Firstborn of the Frontier

There are many reasons to be upset on this particular morning.

For starters, I didn’t get much sleep last night. Partially my fault, as I stayed up later than I should’ve copying the Spell Formula for Mental Fortress, then pored over it once or twice to see if I could visualize the Spell Structure with only a few hours of study. I couldn’t, which is expected, considering it took me six months to figure out Fireball without any extra help. Then, in all the rush to prep for today’s trip, I forgot to fix something up for breakfast, which means I’m eating dried applesauce and hardtack instead of a hot meal since I didn’t have time to make anything else. Then there’s my right hand, which I done lost close to seven weeks ago now and still hurts something fierce. Usually not so bad that I can’t block it out, but today it’s aching like I done dipped my missing hand in molten lava and it’s still there to burn away. Add in the pulsing Mindspire drone which, as far as I can tell has yet to stop since it started yesterday afternoon, and the pounding headache I got from it, then you can imagine how I ain’t the happiest camper around when I wake up before the sun’s up to get a head start on the day.

I do what I can to look on the bright side, but the sun’s barely peeking out over the horizon, so their ain’t much illumination to light the way. What I do have is Old Tux plodding ever onwards, all hot to trot after yesterday’s snooze of a walk. Old though he may be, he still got a lot of grit in him, and he seems happier now that we out in the forest proper. Don’t seem bothered at all by the Mindspire, which is interesting to say the least, especially considering how empty the forest appears. Every other animal has gone to ground, with no hoggidilla’s roaming their trails or scale bears out marking trees. Don’t hear no chitter rats navigating through their burrows and the brushes, or griphikins cawing at the morning sun. In short, there ain’t nothing scurrying, ambling, hopping, or flying about in this hear forest, no fishies bubbling, frogs croaking, or even insects buzzing about, which makes for a right scary atmosphere in an otherwise vibrant forest.

Feels like I’m watching a Video without any sound, save for the clip-clop of Old Tux’s hooves and the wind blowing through the pastel white trees. Don’t bother my horse none though, as he canters along with a bounce in his step like he all too happy to be out and about. I think he’s been in better spirits now that he got a proper herd to watch over. All four of my new horses look to him as their leader, and he seems to enjoy the job immensely. Just this morning, when I let them out into the ranch to stretch their legs, none of the younger horses wanted to come out. Old Tux saw that and went for a quick patrol around the fences, then headed back inside to entice his herd to follow him out to play. I swear he’s aging in reverse now that he got some friends to play with, and it makes me feel downright awful for keeping him alone for so long.

He a great horse, the best there ever was if you ask me. Even better now that it looks like he can shake off the Mindspire’s droning, since you’d think he’d be at least a little upset. Could be he’s on the opposite side of the spectrum when comes to Aertheric sensitivity, dull as opposed to hypersensitive. Then again, I gotta think Aunty Ray would’ve noticed while she was training Old Tux to begin with, since she does use a fair few Spells to make friends with the beasties. Enchantment is a big part of her wheelhouse after all, even if she primarily specializes in Illusion, not to mention how she married a bonafide Enchanter and horse whisperer in Uncle Raleigh.

So either they both missed the mark when it came to Old Tux here, or he just built different from the rest. Maybe it’s his natural temperament, or could be a magical gift that lets him power through the Mindspire’s attacks without so much as blinking an eye. Whatever it is, I wish I had a tenth of his poise and self control in the face of adversity, because the constant droning is starting to really take a toll. Not just on me, but on Cowie too, who’s all bundled up in a blanket and cradled in my arms with a big old scowl stretched across his adorable calf features. The funny thing is, I was planning on leaving him at home, but he wasn’t having none of it, throwing a big old hissy fit in the yard and refusing to let me go without him. Was the gentlest tantrum I done ever seen, with him stamping his hooves one by one in ultra slow motion for fear of stepping on a kiccaw, marty, or wally, and I didn’t have it in me to leave him be.

Yea, the Mindspire’s got Cowie all out of sorts, as he probably got that heightened Aetheric sensitivity too. Ain’t a term I’ve heard before yesterday’s town meeting, and I’m not entirely sure what it means aside from being more affected by the Mindspire than most. Didn’t stop him from insisting I bring him out, as we ain’t ever been separated since the day he was born, not for more than a handful of hours at least, so I don’t mind carrying him like a baby all day. Got me a few strange looks from the guards when I rode up to the gates looking like I was out for a lark, but they ought to mind their own business and stick to their jobs. Which is opening the damn gates when I ride up, not stopping me to warn me off or pester me about the ‘increased Abby activity’.

A few rumours of Abby roaming about and it’s got everyone shaking in their boots. Me, I see it as a matter of perspective. Sure, there are more Abby roaming these forests today than there were last week, but that’s still a far cry from what it’s like in the badlands or even the Coral Desert, so I ain’t all that concerned. We’ve gone from a two to a three around New Hope, whereas I’m comfortable riding solo in eights and nines without blinking an eye, so ain’t no reason to act shook. Don’t mean I don’t take any precautions neither, but this here might as well be a walk in the park compared to my yearly trip up to the mesa, so I ain’t sweating much.

Which I suppose is why the Sherrif gave me this job in the first place, so I best step to and get it done right.

Truth is, people act like riding out into the Frontier is a death sentence, but the way I see it, a competent traveller got it much safer than most. Ain’t every day you run into bandits, with a close call coming in maybe once every month or two, whereas you can pick up the newspaper on any given day and find an article to read about some accident at the workplace. Poorly maintained machines, unsecured shelves, grease fires, steam scalding, heat stroke, frost bite, and more, all injuries sustained while on the job making a wage they can just get by on. Meanwhile, the fatcats who don’t do nothing besides call the shots are raking the profits in while sitting safe and sheltered inside town. A long drop and a quick stop, that’s what they deserve, a bunch of leeches who are a burden to the rest of us who do the real work around these parts. Problem is, there always gonna be scabs who don’t know their own value and will work for pennies on the dollar, while expecting the rest of us to do the same and be grateful for the opportunity.

Backwards is what that is, but people are self-defeating, because there always gonna be those who are happy to get by with the bare minimum. Which is disheartening, because they lowering all our prospects by undervaluing their own self-worth. I been keeping an eye out on who’s hiring of late, looking for a proper job once I’m finished with all my hours of hard labour. Will need something to put food on the table after all, but the prospects ain’t all that appealing. I got no qualms about putting in a long day’s work as a construction worker, as evidenced by the 190 hours of hard labour I already put in last month, just 10 shy of the legally mandated maximum in that period of time. What I won’t do is that sort of work for a measly five dollars a day. That’s downright criminal, less than half of what a Ranger makes which is already too low to begin with, and while you’d think construction work is a whole lot safer, the statistics say otherwise. Got a higher chance of getting injured on a worksite than out on patrol, and while work injuries are rarely fatal, they can put an end to your career all the same.

Or you could get real unlucky like Deputy Juan and get got by Abby on the worksite. His fault really for making such a big fuss so close to shore with his back to the water, but let’s not forget how I almost died several times that day too.

Mostly because the local Abby are a lot tougher than the gobbos and blitzbugs I’m used to dealing with. That’s why I added my compact Szass and Tam Model 10 back into my every day carry, which I got sitting on my hip at the 9 o’clock position, while my Rattlesnake stays as my primary at the 11. Considered breaking out the Ranger Repeater or one of my Whumpers too, but didn’t see much of a point. With only one hand to work them, I doubt I could hit the broadside of a barn from more than fifty metres, not unless I work up some sort of prosthetic to clamp onto the forward grip. Talked about it with Danny a few times, and even scribbled out a few ideas that seemed workable, except I kept putting off the work claiming my arm needed more time to heal.

It don’t. The flesh is about as good as it’ll get now, albeit still tender, and there’s the issue with the phantom hand pain to deal with. The biggest problem ain’t physical though. It’s mental, because truth is, I’m dreading the day I go to the range and find out how bad a shot I really am. Going from right to left-handed shooting ain’t a matter of just switching hands. It shifts your whole perspective too, which means I gotta forget everything I’ve learned and all the habits I’ve cultivated to relearn and recultivate them anew. I’ve already turned down Tina and Sarah Jay’s invitations to the shooting range thrice now, and I suspect they’ll ask me again this weekend too, and I’m running out of excuses to give.

Don’t get me wrong. I love all the support and confidence I’m getting from the people around me, but that also adds weight to the expectations I got riding on my shoulders. Lemme get my feet under me first and figure out how to live my day-to-day life with one hand, and I’ll move on to shooting and soldiering once that’s all good and sorted.

All thoughts rattling about inside of my head as Old Tux brings us towards Carter’s compound, which is gonna be our first stop of the day. There are plenty of closer communities, and even individual homesteads as close as a quarter-hour ride from the walls, but I reckon those folks already done come in to see what’s what last night. Far as I can tell, ain’t no one happy about the lack of real information, and there’s a lot of doom and gloom going around about shutting down traffic on the lake. I say there ain’t no other choice, because with the morning fog still hanging over the waters, I can’t see more than 5, 10 metres out into the lake. Imagine trying to navigate a boat through that, without a Radio to call for help if needed, or speakers to announce your presence. Turn either one on and all you get is harsh, pitchy static on account of the Aetheric interference from the Mindspire, which is a death sentence to any ship that runs afoul of the shallows or worse, gets attacked by Abby en route.

One ranakin is all it takes to punch a hole in the bottom of your boat, and then its only a matter of time before it sinks. Not so big a deal for the flat-bottom trawlers like what Carter’s people use to do whatever business they got out on the lake, but for the big ferries carrying dozens of people across to the other side? That’s a death sentence if I ever heard one. Can’t park a Ranger strike team on every ferry, not with them moving out ever hour on the hour, because then we’d have no personnel to call upon in the event of an attack on the town. Didn’t stop them affluent townies from demanding as much though, because how are they supposed to maintain their lavish lifestyles if their profits take a hit?

That’s really the worst part of it all, the ugliness underneath this already dire situation. Them greedy moneybags expecting other people to risk their lives for a pittance, all so the rich can get richer. Them folks who own the ships, stores, and factories which are so dependent on shipping were the ones clamouring the loudest against the lockdown on the lake. Without that lockdown though, you wouldn’t find a single one of them out on the waters, I guarantee you that. Ghoulish is what it is, expecting your employees to take the greatest risks while reaping the smallest benefits, no different from what was happening in Pleasant Dunes. Things ain’t nearly as bad here in New Hope, but it’s scary to think how we ain’t all that far off, because if company men had their way, Pleasant Dunes would be a shining example to aspire to, rather than a cautionary tale against unchecked greed.

Got me a bellyful of ire and resentment this morning, which I can only partially blame on the Mindspire. Has me in a right foul mood it does, one compounded by the fact that my Detect Aberration Spell is giving me some pitchy feedback. At first, I thought it was because I did the Ritual wrong or my tuning fork got bent from sitting in my breast pocket instead of the nice little custom stitched slot I put inside my components pouch. No helping it, because with all the guns I got on the left side of my belt, I had to move my components pouch to the right, which makes it tricksy to reach into with the one hand I got. Tuning fork ain’t bent though, nor was it something I messed up, because after the third iteration of Detect Aberration, I’ve come to accept the facts as they are. It’s gotta be the Mindspire again, putting out extra noise for the Detection Spell to pick up, like a pitchy, whiny hum nestled inside my ear and a distinctly discomforting quality to the signal I pick up.

Like swimming through turbid, mossy water that’s thicker that what you’d expect. Nothing wrong with it exactly, just unpleasant is all.

And that’s before we get into the Mindspire’s shifting patterns and intermittent tests. Though it slowed down last night, the Proggie picked things up again this morning by hitting us with a widespread Discord. It’s an insidious Secord Order Spell that incites anger, hatred, paranoia, and general mistrust, which means your mileage may vary when it comes to actual results. Most people will shake it off or swallow their anger, suspicion, and resentments, but I’m more accustomed to acting on my feelings and doing something about it. Ain’t nothing to do though, because all I’m getting upset at are the facts of life, with constant needling from the Mindspire to poke the embers every time I get them fires banked. Then there’s the random Suggestions it keeps throwing out, faint and indirect inklings of danger telling me to draw my weapon or lash out for no real reason. Those don’t come out often, and they’re easy enough to resist, but every time I let my mind wander to take in my surroundings as a whole, I get the urge to reach for my guns for no real reason at all.

Yeah, Enchantment Spells are a real pain in the backside to deal with, because they deal with emotion, not logic, and the Mindspire is throwing out Second Order Enchantments like they’re nothing. At least the effectiveness is a mere fraction of a fraction of the real thing, but that also means the effect is subtle and insidious enough to make you think those thoughts come from within. The human mind is a strange thing, in that once you suspect there’s a problem, it’s difficult to let go of that suspicion even if you know there’s no basis for it. In the short term, I don’t think the Mindspire’s Discord and Suggestions will amount to much of anything at all, but sooner or later, someone’s gonna snap over something innocuous, and things are gonna snowball from there.

Won’t take much. A wry comment. A sardonic jab. A sour look. Something minor and inconsequential, but it’ll be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and hell will break loose soon after A right insidious tactic this Mindspire is, and I’m worried that I’ll be the spark that sets off the Aether keg in New Hope, the instigator who brings everything down on all of our heads.

More of the Discord poking at my brain, but partially my own concerns too, so I do my best to focus on the task at hand and take my cues from Old Tux. He’s relaxed and comfortable as can be, so I let him pick his pace and stop every now and then to gather grumble berries, dig for sunspine tubers, or collect alabaster nuts to roast when we get home. Cowie’s adorable frown keeps my spirits up, and I do what I can to raise his too, rocking, feeding, and singing for him as we move through the silent, white forest without incident.

I keep my eyes and ears open the whole time though, and my mind on my Detection Spell too, right up until it peters out about twenty minutes from Carter’s compound. That’s when I decide to hold off on recasting right quick. Better to use a Ritual when I get there to conserve my Aether reserves, because I’ve already cast the Spell twice and still got most of the day to go. Been keeping track of how long I can hold Detection, and it’s been about 75 minutes each time. None too shabby considering the Spell only has a 10-minute duration at base, but I learned in Pleasant Dunes that the added tension and stress of being down under dark will cut that time down by a quarter or even a half. 4 hours is my goal in ideal conditions, one I intend to reach before even thinking about going back under dark again, alongside a whole slew of other conditions I’ve set for myself. Bad enough I got Marcus killed, so the least I can do is learn from my mistakes and not repeat them my next time around.

Assuming there even is a next time. Here’s hoping, but I ain’t all that hopeful, if you know what I mean.

A rustling in the bushes startles me up out of the saddle, and Old Tux huffs in displeasure at my sudden movement. It’s only in hindsight that I identify the minor spike of panic as the Mindspire’s attempt to cast Fear, one that pales in comparison to the Hobgoblin Illusionist’s Spell that I got hit with in the Coral Desert. Still enough to put me on edge, and it’s got Cowie stirring in his sleep too. A kiss on the nose and a pat on the head is all it takes to soothe him, but the same can’t be said for the animals of the forest. A family of quill shrews scurry across the dirt trail, all spines and eyes like they are, while overhead a flock of birds take flight, flapping up a storm and cawing in chorus to express their extreme displeasure. The distinct grunting of a scalebear sounds off in the distance, the 2-foot armoured ursines making a rare appearance in the daytime, since they’d much rather sleep and save their energy to forage at night.

For a few minutes, the once silent forest comes to life as creatures bark, squawk, chitter, and screech in mild alarm, and I track it as best I can while maintaining my cool. Right up until I catch wind of thundering hoofbeats clip-clopping away at a rapid pace, one that’s bringing them runaway horsies headlong towards me. Pulling Old Tux over to the side of the well-worn dirt path, I get him to slow down to catch his breath for a bit while my Mage Hands tie the end of my rope into a lasso. I also make sure my guns are all close to hand, because galloping horses can only mean one of two things. Either Carter’s horsies got loose and need wrangling, or his people are riding away from something right quick, so I’ve a mind to do something about it.

Never occurred to me before today, but this dirt path is pretty well-used. Means Carter and his ilk travel more than I’ve seen, since forest trails like these will get overgrown right quick without constant traffic. My comings and goings twice a week wouldn’t be enough to maintain it, so I suppose whatever business Carter’s people are up to has them coming and going this way fairly often. Ain’t all that relevant in the moment, but it’s something to consider, because things ain’t been adding up when it comes to Carter and his ilk, and I don’t like not knowing what’s what.

Putting aside my nosey thoughts, I slowly make my way along the trail until I spot the horsies coming at me. Two of them, one spotted white and the other the ugly horsies I done maligned so often. The spotted white sees me waiting from around the bend and veers off out into the trees, but the uggo horsie’s got his head down and legs pumping while running from whatever done spooked him. Something imaginary brought about by the Mindspire’s low impact Fear Spell, but that’s the thing about panic. Once it takes hold, it’s hard to shake off, and even harder for prey animals like the big horsie here. Never one to suffer fools, Old Tux digs in his hooves and lets loose with a challenging whinny, and only then does the ugly horse notice we’re there. It veers off to the side to avoid hitting us head on, and runs headlong into the loop of my lasso, then goes barreling by while I let the rope play out before heeling Old Tux into a pivot and chase.

Old Tux turns on a dime and follows after the horse, hot on his heels but not so close as to risk a kick to the face. Me, I pull on the lasso to urge the horse to slow down, but it don’t take to the rope well as it bucks and flings its head about. Strange that, because I was under the impression these horsies were well trained, what with how they lined up all nice and neat for the wagon, but this one acts like a wild beastie who ain’t ever known the touch of a rope. I chalk it up to the panic and work the horse good and well, putting more and more weight on the rope while Old Tux gradually slows down and drags the other horse to a stop. The poor ugly beast is all covered in lathered by the time it’s done running, with burrs, sticks, and other forest debris all caught in its mane and coat to show how it’s been running all up and around these parts in a panic.

“Easy there,” I call, speaking soft and gentle as I dismount from Old Tux with Cowie still asleep in his sling. The other horse doesn’t startle from the sound of my voice, only turns its head to watch my approach. “Hey there big fella,” I say, stopping in plain sight so it can acclimate to my presence. “You remember me? Yea you do, you ugly beastie you.” Still sounding sweet as molasses I am, but the horse don’t take, letting out a tired huff of displeasure in between big, deep pants that got its flanks shaking and legs quivering. Pulling out my waterskin, I open it up and hold it out so he can smell the water inside, because I bet he’s mighty parched after the run he had. “Don’t got much water, but you welcome to it,” I say, and wouldn’t you know it, the horse turns and ambles towards me to chomp down on my waterskin, then stands there and waits for me to start pouring.

“Guess this aint the first time you drank from a waterskin,” I say, mostly because I find it amusing. Pausing to mutter, ‘Influunt – Gratis’ to get the Shape Water Cantrip going, I continue, “Won’t no one ever call you pretty, but ain’t no denying you one smart horsie.” The ugly horse eyes me from over its misshappen muzzle, but he don’t make any sounds as he sucks down the water. I don’t give him too much too quick, because he gonna need every drop I got in the waterskin to have any hope of making it back to Carter’s place, even though it ain’t much more than a ten minute trot at most. Once half the water is down his gullet, I stop the flow and try to get him to move a few steps forward with the waterskin still in his mouth. It’s a lot easier than expected, as he don’t fight me one bit, but he do balk when he realizes I want him to keep walking so I can bring him on back home.

“Come on ugly,” I say, crooning as my Mage Hands give his nose and his neck a couple good pats. “We gotta get you home where there’s more water to drink, or at least close enough to where we can cart some water over in case you collapse.” I get the water flowing just a bit, then shut it off until he takes a step forward, then give him more and more as he gamely moves ahead on all four shakey legs. “Atta boy,” I say, and he eyes me while greedily lapping up the water without spilling much of anything at all, leaving me to wonder how he’d fare if I didn’t use the Shape Water Cantrip at all. Doesn’t do anything besides move up to 1.5 litres of water about. Once you get it flowing, that’ll keep going for about an hour after the fact, and I set the water in the waterskin to just swirl around the horsies mouth until he drinks it all down.

It’s odd how Magic interacts with living flesh. Note how I say Magic, not Aether, because they ain’t exactly one and the same. Aether powers the Magic, while Magic is more than just Aether in too many ways to count. I can control the water in the horsies mouth until it gets into his throat, at which point there ain’t nothing any Spell can do to keep him from swallowing. Means among other things, you can’t use Shape Water to drown a man or beast by sending water into their lungs. Best you can do is get it to the opening, and a little might go down the wrong pipe if they ain’t expecting it, but even with your mouth wide open, you got enough muscle control to choose between breathing and drinking. Course, even if you couldn’t, once the water moves past a certain point and is surrounded by a certain amount of living tissue, then your magical control over the water ends just like that. No real idea why, and that’s not just me, as this is a problem most Arcanists can’t entirely figure out. You can blow a hole through flesh just fine using a Bolt Spell, because the Magic creates kinetic force, and its the laws of physics doing all the damage, but try and use a Spell like Telekinesis to rip a man’s heart out of their chest and all you get is blank stares. The Magic itself can’t penetrate through all those layers of flesh to affect something underneath, and don’t no one know why. You could use Telekinesis to poke a hole through that man and rupture their heart that way, but then it’s no different from the Bolt. Seems like the same thing, but really isn’t, and it’s a fascinating phenomenon to study once you did into the thick of it.

Like if Magic can’t affect something inside a living being, how do Enchantments work then? Those affect the mind, which last I checked is usually incased in a skull, so how’s the magic get in there and do it’s thing? A good question to ask Uncle Teddy next Sunday, since knowing could offer some insight on how to counteract the Mindspire’s finagling.

Distracted as I am by my concern for the ugly horse and my errant thoughts about the wonders of magic, I don’t notice the figure creeping up on me until Old Tux lets out a whinny of warning. Already got my Rattlesnake in hand because I was wondering what got this horse and his friend so spooked, but luckily for all parties involved, I got presence of mind enough not to point and shoot before looking at who done spooked me. It’s one of Carter’s people who’s name I never got, a tall and hairy nordic type with a face only his mother could love and not a stitch on him. Ain’t shy about it neither, just wanders out of the brush bold and nekkid as can be, without so much as a peep while wearing a sour look on his face, like he suspect I done come out here to steal his ugly horse.

I knew they were nudists. Said it didn’t I? Wish it wasn’t a big hairy man that done proved it though, because there are some sights you can’t unsee.

To be fair, he ain’t entirely naked, as he got some jewelery on, a necklace that looks like braided horse hair attached to a scrimshaw carving of a horse. He got a leather bracelet too with another animal charm hanging from it, but not an animal from the Frontier. Looks like a bear at first glance, and I don’t try for another, because he got his big swinging dong just dangling about, which ain’t of any interest to me. “Sleppa Honum,” he barks, and I flinch to hear it. Sounds like he’s slinging a Spell to my ears, but then he points at the horsie and repeats himself. Sleppa Honum!”

Takes a bit of thinking, but we come to an understanding soon enough as I hand him the rope. Rather than accept it with grace and hold on tight to safely guide the skittish beastie back home, the lanky nord pulls out a knife and saws through the rope even though it’s a simple Honda knot that’s easily unfastened. “Yea sure,” I say, as he tosses the whole length of rope down into the dirt and walks away with the horsie trailing beside him. “Just cut right through the rope and throw it away. Wasn’t like I wanted it back, and that last two feet was no good anyways.” Still grumbling sarcastically under my breath as I lean over to pick my rope back up, I add, “No need for any thanks neither. Not like I kept your ugly runaway horse from wearing himself out and collapsing a good quarter-hour away from your home. I’m sure you would’ve had a real easy time carting him back from where he fell, assuming you found him before any wild animals or Abby got to him.” Pausing to conjure up a Water Sphere to rinse the horse spit off of my waterskin, I grumble, “Then again, I doubt anything’d with two brain cells to rub together would want to eat him. One look at that ugly, misshapen face and they’d think he was diseased.”

The horsie turns to give me meanest side eye I done ever seen, and feeling petty as can be, I glare right back as I walk alongside Old Tux and escort the ungrateful pair all the way back to the compound. The Nord don’t pay me no mind, doesn’t even acknowledge anything I say, not even when I try to tell him he got another runaway horsie out in them trees. I can’t hear it running no more, but if he don’t care to go look for it, then I can’t be bothered to help. Looks like they’ll need it though, as the compound is abuzz with activity for once, as faces both familiar and unfamiliar move in and out of the compound. Fully dressed, thankfull, and on foot no less, as I’m guessing all their horsies done run off, along with their hoggidillas to boot.

Don’t nobody greet me with smiles or thanks. Don’t even ask the Nord what’s what, or where the other horse might be. Ain’t because no one’s around neither, because in three weeks of working here, I ain’t seen so many faces of Carter’s community all at once, and its the first time seeing any of the women that are wandering about. All older folks still, and armed with bows and staves no less, while their kids are all still safe and sound in the compound. Heard them laughing at least a couple times over the last few weeks, so I know they got a fair few. Don’t know what they got to laugh about, living their life cooped up in a tiny compound like they do, but seeing how busy and free they are today, I get the feeling the reason they stay cooped up all the time is because Carter don’t want his people interacting with me.

Which is a little insulting if I’m being honest. I mean, yeah, I’m technically here because I got saddled with 480 hours of hard labour after the kerfuffle in Pleasant Dunes, which means in their eyes, I’m about one or two steps removed from a straight up criminal. Still, I ain’t been nothing but polite, well-mannered, and hard working these last three weeks, so they should’ve warmed up to me enough to warrant an introduction to the whole crew. Not that I care to meet everyone or learn their names, but it irks me something fierce that Carter don’t want the same, though I admit it’s probably mostly the Mindspire making me feel crabbier than usual. Not entirely though, so when Carter greets me with a brusque, “What are you doing here?”, without any regards at all to common courtesy, I respond with less than my usual charm.

“Well,” I drawl, glancing around in casual challenge to every looky loo that looking too hard. “Could be because I’m scheduled to work here. It ain’t, but you’d think you’d assume as much, seeing how we agreed on as much not three days ago.” Pausing for effect and taking in Carter’s neutral and unamused expression I lean to my left to look at the naked Nord and ugly horse making their way into the compound and say, “Could also be I come out to offer my horse wranglin’ skills for free, catchin’ that ugly runaway that got so spooked by whatever it is we got goin’ on.” Carter don’t even blink at my roundabout insinuation, nor does he seem ready to offer any thanks. Wouldn’t make any difference anyways, since any gratitude that’s been compelled ain’t gratitude at all. “Ain’t that either though.”

“So? What is it?” Carter asks, finally showing a hint of emotion as he scowls in impatience, his stony facade finally cracking for once.

Doesn’t help that Cowie takes it upon himself to decide this is where he wants down, and it takes some doing to get him out of his sling without me taking a hoof in the chin. After a shake and a bleat, Cowie does a quick little happy prance around Carter’s shins before running off and rounding the corner despite my calls for him to come back. Probably to answer nature’s call, so I can only hope he knows not to use any of the trees that are part of the compound. Heaving a sigh to hide my embarassment, I pick up where I left off and get right to the point. “Sheriff sent me out here to let you know what’s what. You wanna gather the troops so they can all hear? I don’t got time to say it more than once.”

“You tell me, and I’ll tell the others.”

“You the boss.” So I give him the long and short of it all, how the Proggie raised a Mindspire and is poking at our brains with magic. “The Marshal thinks Madness is a real possibility in the not so distant future,” I say, because that’s the big danger here. “So maybe have everyone sleeping in separate, locked rooms while keeping something on hand for non-lethal takedowns. Shocking Grasp Cantrip works best, but you gotta grab hold of your target. Living Whip’s another good one, unless someone keeps cuttin’ all your ropes short for no good reason.” Earns me a raised eyebrow it does, but Carter don’t ask nothing, so I run through the list of viable defenses and possible safeguards to counteract the Mindspire, which is a short list that includes Protection from Abby, Consecration, Mental Fortress, and not much else.

“Hear tell there are some Imbued items that can help,” I conclude with a shrug, because I sure as shooting can’t afford one. Or maybe I could, but ain’t none for sale, as that sort of trinket tends to be made to order, and I don’t know anyone who does that sort of thing. “But unless you got a master Artisan or priest among you, your best bet is to gather all your people and make your way back to New Hope. Free food and shelter in the churches, and plenty of folks opening up their homes to guests.” Gesturing into the compound where the tired horsie is hopefully rehydrating and getting wiped down, I add, “If you don’t got enough fresh horses left to pull your wagon, I can lend you Cowie and have him bring you back in.” He won’t mind too much I don’t think. He likes Carter and his people, and they like him more than they like me. Just goes to show my social skills are worse than a bull’s, unless I work really hard at being charming.

“No need,” Carter says with a shake of his head. “We’ll ride it out here.”

Don’t got a word of thanks for the warning or offer neither, so I hold up my empty waterskin and shake it about. “Mind topping me off? Your ugly horse drained it dry.” Without waiting for an answer, I toss it at him none too gently, but Carter snatches it out of mid-air so quick and casual he might as well have grabbed it off a hook. While he heads inside to do just that, I raise my voice and say, “I’mma set up here for a Detect Abby Ritual, so don’t no one shoot me.” Barely get a glance much less any actual assurance, so I look around once or twice more just to be sure I’m in the clear. By the time Carter gets back with my waterskin, I’m just about finished with my wand waving and candle lighting, and thankfully, he don’t interrupt me while I cast. Just puts my waterskin down nearby before retreating to manage his people without so much as a single spoken word, and I can’t help but wonder how so many socially awkward people came together to form a community.

Soon as the Ritual is done, I gather up my things and call out for my partner. “Cowie?” I call, raising my voice enough to hear it disappear into the forest. “Where you at?” There’s no trundling hoof beats to announce his presence, no bellowing moo in reply to tell me he’s on the way, and my heart seizes in my chest as I imagine all the worst possibilities that could happen. “Cowie?! Quit playin’!” Grabbing hold of Old Tux’s reins just to make sure he don’t run off, I wander over to the side of the compound where I last saw my partner. “You come out here right now, or you can walk all the way home by yourself.” Ain’t around the corner, or the next one either, and I’m about this close to casting a Locate Object on the tag I got tied around his tail when I hear a soft little moo behind me.

And above. Which is where I find Cowie, with his head sticking out from over the wall looking sheepish and guilty as can be.

“What are you doing up there?” I hiss, lowering my voice to a whisper so as not to get found out. “You’re not supposed to go into the compound, or climb stairs for that matter. How you gonna get back down? You know you can’t.” I mean, physically, he can most certainly walk down a flight of stairs, but I gotta be there to drag him along because he can’t see the ground by his feet. Makes it right proper scary to go down a flight of stairs, so I can’t really blame him there. “You gonna get me in trouble now, and then what?”

“It’s fine.” Carter’s voice sounds out from over the wall, and Cowie pops back in to curry favour with the man. “He found his way in the first day you were here, and we figured no harm no foul. I’ll bring him back out in a minute. Just head back to the front gate.”

Of course Cowie is welcome inside the compound, while I gotta sleep outside in the bunkhouse. Just goes to show how he more popular than me, and I hate the flash of jealousy that surges through me. That one is most definately due to the Mindspire, because I ain’t never cared about no popularity contests or meeting new people, so why would I care if Carter’s never invited me in or introduced me to the people of his community? I do though, mostly because the Mindspire is poking me in the brain and telling me to care, making me angry enough to spit fire over something I’d normally avoid like the plague, and there ain’t nothing I can do to stop it. Doesn’t help that Carter leaves me waiting at the door for more than a minute, too much more to stomach really. Just as I’m about to pound on the wooden gate and ask what’s what, I catch wind of a heated exchange between a man and woman in what sounds like French.

“ – cherché partout et je n'arrive toujours pas à la trouver. Elle n'est pas ici." That’s a woman, sounding all hurried and panicked.

“Calme-toi.” Sounds like Carter, but there an edge there that gives away his stress.

“Ne me dis pas de me calmer! Elle a disparu, je te dis, disparue!” A real wildcat this lady, ready to rend and tear anything that stands in her way.

“Laisse-moi le renvoyer et nous la chercherons tous ensemble. Elle ne peut pas être allée bien loin.”

The latter proves to be Carter who opens up the front gate, letting Cowie squeeze by to prance around my feet. Looks worried as he headbutts my leg and pushes me onwards towards action, while Carter’s expression is impassive as ever and the fiery French lady is nowhere to be seen. Now that I know to look for it though, I spot a couple hints of Carter’s heritage. The straight hair without a curl in sight, the light skin tone with an almost olive complexion in the places where he sees more sun. High cheekbones and piercing eyes too, which I noted the first day I met him and wrote off as readiness, as well as a nose bridge that’s a little wider than what you’d see in most Euros. That’s what I pegged him as until now, or generic white American pretty much, but it seems I was off.

He ain’t American at all. He’s Métis, hailing from America’s hat and closest trading partner, as well they should be considering half of the Métis Nation is made up of formerly American states.

Carter’s background ain’t the issue here though, because unless my French is failing me, it sounds like there’s more pressing matters to attend to. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” I say, and Carter scowls to hear it. “There a girl missing? I can help track her. Easiest way would be if you got a Photo of something she’s wearing right now, like a ribbon, necklace, or hair clip. Could make do with hair too, but it needs to fresh, as in plucked in the last 24 hours. Blood works better, with a 72-hour limitation, but even without any of that, I can still help.”

“We’re fine,” Carter replies, acting like I just offered to help move some furniture or something. “It’s not a girl, just one of the hogs.”

“Ah.” Didn’t sound like the lady was worried about no hoggidilla, but then again, it takes all sorts. There are folks in town who baby their ‘pet’ marties who would much rather roam wild and free, and there ain’t no girl crazier than a horse girl, I tell you what. No idea why anyone would want to make friends with food though, especially when hoggidillas are so ugly and stinky to boot, but ain’t my place to judge. “Alright then.” And because I still ain’t entirely sure what’s going on, I say, “I could help find the hog too you know. That’s even easier. If you got any other hogs around, all I need is a bit of blood and distance.”

“We’ll be fine,” Carter says, and I hear a thump from the other side of the closed gate, one powerful enough to set the darksteel to ringing. Man doesn’t blink an eye though, just puts his hand on the door to silence the ringing and says, “I take it you have other communities to visit, so you should get going now.”

“…Okay.” Not much I can do about it if he don’t want no help, so I pick Cowie up in my arms and climb back into the saddle. No more sling for Cowie, because he too squirmy to lie still, but that’s the least of my problems as I let Old Tux bring us out and away towards our next destination.

No idea what it is, but there’s something weird goin’ on here. Far as I can tell, Carter and his people are good enough folks. My kinda people if I’m being honest, namely quiet, asocial, and more or less competent from what I’ve seen. Their boats are still by the floating dock, so didn’t none of them go out this morning, and they haven’t done any work on the permanent dock since I left which means they smart enough to leave the dangerous and important parts to the person who knows what he’s doing. Namely me. That’s ain’t no small potates, being able to leave and let lie like that, because it ain’t like they allergic to hard work.

So why would they not want my help finding a missing girl? Even if it is really a hog, which I don’t buy, having a Diviner’s help would save them hours of manual tracking through the forest, assuming they find any tracks at all. Strange that, but ain’t nothing I can do without all the facts, or even a lead to go on, so I head on over towards my next destination and pray that the girl, human or hog, makes it back home safe and sound.

And if not? Well, then I suppose I’ll have to do away with my live and let live attitude and figure out what’s going on, because autonomy of action comes to an end when innocent lives are involved.

…

I really hope it’s a hog, because no matter which way you spin it, every alternate possibility I can think of just keeps getting worse and worse.