As I write this, we’re settled down in a comfortable spot for the night. The time is around six in the evening. The sun is beginning to sink behind the westward chain of mountains looming over the Apple Downs, and Jacq is out catching our dinner with what she has. Her methods are usually unorthodox but inventive, to her credit. Results may vary.

My body was battered from the fall, Jacq’s back was scratched up pretty terribly, and I suppose I should note this as well, in quid pro quo for aiding us in our escape, that our brigand companion suffered some nicks and a sprained wrist on his right hand. It still baffles me how he survived such a tremendous fall from the tower, claiming that the tapestry unwrapped itself and somehow acted as a makeshift parachute. Needless to say, I wasn’t sure what to do at that moment, but if the Mother saw it fit that his life should be spared in the hopes that he may change his ways, the Trininite in me would say to him go in peace. The Adventurer in me, however, said in that moment to go penniless or go to hell. In spite of our injuries, we were still armed with our blades with a two versus one advantage, with plenty of holes in the cemetery to choose from.

He threw his hands up the moment we drew swords. But to my surprise, he assured us that we could have the treasure. All he asked for was the same compensation that his previous employer had promised him, and we may have been pretty ladies to look at, but it didn’t take an in-depth perception to know where he was casting his beady greedy gaze. I’d be remised if I wasn’t thinking about taking it all, if it wasn’t for Jacq convincing me to surrender a few yam wedges for the entire fish and chips. Plus, we couldn’t risk being followed. And yet, I still whinge and moan just thinking about my lil’ silver wedges.

We decided to trade my precious silver necklace for the golden statue.

We went our separate ways after that exchange and retrieved Fluffers who, thankfully, had not attempted to escape during our absence, but we had to reward her patience with the last of our rations. As we hiked through the forest, I had the nous to cover our tracks to err on the side of caution while Jacq hauled our treasure. We were exhausted to say the least, and our feet ached after we trekked back into the dense forest for several grueling miles; we didn’t stop until we were well out of bowshot from the priory, and even then we apprehensively agreed not to be content with just being out of sight of it. These woods were full of potential hiding spots, but just to be safe we trudged on for at least half a mile off the beaten track and through rougher terrain, despite our injuries. We took care not to veer too far off from the path before we would have to walk it back to Ashinghamm in the morning. Then, remembering how well hidden the hideout of our sagacious gang of foul hen-thieves was, we took a bit of inspiration from them. We found refuge at the bottom of a ravine for the night, where a creek ran swiftly from the Winding Blue. Exhausted, we settled down on a leveled space by the water’s edge, with our backs to the smooth lee of an ancient boulder and listened, for a moment, as the brook trickled soothingly over a bed of pebbles, resonating a harmonious symphony of the forest’s twilit lullaby. What a welcoming far cry it was to the grating nightmare that rang in our ears for hours.

Today had been one of those days that tested not only our physical strengths but our mental endurance as well. So far there are no signs of rats in our vicinity, even as night approaches. I say rats, because they’re the closest tangible things I could grasp as to what power we witnessed in that corner of our known world. I remember catching a glimpse of their burnt bodies after we had escaped, or what remained of them anyways. They had crumbled into blobs of ashen ichor under the sun, leaving neither bones nor organs behind. It was just as I had feared: they were no ordinary rats at all.

Not one but several questions are racing through my mind. What were those things, or was there something controlling them, or were they just a manifestation of some being? Actually, I think the pinnacle question would be what was it that had broken the blind will of that verminous tide today. It didn’t seem like whatever power was behind them was content with simply driving us away; nor would anything have stopped them had it not been for that collapsing tower, and the timely cloudburst. It may be the whims of the dice averred by the Scholastic skeptics or the prognostications of Astrologers (a gentle way of calling them both heretics according to myself), and then there is the subtle intervention of our Holy Mother. Either way, the two of us were alive to treasure dive and dungeon-crawl another day, all things considered.

I think this may be of interest to you, but from a purely academic observation of course, that the cult of Jacq’s people suggests a rather acerbic explanation. Rüzgârians also believe in the existence of our divine Goddess, as well as in the professed existence of other gods and goddess from other nations and cultures. But they don’t worship, or serve, any gods or spirits, either manmade or real. They claim that they don’t tread on any god’s or goddess’s shadows, unless provoked by them or any of their zealous acolytes—again, something I’ve academically observed. They also don’t practice any magic at all, though they revere it enough for its niche uses, believing that to trust too deeply in a power too mysterious to comprehend is to be as blind as the one who denies its phenomenal power.

That being said, they recognize only one being as all powerful, which they don’t worship either. If they had a name for it in their tongue, it’s long since been lost save for a loose translation into Common. It may sound banal to some, but when Jacq first gave me a deliberate description behind it, it sounded like a name of some fearful legend. They call it the Nothing.

I’ve yet to find an opportune moment to ask Jacq whether she believed in a Hereafter or not, but in the meantime she told me more about this Nothing—and she did not paint an idilic picture either. The Nothing wasn’t male or female, or anything at all. Not a human, a beast, a bird or tree; not a rock, a moon, a star or a planet; not some androgynous being, or an angel or demon. It was here before the eldritch horrors, before Iram of the Pillars or the Betrayal that was the catalyst of its destruction, before the Azdahag’s rebellion, before the world’s existence, and even before time’s very existence. The Nothing was definitely not something to call upon in your time of need, not even if you were some black-hearted villain. It was better to give any mention of it a wide berth, unless you were using its name in vain, because death and doom was all you’d get from it. Still not quite sure how that works.

Was it supposed to be a hole, I asked Jacq. A hole would be something, she answered, but it wasn’t even a dried up crater or a desolate wasteland. It was like a pestilence, lacking consciousness to empathize or deride, or a divine being’s intellectual power. The Nothing was just that. It fed on every race’s despair and pain, and it laid at the edge of the Hereafter like a predator lurking in the dark, if such an intangible entity could even do such a thing as ‘lay’ anywhere. Here was the part where I lost her: her people hate it more than any other being. They fear death because of it, because they believe it would snatch their souls upon release from their bodies and take them into the void forever, but at the moment of every Rüzgârian’s birth, the Nothing instills in their souls a strength, born from fear, to strive and slay with total abandon. I assume she meant an instinct for self-preservation that is beyond limits. I wonder if this could also explain her overdeveloped sense of hedonism, or maybe she could just be the exception.

I conclusively inquired: “but do you believe in destiny, or are we all lost in meaning?”

Jacq’s response was, as usual, brief and matter-of-fact: “I think that free will walks hand-in-hand between destiny and chance. That, in of itself, is power; what more can we ask for?”

As rough around the edges as she could be, I genuinely found her tongue-and-cheek philosophy to be profound, if not testifying to a nuanced outlook that we may not be privy to, something that is perhaps, in appearance, too simple. Something that is easily brushed off by learned scholars and lore-masters in the pursuit of more fulfilling answers…

The soft light from the flames danced off of their faces, parting the enshrouding darkness around them. Though the time for repose was approaching, the woods were still alive with sounds of roosting birds stirring in the underbrush. The night was clear, gradually revealing a dark blue canvas strewn with countless stars. While Seetha was kindling a fire of fir-wood and drawing water to prepare medicinal aid, Jacq was just about to go off in search for dinner. Concerned with her wondering off without at least having her wounds checked first, Seetha insisted on playing nurse before she caught her death.

“Well, I can try,” the Barbarian jested, but slowly she recanted her chucklesome disposition when her companion firmly put her foot down. It didn’t sound good when Seetha heard Jacq sharply wince as she laid down on the fur blanket; even simply removing her top to make way for the bandages made her groan.

There were at least twenty scratches all over Jacq’s upper back. None of them had hit the fatal mark, but now the subsiding adrenaline meant that the sting of pain was creeping back to her flesh, especially the claw marks that had hit closest to her spine. Both sides of Jacq’s shoulders were also bruised and sore where she had landed densely on the hay. Seetha reached into her pouch and retrieved a handful of wilted petals. They had lost some of their potency, but she still had the remaining purple lavandula flowers she had initially prepared for the Ice Wind Gale expedition. She crushed one of the flowers in the bowl of water heated by the campfire and used it to soothe the hurts with the steeped lavandula water. The balsamic fragrance filled the ravine and chased away every mosquito nearby that swarmed over the steaming water, leaving the soothing air pest free for the night. Soon Jacq felt the pain leave her, the bruising diminished, and her breathing grew easy.

“There,” said Seetha, laying the final bandage on Jacq’s back. “Maybe these will get you better merit than just empty regalements at the Guild.”

Jacq’s laugh, usually a rough guffaw, came out as a wince. “I don’t think bearing scars from a rat fight sounds very heroic. Unless I’m a dachshund.”

Seetha shook her head at Jacq’s attempt to laugh off the pain, but couldn’t repress her smile. “Well, at least the cuts aren’t poisoned, as the wounds of eldritch horrors too often are. I guess it was also well for us that this ‘Magna Mater’ was preoccupied with our motley friends just as we dropped in there. That being said, a scratch is still a scratch, especially twenty of them. You should be off your feet and let these wounds heal up good and fast instead of bouncing around on them.”

Jacq grunted wirily in her non-committal matter whenever she didn’t agree. She rubbed the tense muscles in her arms gingerly before pulling on her bra with quieted huffs of discomfort. “Oh, I’ll be fine,” she shrugged off Seetha’s lingering concerned gaze with an exaggerated wink. “Nothing like a little pain to keep the blood pumping and the mind sharp.”

Seetha snorted but didn’t press further. Instead she packed up the clean bandages and medicine into her pouch, silently promising herself to check on Jacq's wounds again in the morning. The night folded over them like a blanket, its darkness only slightly softened by the ethereal glow of the stars above and the steady crackling fire that leapt and danced within their campsite. The nocturnal creatures of the forest started to make their presence known. A chorus of timely owls hooted from the unseen branches, and here and there, the rustle of undergrowth gave testament to the smaller creatures seeking shelter. Seetha moved over to the fire, stoking it with a long stick until it blazed higher, casting elongated shadows that danced on the trees like wraiths. She then took a seat on one of the fallen logs arranged around their makeshift hearth, when suddenly her stomach made an embarrassing grumble.

Jacq caught a flash of Seetha’s eye’s darting back and forth and gave a grin as she got up. Despite the bruises shooting pain through her back, she stood with a grace only honed by years of survival in harsher situations. “Welp,” she said, slapping her hands together, “it’s time to find us a nice juicy stag, though I can’t promise you one that’s made out of leaves.”

“I have no problem eating meat that’s been humanely put down,” said Seetha in a corrective tone, “should the occasion call for it. But I do have a problem with poaching.”

Jacq rolled her eyes. “Details, details. What’s one more blight on my record anyways? It’s better than starving.”

“But don’t you need to make a spear or snare first?” And what on earth are you doing with our treasure?”

Hauling the golden statue over her shoulder, Jacq’s response was, as usual, brief and head-scratching: “Improvising.”

Seetha watched in confusion as Jacq walked off along the side of the stream; her silhouette conforming with the darkness beyond the circle of their campfire light. Left with only Fluffers to keep her company, Seetha was forced to confront the eerie calm that had settled over the campsite, and sensed that it was no use pursuing Jacq over her antics. She rested her hind on the sheepskin mat, fingering the rough edges of the stoking stick she rolled between her fingers while she thought about her next journal entry. It soon came to her: As I write this, we’re settled down in a comfortable spot for the night…

Even with her journal open and on her lap, her senses remained alert to the low and rapidly echoing sounds of a forest at night. A timely chorus of larks chimed from the unseen underbrush, seeing that the owls had moved on to some other hunting ground that it was safe enough for their evening chorus. The cockatrice made no noise in her cage, save for a low trilling hum reverberating from her scaly breasts. A few moments passed and Seetha heard a sudden rustling in the foliage above, followed by a startled, hoarse grunt. She rose from her spot, her fingers closing around the hilt of her sword laying by her side. A few heartbeats later, Jacq jumped back into the ravine and returned to camp, hauling not only the golden statue but also a young boar tucked securely under her other arm.

“How…” Seetha began but trailed off when she saw what Jacq had done. The head of the golden statue was smeared with fresh blood, and clutched tightly in Jacq's hand was a large splintered tusk. “Like I said,” she grinned broadly despite the pain etched on her face, “improvising.”