“BASTARD!”

Red. The sire’s face was red. Reddening. It was a fact that was not glaringly obvious for the sire’s party, not even sire’s mate, Lady Emily. A peculiar and disadvantageous trait to have, he always thought. But the Story 99:12. The Lady gave blessings as her heart told her to. Not as their children’s eyes see. For her children’s eyes saw small and little. And he still remembered the passage, word by word. 

“Who are you to question her?” the water of wisdom stood. “You couldn’t even see a hundred pace around yourself.” 

“Her heart? Her heart is her wisdom. Her heart sees everything.”

So who was he to question her wisdom? He just glad that he was a kin.

Because to not-kins, his sire face wasn’t reddening, instead, as he heard and regarded-repeated from countless stories told to him by his non-kins, mainly humans, friends. His sire face was currently brushed by two trails of deep copper trailing in broad strokes. The fact that it suddenly appeared from his cheekbone to the cleft under his neck was just a curious feature of sire’s race, they said. Like how gnomes paced around when they were excited. Or humans, always got themselves drunk when something bad happened. To them, his sire face was simply browning because he was angry, he was mad.

But standing three paces behind him, his tongue restrained, Oskar knew that it was not brown. It was red. And red retained its meaning, its intent, even when white dampened it so. 

He had lost count of how many times his litter-know once again helped. He never see other races, not even other kins were helped a lot by their litter-know. Then again he was a Lis. Only them and maybe the elves that took seventh contemplation seriously. Reveling for the reveal of the Lady’s Blessing was a privilege, his father always said. Never an obligation. 

He remembered the exact day when it happened. Colored, vivid, lifelike. Like Master Britta painting. The one which the old man only made when inspiration struck him like summer’s thunder. The one which he obstinately refused to sell for any price even when the merchants raving at his door by the tens for weeks. Because it was that worth. That solid. That real. 

He was there in his room. His quilt-covered, bulbous triangle-shaped room. His room not big, just six paces from the center to any of its side as all the unmarried Lis rooms were. Compact and tight, all the space that a good kin needed. They didn’t need to build big. Sometimes he shook his head looking at the human’s restaurant, human’s office. Such a waste of warmth. For Lis, warmth was the sun’s kindness and sometimes fire’s, but every kin knew that the latter was flighty, not as much as the wind, true, but more destructive still. So in the dark, when the sun retreated, you better safe its warmth; not opening your walls unless it was important.

Back then, he was sitting. Sitting on his single layer of quilt, feeling the hard ground of the steppe. And thanks to his mother’s strictness, he could sit anywhere without feeling the hard bump of leftover rocks. This was important, because that night, he, like the rest of the kin-litter was grasping. Grasping and hoping that the Lady’s blessing descended to them. Revealing what their grandpapas meant by the so-called immensity of the world. 

It was hard, truly. He was a herder-boy. Sar’s herder boy. The most common of common stock. What did he know about the world? Luckily he was but a child back there. And for him, there was a bit lenience. The children just needed to recount their day and pondered if there were something that they could learn from it. Something. Anything. Even simple things like giving their mother a warm towel at the end of the day. Things like that.

So he did just so. As he watched the bowl of water, rippling from the earth’s invited beating, he recounted how his mother woke him up this morning, how he almost choked drinking the Sar’s milk too fast, then his sleepiness when it was his turn to open the picket and woke up Toro to help him drove his assigned herd to the grazing field. 

The morning was slow as usual. Some of the older Sar needed to be waited, few were straying too far (Toro helped him to bring them back), and there was that one stupid bull who kept flicking his longhorn when he tried to collect his dung (he hated that bull). Such the day passed, until finally few wicks before noon, when Jiro came. It was the older boy’s turn at last. 

Jiro was responsible for preparing dried fodder in the morning. Dried fodder needed tall grass to be made, so the older boy needed to walk quite a bit, three hundred paces for a single trip. Thus his father and Jiro’s father agreed that the older boy should do afternoon grazing since it was a bit easier, allowing him to rest for a bit. 

Usually, he stopped there, because the world was a serious thing, so he only contemplated serious stuff, like his chores (his breakfast was there just to help him remembered how the day began). But that day, it just came to him. What if he continued? What if he recounted his playtime also. So he did. And who would have thought? That he and his friend little game, catching Aristu before they dipped on the sun’s summer stream, popped the herald of the Lady herself — the system appeared in front of him. Telling him that for his contemplation, he was rewarded. A skill. He almost shouted before remembering that it was still midnight.

How time did pass since then. Just one more moon then it’d be sunburst again. Ten calendars from the last of their little game when he, Yul, and sometimes Tuva, played together on the off-stream. The off-stream, he sighed. It was a little place. A corner on the gorge where a little water forked off the main branch and pooling to side. Too much but also too little, the adult complained. Too much because the tribe always needed water and could not afford to waste the slightest of it. But too little to allow the stream to maintain its speed. Instead what was there were trickles — part of water than slackened; chipping rocks, carrying soil, and forming undrinkable muds. 

But unlike adults who thought that the place was a waste of clean water, they thought it was the best place ever. After all, unlike the rest of the calendars, when their home was in the wide-open plain with all its fresh guzzling stream and free afternoon of fish-picking, the gorge didn’t really have any fun. His tribe’s stretch that allocated for their plain’s rest was just a clearing that praise the Lady’s grace, had a little stream and bit of grass. Of course, there was always climbing the cliff wall. Finding hidden caves, or jumping around like Erke and his friends often did in the afternoon. But for that, he and his friends needed their good claw, which of course hadn’t grow yet. So like the rest of the litters, the off-stream was the best — the only playground they had.

And it wasn’t like it was boring. Far from it. The Aristu, were fun. They hopped and pounced at each other, running freely, sometimes even right at them, their self-appointed catcher. Unlike stupid Sar who always needed to be fed and cleaned, Aristu was better. Especially since no one bothered the critters. Not in the moon of the plain. Well, except them of course. But they were kids that just playing catch. Frowned but forgivable. Uncle Edigu even said that that it was necessary since even though the plain was resting, it needed a little exercise from time to time, otherwise it’d end like his old back; stiff and creaky like a leat left outside for too long. The other adults shook their heads of course. Aunt Altani even condemned what Uncle Edigu said as sacrilegious. But to his litter’s group, that was their best justification to keep playing. So ignoring the other adults, they happily accepted the nonsense Uncle Edigu said.

He and Yul would play when they were done with their task. He herding, and him collecting morning feed. They would spend their time there until the afternoon’s meal. Which Tuva would join if his father didn’t get too many customers that day. Their three friends then would race. Lunging and pouncing scampering Aristu, which if one’s was caught, they would part their fur to see the critter’s skin. The winner was the one who got the best red in a wick time. Sometimes it was simply the reddest one who hadn’t got a chance to dip themselves in the mud for a while. The other time it was whatever say-so they agreed at that moment, like when Tuva argued that the slight tinge of pink was very much alike to sister Sechen’s soft fabric. 

So when the man in front of him, crooked and high-nosed, pontificating his paper and spouting guild rules, Oskar was frowning. His skill that had been birthed by his litter days, [Know oneself, Know the others], was flaring. Flaring in red to the sire. And repulsing green to the man. The green that had taken the shades of blacks; spotty and swamp-foul — repulsing. Repulsing like Aunt Altani. 

Aunt Altani, the woman always shook her head, not just to bad things. Like if one of the neighbors drunk too much and beat each other, making Maa Maral angry. Or like when Erke took half of the roasted Sar for himself on the first fifth celebration. Aunt Altani shook her head to everything. Even when it didn’t matter. What was wrong with Sister Sechen trying Freetown’s dress. And who cared that Brother Siban didn’t herd as often like the rest of the older boys, his pattern was beautiful! But Aunt Altani didn’t care. As long as it was not ‘proper’ she’d hound the culprit. Hounded them until they bent. Not even their little litter group was spared. Like a town with a diligent [Bell Ringer], each week, she without fail would chastise them about their little game. How it was something that was forbidden by the Lady’s good word. And as proof, she would pull out ‘the book’. Clasped by three layers of the fur-brushed white rug that was dyed sky-blue, the book was the most expensive thing they had ever seen. The cover was black as the night of starmist and the leather was supple his baby sister’s cheek. It was also gilded with gold; leafed and plated thin from the Lakeford’s blacksmith. The ten calendars him of course believe her, after all, it was the only book his herder-boy ever saw. And why would the Lady lie?

Because the Lady didn’t lie. She just didn’t live with them. Knew them and their hardship. 

But back then he didn’t know that. That was why he started to feel guilty about playing, he still did it though. It was too fun and the Plain Rest otherwise just too boring without it. But in exchange, he did his seventh contemplation more seriously, often till the third part of the night so the Lady would not be too angry with him. How stupid. It was calendars later, when he was working in Master Rake service he was acquainted with more moderate readers; students and teachers from the Everlight, delvers that came to use their company service, or just your everyday folks; shopkeeper who had lots of free time and bar-goers who passionate about the scripture. It was a surprise when he found out that to most of the people here that the Lady’s word was not law, instead, it was simply guidance. A guidance that needed to be interpreted in context. When he told them about Aunt Altani, he was told that she was a literalist. Someone who read what was said and did what it told.

In the beginning, he refused to believe them of course, but he was not but a good Lis. A good kin. So he sat every seventh and did his contemplation. But this time, he contemplated the world.

Then he began to understand, why Maa Maral never once began their departure for Plain Rest one day after sunburst. Always the fifth, often the seventh, once in a bad harvest, eleventh. She always smiled when she asked to depart on the first. Saying things like there was a Sar that too aggressive after the light pour and the head-herder need time to cull them or there were few tent mothers who had a bad ankle that day so they needed to wait for a while. 

Aunt Altani was very vocal about that. Calling it fettering the plain of its well-deserved rest. Blaspheming against the Lady blessing. The opinion that the child him agreed. After all, they did deprive the kept-giving-mother of his sleep. He was foolish.

After learning coins and trade, he understood how naive he had been. How privilege of unknowing had left him free of his fair share of burdens. Their tribes weren’t rich, they were ...sufficient. They weren’t Aunt Altani old tribes who could afford stitching thick fur to their robe’s lapel just because they wanted to. Nor they were placed in the stretch abundant with tall grass where dried fodders could be made moons in advance. Yes, the plain needed its rest, but their tribe needed to live.

“It’s a guild rule, a guild rule!”

Said the man, screaming again. Oh, how it mirrored. Mirrored so apt. He, flaunting his paper and to the red of sire’s face; Aunt Altani bringing her book to Maa Maral. 

The [Couchee’s Collector] didn’t even want to hear the party’s plea, he didn’t care that Lady Emily had explained that they were in hurry. Instead, he threatened to disavow Master Clem’s trial of persistence should they refuse. Like sire said, what a bastard.

“Fine, we’ll do it.”

“Emmy!”

“Em!”

“Hah! You should have agreed from the start, now shoo. Finish it before tonight, I already lost three days to those damn pests.” 

“We’ll finish it.” Lady Emily smiled. “Before the nightfall, right? But, Mr.” She stepped toward the man, inching closer, her mana blasting, causing the gailen around them to bend to half-mast. ”When we’re done. Expect a formal complaint. Because I swore to her Luminescence herself that we’ll challenge every step of your petition even if we had to go before the magistrate.”

“What? You’re crazy! That’s at least—”

“Two hundred golds right? Three hundred if we need to pay for a good consul. But Mr., we’re a B you know. We could.” 

“And we would.”

“Stop, stop! I—I’ll withdraw—”

“—too late, let’s go, everyone.”

“How many?” Lady Emily growled, her voice heavy as her unsheathed spear drew dent to the fertile earth. Master Clem and Lady Lydia, their hair still plucked from the ears of the ripe gailies falling at them, looked at each other for a long breath before answering Lady Emily’s question in a defeated sigh. 

“Thirty on my side, Em.”

“T—twenty five.”

“Light damn it!!” she swept her spear to the nearest stalks, felling at least a half sheaf worth. No one seemed to mind, though. After all the cunning frit had invoked Adventurer’s Duty for the stupidest reason — to kill [Giant Couchees]. Shameless. He knew that the wording of the duty itself was written broadly due to some adventurers often shirk helping the populace when they were capable to do so. Which of course made their already tenuous relation more tenuous. But this? Twisting ‘saving life’ into ‘saving livelihood?’ Just because the incoming delvers were decreasing due to the mana fluctuation outside, it didn’t mean the man couldn’t wait for a couple of days and paid the Ds who would be happy to do it for a normal rate. Like he said, shameful.

“Ok everyone, form a group of two and hunt the damn fowl down!” Sire bellowed to them. “Old pair! Oskar, Rishi, go with Clem’s party!”

“No sire we couldn’t.” he bowed, looking into the sire’s eyes, frowning. He didn’t like it but... “The contract specifies that in the case where there is no emergency, we could not in any way be involved in any dungeon-related hunting…” 

“Fine. Stay here th—”

“ —however sire,” he smiled, mimicking the grinning face of Maa Maral when Aunt Altani hounded her for being unfaithful to the Lady’s good word, “Should accidentally the Giant Couchees come here. We of course would act in a self-defense to maintain the integrity of your bought provision.”

“After all we couldn’t let it ruined, can’t we, Sire?”

“...got it.” the man grinned back. “You’re a good man, Oskar.”

“Only performing my duty, Sire.”

With that, the party split; Lady Emily went east with Sire while Master Clem went west with Lady Lydia. Meanwhile being an enchanter, Lady Arlene went to make camp on the third floor’s door, smiling as she left him and Rishi who of course as he said before, stood guard on the clearing between the four stretches of gaily field. Just beside the cliff of collection where the dungeon popped up couchee eggs to existence.

He knew it was a bit one-sided of him, if he was to adhere to their company’s interest fully, he should focus to guard Rishi instead. But sometimes there were finesse, trust that needed to be built for future cooperation. Rishi though... the boy never protested. He should. At least he should ask what he was doing when they were alone. But it was kind of forgivable, he guessed. Even though the boy was this brilliant newcomer, he was and still was a [Transporter]. And transporter, especially the new one, often didn’t get told in the guild’s politics. Even by their mentors. Something he intended to fix. He’d suggest that to Master Rake later. 

But for now, he only nodded to the boy, telling him to stay put as he slashed the craggy feet of the scampering fowl in front of him, toppling it down. Beyond the trampled field, he could see sire was waving at him. Guffawing to his antic as the man’s blade ended two giant couchee at the same time. He returned the wave. With a smile and an ok sign that they could send another [Giant Couchee] to their place, which Lady Emily promptly did, poking her spear in the back of the running fowl, herding them here. 

And on the opposite side, Lady Lydia and Master Clem did the same. Felling one Giant Couchee after another. He was awed actually. No one — he meant no one even blamed or considered blaming Master Clem for being in the trial. Instead, they just got up, did what they had to do, and move on to the next. And they did it while laughing; while gallivanting. Even when what they did, what they tried so hard to accomplish was actually hampering them in a long run. A lesser team wouldn’t do that. They would bicker, pelting blame, even broke up mid-delve. 

What a good team. What a good party. 

Which was why it was a shame that tonight he have to betray them.