Fall

Atlas

For the first time since their arrival, the ambassadors of the East and West were seen. They wore heavy capes and gear, despite the heat. Perhaps it was to make up for all the nights they slunk in common clothes to make deals.

They were, unsurprisingly, seated on either side of Armadillo, who would bridge them into every conversation he had. The perfect seatmate.

It was quiet on their side of the table, but Milla kept it comfortably civil with small talk she threw to the mayors and their favored like life rafts. It kept them from sinking into an untrusting silence.

The meal was continuous, and more in the realm of a bottomless buffet than a true three-course banquet. Servants knew to wait for empty plates before giving suggestions for further appetizers, main fare, and finally dessert.

Atlas poked at something that had eyes on his plate. It was a dessert, and he had been informed it was a delicacy to many towns. This had not been on the menu during his last stay in Chesa. Do you want it? He asked Hudson.

Hudson regarded it skeptically. I think I saw it blink. You may have to kill it for me.

The mighty predator, brought low by a… Atlas poked it again. A squid, he decided.

If that’s a squid, then I’m a Southern mayor, Hudson said.

That would be helpful right now. Atlas tried not to look bored. The tables behind them were starting to clear as the Chestic brought their celebration back to the city. With the food finished, there was nothing left for them to do under the great tent. That is, until tomorrow.

Introductions aside, Atlas found himself in a tangle of politics. Each mayor had their own quirks, and moved at their own pace. Trying to herd them all to a common conversation was harder than moving sand cows into pens. There was no official mediator to keep the discussions in check.

The strong mayors, however, stood out like lighthouses in a fog. These included faces such as the mayor of Picket and Thorn. It was these few who would have the final say, Atlas thought.

The other two ambassadors seemed to catch his idea, and weaseled their way into common topics with the strong mayors. Atlas fumed, but then simmered as he realized their grasp of Chestic was just as tedious as his. They were hobbled in a one-legged race.

Milla continued her easy chatter with their side of the table. With a start, Atlas saw their faces in softened shades. Amusement, approval, and even light trust dusted their expressions. Like a tortoise on an impossible track, Milla had eased her way gradually into the mess.

The hares, meanwhile, were drawing back with Armadillo and clinging to their followers. Atlas, this time, had little to do with their winning of more than half the table… other than talking of sand cows.

To this, Hudson said, They want an ear to listen to their stories.

And it was true. As Milla cut through the diplomatic tangle, Atlas tied up loose ends behind her. He heard of talented children and grandchildren, horror and love stories of sand cows, and creative ways the natives dealt with the heat.

Most often though, he heard of melancholy. It was at the edge of topics with middle-aged mayors, but for the old and young leaders it shone brightly. The young yearned for a future, while the old longed for the past. All they had were their towns with the never-ending scenery.

Yet those snippets of sadness were overshadowed by a blanket of pride. Pride for the sand cows, which they worked hard to keep. Pride for the bond of family, which outstretched to the town as a whole. Pride for the ability to survive, where many others failed.

Atlas would have never understood the Chestic pride for survival before he had undergone it himself. Twice. It was a primal badge of courage that leveled all who entered its domain.

It was a common enough struggle that, with time, could unite the South to their cause.

Piper

Piper was stiff. Reine was tense. Together, they watched in awe as the army of snakes and jungle creatures came out of the night, circling and churning around the two victims in the middle. Tennyson and Taft were the eye of the storm.

The leader below was just a voice at the moment. “Traitors. Liars. Thieves—“

Not very good thieves, Reine remarked.

“—Conniving, ugly brutes!” the voice finished as it crashed through the underbrush. Piper could feel the hatred pulsing from the person and fera not far from them. She could nearly reach out and hold the emotion.

Someone has a bone to pick with them. Piper shrunk back.

“How did you ever—“ the voice was feminine, “—have the nerve to return here?”

From their vantage point, Piper could see the thieves’ faces, but not the newcomer’s. Tennyson gave a half-scowl that he probably believed to be intimidating. Taft walked back and forth in front of him, occasionally swiping at a snake that came too close.

“I was looking for something,” he said.

“Tell me what, and I’ll wait to wring your neck.”

Tennyson looked up. Piper’s breath caught as his eyes came near. He would call them out, and their impossible luck would die with a splutter and choke of a dozen snakes around their necks.

But he didn’t stop at the trees, and passed over them as if they were leaves.

Confusion came from Reine as Tennyson returned his gaze to the speaker. “Hope. I was looking for hope.”

Amur was Elben for hope. Piper blinked.

“We’re not playing metaphorical I-spy!” the woman below snarled. “I’ll find out what you were looking for, you miserable wretch, and then you will die.”

The woman gave a signal of some sort, and the army cleared away, taking Tennyson and Taft with them. Thick crashing and bouts of Seinish confirmed that a ring of soldiers had surrounded the space where their fera had attacked.

What just happened? Piper thought. The darkness was thick around them.

As the last of the noises faded away, Reine said, We were saved.