silently across the ground in his direction. A few seconds later and it might have slid under his blanket. More than a few Xaumah had died from such a situation.

Rolling away, Wolf snatched his spear and deftly swung it overhead. The flint head neatly skewered the viper, leaving the two halves of the body to writhe for a few seconds in its death throes. Wolf watched on while taking deep breaths to slow his heart. He rose and walked over to calm his horse, offering thanks for saving his life.

Looking to the sky, he estimated there were two hours until dawn. Hardly worth trying to go back to sleep. Instead, he set about skinning the snake and cooking it over the fire. All the while, his mind returned to the peculiar dream and what it might mean. Was it a message for him or just images conjured by his own mind? It seemed so real, like no dream he'd ever had, and he remembered it so much more vividly.

By the time dawn broke, Wolf had convinced himself the dream had no meaning. He had bigger concerns, the first of which was the long trek across the Sea of Sand to the Meet.

#

Wolf approached the Hole Oasis just after the sun kissed the sand, sky brilliant in orange and red. He was alert to not being alone, but was much relieved to find a handful of Xaumah men rather than Breethan soldiers. The Xaumah had seen him approaching and kept an eye on him, but had raised no weapons.

Wolf dismounted and walked the last little bit through the lush grasses and palms surrounding the pristine pool. As he got closer to the others' camp, he recognized their leader as Burrowing Rhakkar Acha, the warlord of the Winter Grass clan. Winter Grass and Wind Canyon seldom interacted, though Wolf had a tepid relationship with Rhakkar following a wrestling match at Meet many years ago. The much larger Rhakkar had not only beaten Wolf but injured his shoulder in the process.

"So passes the day, Morning Wolf," Rhakkar said, the only one standing while the other four soldiers remained sitting around their campfire, eating dinner and watching on with interest. Rhakkar was polite, though not friendly.

"So passes the day, Burrowing Rhakkar," Wolf said, nodding politely. "You've heard about the Riverbed clan?"

Rhakkar nodded. "The Riverbed were too weak to be living on the border. The Winter Grass would have slaughtered the invaders to a man."

Wolf disliked the warlord's arrogance and disrespect for the dead. He hadn't mentioned Wolf's father dying there, but it almost felt like an insult by association.

"Perhaps you'll have a chance to prove that," Wolf said.

Rhakkar seemed to accept that as an appropriate response and offered Wolf a spot by the fire to share their dinner. Unable to decline the offer, Wolf watered and tended his horse, then joined the small group. They shared what other news of the massacre they had, along with other general news of the clans that was often difficult to come by. There was a definite thirst for war and battle among the Winter Grass, but Wolf had to concede they did have a reputation as one of the fiercest of the clans. Any Breethan force large enough to wipe out a clan, however, was not to be trifled with. He kept his opinions to himself.

As they settled for sleep, Wolf offered to take a turn at watch. Rhakkar declined, saying he trusted the eyes of the Winter Grass. It was a subtle jab and Wolf clenched his teeth to resist saying anything in return. That it meant a full night's sleep with protection did little to placate him.

Wolf rolled out his blankets just a little bit removed from the rest of the camp, striking that balance between camaraderie and independence. Sleep was slow in coming as he stewed in Rhakkar's insults, imagining a rematch in wrestling to prove his place above the other warlord. The other was still considerably larger than Wolf, but Wolf had learned much since then. It would be an interesting fight.

It never once occurred to him that the peculiar foreign woman Leah would come to his dreams for a second night...

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

It’s a battle, but oddly and impossibly, a bloodless one.

Oh, men were dying-arrows rained down on defenders and aggressors alike while axes, swords and lances cleaved through flesh and armor, man and horse-but they all just fell away into nothing, often without so much as a pained expression.

The sounds and clatter of battle-that too was lessened, almost muffled-and at times, entirely absent. A red roan screams and tumbles forward, launching her rider free-only the soft mud saves her from serious injury. Hitting shoulder first, her pauldron digs into the earth and tears nearly free in the skidding impact, furred capelet suddenly tight against her throat. Her helmeted head bounces painfully and the helm twists, half obscuring her vision.

Or at least, she remembers it having done so. Remembers being in pain. Somehow she was both on the ground and floating above the scene, a disembodied observer-and there’s something to it that’d deeply unsettling, but there’s no time to think!

The figure below tears the furred capelet aside as she rolls onto her front, ripping the helmet from her head just as a man spots her, bellows a roar and kicks his mount into a charge. Leah bellows back, lips pulling back from her teeth as she raises her shield to meet his strike-ducking down and away to allow his blade to glance off the buckler.

She turns and brings her axe down on the horse’s flank. One of her men catch another broadside, and then it’s mostly infantry soldiers she has to fight.

And fight she does-wielding a long handled axe in her right hand and the shield in her left, the woman with flaming red hair was a force to be reckoned with, carving a visible path through the enemy in conjunction with (and sometimes pushing ahead of) her allies.

At some point she abandons the shield to scoop up a second, shorter hand axe-and became an even truer whirlwind, deft footwork and graceful, powerful strikes before darting back and away again from the retaliation mustered by the enemy. She was just as fierce and, at times, just as strong as many of the men she took on.

And still no blood, and only muffled sounds-men just fell away into nothing and-

“You again.” Leah’s voice notes with curiosity, seemingly in Wolf’s right ear-and then night fell over the field as quickly as a candle being blown out, and the two of them stood quite alone at a moonlit, earthen mound built in the very same field.

No...not quite alone-firelight in the distance ahead, the low murmur and occasional laughter of men. Closer still, a broad shouldered man stood with his back to them, arms crossed and feet spread near the two horses whose reins he held.

Leah paid this man no mind, nor did she spare a glance to the distant firelight-but the mound of earth, that she looks at. A roughly chopped branch had been driven into the head of the grave, a horseshoe nailed to the middle. A moment passes. Two.

And then she exhaled in a drawn out sigh, running a hand through her wild hair.

“I’ve lost good men that I mourned less than that horse.” She comments with a shake of her head-before she deliberately turned away from it, planting her hands on her leather clad hips and cutting her gaze back over to him. “Second time you’ve shown up, Wolf. Still can’t place you.”

Leah was wearing the same armor battle Leah had been sporting-a boiled leather cuirass and faulds over breeches, the damage from being thrown still apparent-mud was splattered across her armored chest and stained her mostly bare shoulder, just a thin strip of leather where the pauldron once was. A delicate, very fine chain caught a bit of moonlight here and there against her throat and the exposed bit of collar bone, while a sheathed dagger with a curved handle seemed to only absorb it, ebony black and a dark, inky stain against her hip. Her axe and shield were both slung over her back and she looked...well.

As if she had all the time in the world to puzzle him out. She was unrushed, unhurried-unconcerned.

 

[WatchingCloud]

Battle. Wolf recognized the sounds, even if they were different from those of the few battles he'd been involved in. Metal on metal, sword and axe on shield. When the Xaumah clans fought among themselves, it sounded different - the grunts of men attacking or dying dominated the soft sounds of flint spear or arrowheads impaling flesh.

A vast field of grass, greener than anything he'd seen outside an oasis, now torn up in mud from the mens' boots and horses' hooves. Hundreds of men, maybe even a thousand or more, fought in a frenzy impossible to follow from this distance. Xaumah conflicts, even when against Breethans, rarely involved more than a couple dozen men. Such impersonal, senseless loss.

He tried to understand the war of foreigners, but his focus on the battle gave way to focus on one participant. Leah. The woman from his dream the other night, red hair streaming behind her as she charged through battle on horseback.

Why was he dreaming of this woman again?

Her skills in combat were impressive and very different from his own. She clearly could hold her own against any man. Were the spirits trying to send him a message, that the Xaumah couldn't survive the coming conflict with the Breethans unless the women also took up arms? If so, the spirits were foolish to send him the message - no one would take it seriously.

Leah's horse went down and he briefly lost sight of Leah in the fray. Wolf was on his horse at the speed of thought, charging across the grass toward the battle. Bow in hand, he fired arrow after arrow, indiscriminately cutting down any in his path. Men screamed and fell, bloodless. Bodies of the fallen vanished and were often replaced with new soldiers, immediately immersed in their own skirmishes. Not war, and yet war all the same. Dream-place.

As Wolf tried to reach Leah, always certain where she was even when he couldn't see her, he soon found himself on foot. His bow was gone and now he fought with his spear. With blinding speed, he batted aside clumsy sword strikes and sliced and impaled the flint tip in the weak spots between armor. Here, he felt unstoppable, a warrior incarnate.

The battle was an instant and an eternity. At some point, though, he neared Leah, seeing her capably dispatching foes with a pair of axes. She was dirty and had armor torn away, but she couldn't have looked more engaged, more alive. Everything about her was compelling.

Their eyes met.

"You again," she said, unsurprised. No one else in the dream took note of his intrusion save her. Everyone else was just a shade of reality, phantom men.

The battle was gone, replaced with the calm and dark of night. Save the two of them, only one other was nearby - a man holding two horses. Wolf scarcely took note, instead absorbed by Leah and her mourning. Mourning. This he understood, all too well, and that went for horses as well.

She turned her attention to him. “Second time you’ve shown up, Wolf. Still can’t place you.”

Wolf faced her, taking in her battle attire and weaponry. Everything was unusual, yet compelling. It reflected her essence.

Unlike his previous dream, Wolf was now dressed for battle, just as he had been when drawn into the conflict - sandals and loose knee-length breeches, with bow/quiver/spear on his back with a leather thong across his bare chest. Xaumah wore no armor, instead relying upon speed and skill in battle. They did, however, adorn themselves with markings of the spirits, seeking their blessing. In his case, a white wolf across his brown chest in simple lines.

"Perhaps this is the second time you've shown up in my dream, Leah of the Many Titles," he said, not without a little humor.

"You fight with great skill. Suited, I think, to your weapons."

Wolf's gaze slid down to her bared neck, noting the thin silver chain that had been exposed. He'd never seen a chain like that before, at least not until...

"Was this a battle you remember?" he said, his eyes returning to hers. Even in the dark, he could read her eyes perfectly. "So many men and horses. To what end?"

So much loss, so much mourning. "After battle, my people would spend the night singing to the spirits, inviting them across the barrier so they could guide the fallen to the Dreamland. Many times, the survivors of both clans involved would come together for this. When the outcome of the conflict was clear, it was over."

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

"Perhaps this is the second time you've shown up in my dream, Leah of the Many Titles,"

That brings a faint smile to her lips and an affording nod-so the dream man was still having an existential crisis. The oddity of it continued to amuse her, though she still half suspected a dark lean to his showing up. He’d vanished last time without causing injury-she’s unlikely to be so lucky this time.

Still, there must be some reason she was crafting him up, right? He looked ready for war, his namesake painted across his bare chest-and he had the bow she would have expected of his kind.

”Was this a battle you remember?”

Leah’s head tilts a fraction, an expression that seems to read ‘Don’t you know?’-and yet she answers him anyway, because...well, why not. He was something new, and while she’s dreamed of people before-they were always limited by the confines of remembered conversations or otherwise depressingly...stale. Dream versions that would never fool anyone of the real, vibrant people whose faces they borrowed.

“They are all battles I remember.” Leah confirms, drawing pause at his second question. This recollection had not been about the horrors of war-it’d been the thrill of battle, the physical exertion in the fight. Only in nightmares did she feel the blood splash across her face, did the anger feel heavier than the pride of survival. She had turned her back to the grave of her fallen mount, but at his question the reality of this night crept back in-and she realized they were standing in a bloodied battlefield of the abandoned dead.

With so much joy to be found in life, Leah rarely reflected over its incumbent sorrows-this night had been one of the very few instances, and here now was Wolf to apparently remind her of it. She listens to him talk about his people, and their greater regard for life-the recounting makes her a little wistful, she must admit.

“When the outcome of the conflict was clear, it was over."

“Then your people are wiser than most.” The words were spoken truthfully enough-but drawn out and slow as her eyes drifted again across the battlefield.

“Here, Lord Rustag will fight to the last. He is in the wrong and running out of coin-but he hopes that if he holds out just a while longer, his King will forgive his role in the rebellion, and not revoke his titles or his lands, more importantly-the rights of his children to inherit both. He trades even the lives of his men away for that hope.”

Her expression was a little grim despite her shrug. “He does so in vain. Tomorrow morning we return to north since he cannot afford another contract-and in three weeks time, he loses the war he helped to start. Such is the fate of nobles who forget their people, I suppose. They’re the only ones who ever seem to start wars, anyway.”

Mercenary life-when there wasn’t conflict, you had to travel out and find it. They set out to treasure hunting on the proceeds of this one, she remembers.

Looking out at the gory bloodsoaked mess, she remembers exactly why.

“Hm. I don't wish to stay here." She says simply, but nothing really happens to change it. She could call to her man Brandon, standing guard while she reflects-but somehow mixing the memory with the concocted form of Wolf seemed ill advised. She doesn't understand the rules, but she treads carefully, sometimes, at the edges of them.

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf grasped as much of Leah's response as to the nature of the battle as he could. It was enough. He was passingly familiar with the silly idea of hereditary leadership that some nations embraced. That men would willingly die for such notions was baffling.

Leah, it seemed, had been fighting for almost as questionable a motive, if he was following - money. Mercenaries. The Breethans had occasionally used hired soldiers in their border conflicts. Such men usually faltered quickly in the face of determined resistance. It was difficult to picture Leah as a leader of mercenaries, and yet it wasn't. She seemed so comfortable with herself, her role.

Was he really starting to believe her a real person? Perhaps his dreams were overlapping into the Dreamland, the home of the dead. It would explain why things felt different, more real.

All while contemplating this, the scenery changed subtly, with the dead and carnage becoming more evident all around them. Her focus on the loss of her horse had seemingly shifted, perhaps because of his questions.

“Hm. I don't wish to stay here," she said. Wolf heartily agreed.

The starry night sky gave way to the purples and oranges of sunset, thin lines of clouds lighting up the horizon in a dazzling display. They stood atop a narrow spire of red stone, one of hundreds of similar formations dotting the edge of the canyon system, the depths of which were shrouded in darkness. Home. His home. She wouldn't know this place.

"I grew up near here," he said, his voice quiet as if afraid to interrupt the coming night. "Part of becoming recognized as a man in my clan required I climb one of these spires and spend the night atop it alone. It was just like this the night I made the climb."

Why here? Why now? He'd been terrified of the climb, full of doubt and uncertainty. Yet, when he'd reached the top, he understood why he'd been expected to do it - pushing beyond his perceived limits. Was his dream trying to tell him something about the state of his life now, that he was facing a similar crossroads?

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

Time shifted backwards, orange light and long shadows-Leah glanced up at that sky, briefly mesmerized-and then they were somewhere else entirely, without a step or a blink to transition them.

She doesn't know this place, but the rising heat from the stone-that was somehow familiar to her, the dry warmth on the air. Out in the territories of the sand people.

"I grew up near here." The dream man told her in a hushed, respectful tone. Leah turned to look at him, attentive eyes colored amber with dark flecks of green. The mud of the battle had faded, and her armor had somehow repaired itself-she looked over dressed and very much like a foreigner up here.

"A coming of age test." Leah considered the merits in such a thing, and found it worthy enough-then a person knew where and what stage they belonged, according to their custom. Rigid, maybe-she doesn't know. "That they laid out the requirements for adulthood-very practical. Me, I had to guess."

Long legs take her several strong strides nearer to an edge-she's never much liked heights. Not in a fearful sort of way exactly, just...they made her vaguely uneasy, uncertain feeling rather than just plain adventurous. To lead men over icy cliffs or to scale castle walls...

"I don't envy you the task." Leah ventured companionably. Her attire had changed-she was still a little overdressed, in breeches and furred boots wrapped in leather cording-but now she wore a lighter, airier tunic in an off white color, the folds to a simple hood around her neck and shoulders. That dark red hair was again smoothed into a ponytail over her shoulder.

She stepped back away from the edge and turned back around to face him. "It's a long way up, and something of a lonesome night besides. The view though-ah, they don't have anything like this where I was from, nor anyplace I ever traveled." The colors in these spires! More oranges and reds than she thought possible! It was rather beautiful. A place she might have heard tales of somewhere, and then aspired to visit.

...it does look real. She had an imagination, sure-but enough to create all of this? And such a fantastical aspect to what had otherwise been revisited memories and familiar places, people-what did it mean, to craft up something new?

"The Wind Canyon clan." Leah murmurs, almost to herself.

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf noted her change in attire. The white tunic revealed her womanly curves in ways her armor and other attire had not. Her red hair, clean and tied back, blazed in the sunset it matched. While she looked nothing like his people, he found her captivating. What would he think of a woman like that if he met her outside his dream?

He felt a brief pang of concern as she approached and looked over the edge. He knew, firsthand, the vertigo it could induce. It seemed silly to worry about her, though, as this was just a dream.

"You say you've traveled many lands," he said. "But where are you from? Where do you call home?"

Wolf suddenly had an idea. If she told him about a place he'd never heard of, one he could verify was real, then it would prove Leah was more than a figment of his own dream. A departed sprit, as he was beginning to suspect? It would be interesting to know the truth of it, especially if she was going to be a nightly visitor.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

Leah laughs, drawn out of her reverie. “Home? Home is wherever the ale is being poured, Wolf. Whatever fire my men gather around, out beneath the stars. A nebulous term, ‘home’.” She reaches and clasps his shoulder, and the statements are neither sad nor regretful. She was recounting a full, adventurous life with pride.

“As for from-well, we’ve talked about that, to a degree.” She let him go and crossed her arms, and while she still doesn’t seem to be regretful, she’s slightly more guarded than she was before. “You must know it because I know it, but FitzRoy’s a surname for bastards. You’re looking at the result of an…’indiscretion’ between a priest and a noblemen’s youngest daughter.” It was strange to state that so openly when she had spent a lifetime concealing the fact-but what did it matter here? Perhaps her failure to show true humility kept her in this place.

Leah shrugged, and turned her gaze back to the sunset. “The great hall where I’ve built that little hovel, struggle with the fruit trees-Lord Vaxley used to own it. It was part of Varinn at one time-a wintery little country King Vestarr later took over, absorbed into his own. By that time Vaxley was dead, and I was long gone. I don’t know why I dream of it...perhaps because its ruins when I ventured back so disturbed me, I don’t know.”

“But! What worth is dear old pappy to me? He didn’t want a bastard grandchild, and I hardly have use for strangers I’d met only once. I worked in his kitchens as an orphan on charity until I was eight years old-my mother had left the convent and married a Master of Arms. She sent for me. Died before I arrived, but hey-she tried. It was her husband Jreskar that sheltered me after that, and taught me all he knew. He had no experience with daughters you see, so he raised me the same as he had his sons. Much more useful skillset, the things they teach boys.”

Leah gave a slight bow. “They tell a lot of fantastical stories and more than one country has tried to claim me as their own-but that’s the humble truth of it, Wolf. When Jreskar died one of his sons offered to marry me, but...too late for domestic life. I left to find my own fortune, instead. I left to find out what living was like, under my own power and my own skill. I’d like to think my adoptive father would have understood. I’m sure he would have.”

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf finds himself sympathizing with Leah's story. Family, yes, but broken. Through it all, though, she found a path and doesn't seem to have any regrets about it. He begins to understand why she's so unusual and yet relatable.

"I haven't traveled much away from the Sea of Sand," he said. "Sometimes, I wish I had the chance to go afar and see other lands. I'm not sure I'd be as comfortable as you, though, passing through so many other peoples. Most foreigners only seem interested in fighting with us."

He looked up at the sky, oranges shifting to deeper crimsons while stars begin to appear in the east. A shooting star flashed across the sky, as if it had been waiting for him to look up.

"I still don't know why you're in my dreams, Leah," he said, "but I'm glad to have met you. I'm glad to have had the chance to see a few of these other places."

Wolf looked back to Leah, suddenly seeing more woman than mercenary.

"Where are you? You know, when you're not dreaming?"

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

“Never know, you still could someday.” Leah says with a smile-and then she realizes she just told a dream that, as casually and sincerely as if he were real. Second nature, perhaps-he does seem real. He even goes on to say he doesn’t know why SHE was in HIS dreams.

What a strange thing for a dream man to say, to keep insisting on. She’s real.

She’s real.

“Yeah? Well, same to you, Wolf. Full of surprises, you are.”

"Where are you? You know, when you're not dreaming?"

He’s said that because she was just thinking that-that she was real, that she was the one dreaming. Dreaming, dreaming...always dreaming.

But where?

The companionable smile fades and her eyes drift away from him and back to the setting sun. It’s been so long, this wandering of memories and reimagined places, she’s not sure she does remember. Remember...she needs to remember, she must remember something.

A marketplace on the border. She remembers the colorful fabrics and the people, small children laughing, racing in the street-a leather ball being kicked, sailing over her head. Adventure on the horizon, treasure…?

And the endless Sea of Sand.

She gestures to the rolling dunes almost absently. “I’m out there, somewhere.” She says, brow furrowing. Yes. Yes, that’s the last thing she remembers-the Sea of Sand. An end to fighting the wars of nobles, she remembers declaring. Her loyal men, and coin to fund their expedition-the horizon was vast and distant, and she was set to explore it.

And now she only dreamed.

“What’s happened to me?” She murmurs to herself, not quite upset-but lost, questioning. “What’s happened? If I leap from this spire, would I finally wake up? Or is it forever endless, endless dreams...”

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf watched Leah's expression as she considered his question. He saw in her eyes the confusion, the determination to have answers. The dream felt so real and yet there were qualities that couldn't make sense in the waking world. He remembered Song tell a story once about a shaman who visited the Dreamland and met her deceased father. The shaman's father acted like he had in life, but was incapable of accepting he was dead no matter the evidence his daughter presented.

Leah finally pointed out across the Sea and said she was out there. He believed her, though it was clear she was uncertain in some way.

As she muttered, Wolf grew concerned for her. Would she jump from the spire, just to see what happened? If it was a dream, then she should be safe. But this felt different. What if she believed herself dead? Would he no longer see her in his dreams? Though he scarcely knew her, he'd come to look forward to seeing her at night.

He reached for her shoulder - itself feeling very solid, warm, real - and tried to gently but firmly turn her to face him. In doing so, her tunic shifted in front and revealed an amulet dangling from the silver chain she wore. He froze. It was identical to the one he'd found in his father's stash with the blood red oval gem. The very amulet he wore. Could it be the same? Or was he placing it on her in his dream, his mind trying to imagine who could have owned such a thing?

"That amulet? Where did...?"

Wolf's world tilted and he began to slide off the pillar. Much as before, Leah seemed unaffected. Hand already on her shoulder, he instinctively grasped hold of her. He felt her blouse pull and tear away as he slid off the pillar and plunged into the darkness before.

#

"No!" Wolf shouted even as he sat bolt upright, still in the desert oasis in the middle of the night.

"You talk in your sleep." Rhakkar stood a short distance away, expression unreadable in the faint moonlight. "Like a child."

Wolf clenched his teeth, wanting to snap back about how the spirits found him worthy to commune. The fellow warlord would only scoff, though. Let him think as he would.

Getting no rise, Rhakkar shrugged and wandered off, presumably on watch duty. Wolf took deep breaths of the cold night air, calming his heart.

He tugged at the silver chain around his neck and pulled out the amulet. Even in the dim light, it's red was clear to his eyes, as if it caught and amplified what light it could find. Was the amulet the cause of his strange dreams? Cursed? It didn't feel like a curse. Yet he began to seriously wonder at its nature and how his father had come to possess it.

"Who are you, Leah?"

He looked out across the Sea. Was she out there somewhere? Finally he laid back down, still clutching the amulet, hoping sleep would return.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

Wolf touches her shoulder, and for a dreamed up man to offer comfort...well, she had never been one for coddling, so why would she imagine up such a thing? The urge to smile and make a flippant joke, dismiss her worries-it doesn’t come, because there’s no audience to wear such a mask for. Instead, she finds she welcomes the touch. Wolf wasn’t a memory or an empty mirage of the lively people she had known and cared for-he was something new, and it made him seem more real.

It’s probably a dangerous line of thinking, and sure to lead to full on insanity-but for now, Leah allows the touch and even allows herself to be turned to face him. He freezes up. The look on his face was shocked, maybe even disturbed-Leah frowns a little, her green flecked eyes following his gaze to the gem she wore, glinting, fiery bits of red where the fading sunlight hit it.

"That amulet? Where did...?"

“This little bauble?” She doesn’t understand his upset, pulled from her distracted reverie and into mild confusion, almost amusement. Her fingers moved to it as if to slip it over her head, show it to him-when he started to fall the same as he had before.

Then, her back had been mostly turned. Fully facing him, he suddenly doesn’t make sense-her hand darted from amulet to his forearm to help-but then his full weight hit and he flew into nothing-Leah was jerked in the same direction, her tunic ripping as she quickly finds her footing, a single stumble back.

She stares at the space he’d fallen into, and then back down at the gem that had disturbed him so. There was no context for such a strange and sudden exit by the dream man-none. The sun moved from setting to high in the sky, the open, endless space overhead bright and blue and dotted with fluffy white clouds, a frame of tall, green trees-Leah shook her head and tried to dismiss the image overlapping this one. No, she's in this canyon, this new place-she wants to jump off the edge, she wants to climb down, she wants to stay here.

Something is wrong, and it pulls at her-but too late, she's looking at a sunlit meadow and bordering forest, she's lying on her back in soft, tickling grass. No.
No, dammit, the canyon-the man of the Xaumah, the painted wolf-her hands moved to the torn tunic, the binding beneath-but the airy fabric was gone, and her fingers touched not bare skin but the heavy nightgown she had worn in this field and on this day.

But this time she was no child, and rather than delight and exertion bubbling in her chest, the thrill of running with abandon-she feels only heart tangled anxiety, and confusion.

She sits up, looks across at the little yellow flowers-and then closes her eyes tightly against it as she tries to summon him back, tries to will him into existence, tries to return to the canyon.

And then the wind blows through and rustles the verdant trees...and she is young again, full of mischief and wonder-and in for a tongue lashing when she eventually goes back home to the plump little woman Jreskar had hired to look after her. But Leah had no fear-the discipline and punishment of chores would be worth the thrill of this morning and afternoon romp.

Perhaps she will pick the woman some flowers-if they were to be 'stuck' with one another, they might as well be friends.

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf's mind was so busy with thoughts of Leah and the amulet and his desire to fall asleep, the very thing he wanted was elusive. Eventually, though, his mind settled and he slipped back into oblivion...

...and dreams.

Father, sitting in their tent, teaching Wolf how to secure an arrowhead to its shaft. He's patient but demanding and meticulous. Any mistake can affect the arrow's flightpath. A bad arrow can mean your family goes hungry or an enemy has a chance to kill you.

Mother chides him for being too serious. The storms are gathering and they need to get off the canyon floor. The air is chill and carries an uncommon humidity and tension.

Wolf, with the wonder of a child, hurries to open the tent flap and see the storm coming.

But he cannot see the storm for the forest. The chirping of insects is almost overwhelming. An army could march right past his position and he wouldn't hear them.

Grasping his spear tightly, Wolf scans everywhere for his quarry. Where did it go? He was looking for something.

No...someone. Who? Why?

Wolf follows the game trail, still discomfited by the unfamiliar surroundings and tight quarters in the night. Trees and bushes scratch at his face and legs, but he knows he must follow this trail.

The path widens and meets up with a packed dirt road. Horse dung and other footprints, clear even in the moonlight, tell him he's going the right way.

Flowers, blooming in the night, heady in their fragrance. Wolf pauses to take them in. Familiar despite being...not.

He hears music. Something light and bouncy. Playful and inspiring of dance. It calls to him, draws him to find the source. No, he must find the woman. What woman? He's not sure who it is, but he knows he'll recognize her when he finds her.

Maybe it's her music calling him? Guiding him?

He follows its sound and sees light up ahead, a welcoming orange glow that beats back the dark of the night.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

It’s nothing a King would suffer in his halls, but the music cutting through the air and disturbing the cascading sound of crickets was lively and energetic, nothing if not downright jovial. As he crept closer he would see a sturdy wooden dwelling built on stilts, fat, snorting pigs in the straw beneath it. The occasional raucous bark of laughter broke like a wave over the dull roar of many, many noisily speaking voices-some singing off key along with the music, some egging on their fellows, and many more exchanging the latest stories with friends new and old.

He could scarcely press his way inside, and moving through such a crowd-it should have been harder than it was. Maybe more intimidating-but the energy to the place, the thrill of it-this was a celebration to end all celebrations, and women moved to and fro delivering tankards and clay cups of ale and mead and other nasty rot gut-and, he he might oddly ‘remember’ a sweet wine made from a winter fruit, a rare indulgence of luxurious feminine preference.

There was a break in the crowd, cleared floor space rimmed in a captive, jovial audience watching men dance along to drinking songs, pairs of them linking arms and turning, turning-coming apart and joining neighboring fellows, their knees drawn up and footsteps heavy.

And there she was. Resplendent in the bright glow of the blazing flames, Leah danced with and without the turning men, entering and exiting the ebb and flow almost in time with their flickering fervor. The flex of toned muscle was visible on her slender legs through a high slit in the dark green, wrap around skirt she wore, and though she was in slippers rather than furred boots-there was the same powerful, economic movements to her form, a warrior’s grace on fleeter feet.

She wore a white, off the shoulder blouse tucked into the skirt, the short puffed sleeves accentuating her toned upper arms and the color a stark contrast to the dark red tresses that caught and even matched the hotter parts of the fire, the flowing strands freely tumbling around her bare shoulders and down her back.

She was every bit as beautiful as the stories claimed-stories Wolf did not know, for of all the lands she had traveled, the Sea of Sand had never truly felt her mark. But here now was the red lady Lizka. Here now was a different sort of triumph-a triumph of life.

And just beneath her collar bone, bright and glittering against her incandescent skin-lay the ruby red amulet, glinting in the firelight.

 

[WatchingCloud]

Wolf's eyes locked on to that amulet. The dreamlike quality of the place faded, taking on some of the harsher edges of reality. He'd never been in a building like this or seen so many such men.

But Leah. Yes! He remembered seeing that amulet, the one that matched his, just before he fell out of his last dream.

Once he locked on to Leah - and, gods, was she beautiful in that outfit, dancing with unearthly grace - he remembered everything else from the previous dreams. Only, they were truly something different. He had been in a dream and now he was...what? It still didn't feel like reality. Rather, it felt like he was halfway between dream and wakefulness.

Wolf reached for his own amulet and found that he, too, wore it under his lightweight wool shirt. So either they weren't the same amulet or they were and it was somehow replicated here.

He pushed his way through the throng of dancers. He didn't know the moves and his presence seemed to impede against the flow of...her dream? Wolf did his best to dodge everyone as he made it to Leah. Now, in her presence, he felt her pull and his body wanted to dance with her.

Wolf knew dance, though what passed for the nightly entertainment among the Xaumah was much different. By not thinking too hard, though, his body began to move "properly."

Leah saw him, but didn't see him.

"Leah? Leah!" he said, trying to get her to remember him as she had in his previous dreams.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

She hears her name over the din of music. Not Captain, not Red, not Lady Lizka-Leah. Green flecked eyes light on the gathered assembly around them, expect to see Brandon among them-but no, that wasn’t right. He’d never be in so crowded a place.

She doesn’t remember him having been here…

Remember?

The woman’s brilliant smile recedes to a close lipped one; the people furthest away begin to blur, and the far reaching light of the flames dim. But Leah’s not ready to leave-she was happy, here.

Another turn. Her skirt swishes against her ankles, she slips her arm through yet another offered elbow-but she no longer feels the vibrations through the floor at all the stomping. Leah doubles down on her desire to stay here, breaks apart from her partner to again twist and turn on her lonesome. The flames flare bright and the music deafens in defiance of what she now knows to be true-she’s dreaming. Still dreaming.

But then her eyes finally lock onto the only man with eyes to watch her, the crowd having lost their faces-and her mood vastly improves.

She recognizes him now; it’s Morning Wolf Xocha! With his dark hair and russet brown skin, not a ‘Sand People’ but a Xaumah, warlord of the Wind Canyon clan. Leah’s flashing smile returns as the music swells again, the other dancers falling away to the outer edges of the encircled spectators. She moves to meet him, linking her arm through his without a thought.

“Look at you Wolf! A natural!” But of course he would be-he suffers the unfortunate affliction of being a figment of her imagination.

Leah, flushed from exertion and eyes alive with mirthful, companionable laughter, looks even better up close. She’s as tall as he is, eye to eye and shoulder to shoulder, her bare arm warm where it links with his. She led him along easily and with consideration for his seeming newness at it, forever easy going and genial.