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It was the third series of knocks upon the door. Each time, Gathrok could hear - no, feel - the tarnished steel knocker chipping away at the splintering, rotting oak, the wooden threads swirling about the stranger's hand. He had not had visitors yet this year, and certainly none as persistent as this one. The villagers, without a doubt, knew he was not to be disturbed, no matter the circumstance; he made this point clearly - and forcefully. The sole exception was a woman by the name of Jhesaiel: she took on many roles in the support of the village, but was first and foremost his caregiver. She visited once a week to supply him with a small herbal concoction to quell the pains of his injuries, and insisted wholeheartedly that she be the one to apply it. This person upon his doorstep, however, was not she. The knocks were far too brusque, too hurried.

Gathrok quietly picked up his blade from where it lay against the bookshelf, releasing it from its scabbard half an inch at a time. He snuck into the next room, away from the hanging lantern, and lifted a slat on the nearest blind covering a window coated with age-old mud. Through the gap, he espied a slender kaaraa in a moth-eaten ecclesiastical robe, her rodent-like snout peeking past the burgundy hood. She fidgeted about, peeking left and right, fingers fervently tapping each other in an erratic fashion. Kaaraa were exceedingly rare in this part of the country, let alone one that had a religious affiliation. Unless Gathrok were mistaken, the golden embroidery upon the sleeve was that of the Havat faith, although it was hemmed as if moss grew from the stem of the sapling branch. Whatever the case may be, this visitor was not one of whom he was acquainted.

There was a quick rap at the door.

"Ulme, vhttra byhrm ml," the kaaraa whispered hurriedly, voice muffled by glass. "Byhrm ml!"

She spoke in an accented Kaaresea, an Eastern dialect. Even rarer. And to speak Kaaresea in general was outlawed in all but their native lands. What was she doing here?

The kaaraa reached into a pocket and drew out a charm, its bronze filigree and opal base catching the light upon the porch as it slowly twisted. "J-Jhesaiel," she sputtered while showing the charm to no one in particular.

Gathrok relaxed his body, setting the sword and scabbard down below the window. Taking no further precautions, he plodded his way to the door, unlatched and unlocked it, and swung it open. No sooner had he done that did the kaaraa sprint inside like a newborn fawn on ice. He stuck his head outside and scanned as far as he was able, spotting nothing but the gentle swaying of trees and the blanket of night descending upon the winding dirt road leading into town. With a sigh, he closed the door and redid the latches and locks.

"Now," he said to a quivering kaaraa, "why don't you tell me why Jhesaiel gave you that charm?"

He had gotten a good look at the kaaraa now under the swinging lantern, with her hood flung back and her hands raised in a protective gesture. Beyond the cocoa fur, green eyes, and rope-like tail, her face was struck with a deep scar from ear to mouth. Her hands were likewise wrought with nicks, and the sections of her legs that he could see past the dishevelled robe appeared to be singed. His countenance scrunched.

"Grt ml u bytasp lvh lve rr jabi lun ngas - "

Gathrok held a bulky hand up. "I don't understand Kaaresea. Can you speak Low Ffasn?"

The kaaraa shook her head. "Well not."

"Even if it's bad, at least we can get somewhere. Maybe start with your name."

Her eyes darted to every corner of the room, occasionally stopping to stare at Gathrok. He towered over her, with crimson scales tucked behind a simple tan outfit, a rugged face, and a spined goatee in ivory and obsidian. Opposite a leather eyepatch was a gaze both soft and piercing, set with a pale grey iris that swirled like clouds about the eye of a storm. "Touched, you."

"I won't hurt you." He took a seat in his only chair, the thick wooden legs squeaking as they accustomed to his weight again. "Jhesaiel wouldn't send you here if she didn't trust me."

She continued to stare, her chest heaving. "Trust."

"Just like I trust you not to - "

The kaaraa whipped a dagger out of a hidden pocket and held it in front of her. "Trust not."

Gathrok harrumphed. "And here I thought we'd have a nice chat. If it makes you feel better, then have that out." He didn't like being threatened, but at least he could handle himself in a fight, should it come to that. He'd had plenty of formal training. However, from the looks of it, the kaaraa didn't know the first thing about using the dagger; she held it in unsteady hands, some of the fingers falling onto the flat of the blade. She'd much sooner cut herself. He had to be very gentle with this poor creature, which wasn't his strong suit. "Go on. What's your name? If you don't tell me, I'm going to call you the first thing I can think of, and you won't like that."

"V-Vyplnm."

Kaaraa nomenclature wasn't too kind on speakers of Low Ffasn, who frequently had distinct trouble with long strings of consonants. "Vypl... Vpym... Vmpl... Vmym?" Gathrok's tongue struggled to cooperate. "Vy... Vyp..." He growled. "What was it?"

Seeing this, the Kaaraa appeared to relax slightly. "Vyplnm."

"Vypll... Vypmlm... Vpm - fuck. I'll just call you Vym. Sorry, but this'll take forever if I don't." Vym nodded. "Great. So, Vym, why do you have that charm?"

"Met Jhesaiel, hurry in, chased been. Lady me here told safe."

"Safe from what?"

Vym checked the door. "Ghmvntyt."

"Gamunt. I thought so." Now that he looked closer, Vym's feet were bare, the soles roughed up and covered in dirt. "From a trade wagon?"

"Far ran. Killed nearly sword from. Luck river was, fast away swam. More ran, lady here found."

"Did the Gamunt follow you all the way here?"

"No." Vym's shoulders sank. The dagger fell from her hands and clattered on the uneven boarded flooring. "Follow no."

"Good." Gathrok heaved himself off the chair and sighed deeply. "You can stay here for a couple days. I have some food left on the stove." He pointed to a lustreless pot atop a rusted burner. "You can have that. I'll boil some water for a bath and get a bed ready."

As he worked on preparing the water and washtub, Vym took a seat at the table and had taken the liberty to slurp - rather delicately, given their desperation for a meal - every last drop of the mixed onion soup. She committed a short prayer afterwards with two fingers pressed together, diagonal across their forehead, and eyes shut. She held this pose for several minutes, unwavering, taking shallow breaths. Gathrok finished his task and quietly approached the kaaraa. He hesitated, unsure if he should interrupt the meditation, or perhaps it was a nap. As if in response, Vym arced her fingers from forehead to chest and slowly opened her eyes.

"Everything's set up in the next room," Gathrok said. "Take as much time as you need. I'll be upstairs."

Vym rose and bowed. "Kind much too, you."

"It's the least I could do."

Although he had expected to continue where he had left off in the well-worn pages of Caravan West once he made the bed and found a spare set of clothes that Jhesaiel provided for such an occasion, Vym had left him no time to do so. The kaaraa zipped into the guest room, satisfied with a short rinse. It was difficult to look past the mistreatment she had endured, but at the very least the layer of caked mud and grime was no longer present. The fresh garments did much to improve her temperament as well, for even while she was noticeably exhausted, she managed a delicate smile in his presence.

"Blessed me Bhyssanne, such with fortune," she said, gliding her hand along the sheets. She paid little mind to the frayed edges and the small tears in the fabric. "Favour return must."

Gathrok shook his head. "Please, think nothing of it. I'm merely glad to provide someplace safe for the night. Did you need anything more?"

"No," Vym replied hastily. "Impose much too. Good am."

"If you insist. Should you change your mind, my room is at the end of the hallway."

"Thank much."

He nodded and took his leave, shutting the door behind him. He then made his final rounds - cleaning the dishes, leaving the habit and towel to soak in a small bucket of soap and water, and putting out the remaining lights. Sword back in its sheath, Gathrok took it with him to his bedroom, laying it in its usual spot under his bed. He rolled onto the ageing mattress, unkeen on changing into something more comfortable, but just as easily let himself be carried unto a deep sleep.

* * * * *

Knock

_ knock_

_ knock._

His eyes flipped open. The sun shone through the window by his bedside, bringing to attention the flittering of week-old dust and the thin veil of golden dirt upon the glass. He took a moment to adjust his consciousness to the present. There was a lingering disturbance in the recesses of his mind, the selfsame grasp of an echo of bygone years - one that he wished to forget, but one that would not forget him. He brushed his coarse fingertips across his eyepatch and let them rest on his cheek.

KNOCK

_ KNOCK._

Gathrok shifted upright and planted his feet on the floor. With a swift motion, he claimed his sword and then stood up. He smoothed the wrinkles from his garb and headed out into the hallway. As he passed the guest room, he saw no sign of Vym. Perhaps stranger was the fact that the bed appeared unused. With quieting footsteps, he proceeded downstairs. The bucket for the clothes was emptied, leaving only drops of water trailing outside through the back door. Being careful not to give himself away, he snuck into the same room as yesterday and raised a blind's slat.

He drew a sharp breath. A pair of dagarr'e Gamunt waited impatiently outside in their signature orange military gear, the gold-and-white serpent-esque insignias glinting on their lapels. The more muscular one kept watch at the foot of the steps leading to the door, turning his horned and scaled head to and fro, keeping a steady grip on the hilt of the cutlass tied at his waist. The other had her arms akimbo, glaring at the door as if willing it to open. She was also armed with a sword tucked away, though Gathrok could tell from the battered hilt and scabbard that she was no stranger to using it if the need arose.

"I grow tired of this," she huffed at her indigo companion. "Would it not be more prudent to force our entry right now?"

"Hush, Ea'milei," he replied, continuing his scan of the landscape. "We are not above the law in this country. We must give two more raps of the door before resorting to such measures. The court sayer will know if we don't."

"Hmph." She knocked again, forcefully with the flat of her emerald fist. "We had better find that hab'yab'et filth. I want there to be reason to bloody our weapons. Leave no door unopened and no board unturned, Ja'osho'a."

"As you wish."

KNOCK

_ KNOCK._

Gathrok clicked his tongue. It would do no good to risk confrontation and earn the ire of the Gamunt, especially if Jhesaiel was found in consort. By extension, so, too, would the village fall under scrutiny, with no expense spared in the eradication of its residents.

While he took little pride in doing so, he had then chosen to follow Vym's course of action - a stealthy exit. There was a secluded pathway in the distance that would lead him near Jhesaiel's residence at the entrance to the village. It was terribly roundabout and precipitous, but it had saved him and a couple refugees at least twice in the past. Or he could scale the cliff; yet as the cliff's surface was eroded, largely unstable, and featured a negative incline, taking that course of action without sufficient preparation would be incredibly unwise.

Quick upon his toes and sword slung across his back, he rushed out the back door, stopping briefly afterwards to ensure it was silently closed. In the same moment, he checked his surroundings and kept his hearing sharp. Two sets of footsteps plodded on either side of the house. He had not taken into account the possibility of further company, much to his chagrin, but he was nonetheless glad that they had temporarily turned their attention away from his vicinity. Jhesaiel's charm lay abandoned not far from him. He scooped it up and pocketed it; she would likely want it returned.

He remained watchful and weaved behind trees when the patrols turned to face his direction. With each glance, Gathrok slowly noticed that they were gathering loose bits of wood, even some furniture and old papers once they broke into his home. It appeared they wanted to either smoke any remaining occupants out or merely take delight in the destruction, or both. He had little of true value there, but it was no less distressing that his belongings and safe haven would most likely turn to ash. His biggest concern was if they considered it insufficient and expanded their search. He could only hope.

He soon approached a set of fruit-bearing bushes under a canopy of dried, dead branches. Within their cover was a small iron handle hidden by a stone, cleverly inconspicuous among the terrain's copious array of varied rocks, which, when lifted, revealed a seemingly endless hole in the ground. The previous owner of the house had fashioned this for reasons wholly unknown; the explanations from the villagers tended to be far-fetched, using rumours as their backbones, although the one Gathrok enjoyed most was that the owner needed a place to store their collection of severed bodies. He had verified the falsity of this claim, but was nonetheless accused of being complicit by doing so.

That said, Gathrok had been remiss in furnishing the descent with a ladder, thus he had no choice but to pray that the handholds haphazardly chipped into the sides would not cause him to slip near the bottom as he did on his previous visit. Climbing down a few holds and getting himself firmly adjusted, he reached with a free hand for the secondary handle on the trapdoor and closed it, tilting his head downwards to keep any loose dirt from assaulting his vision.

There was no avenue for natural sunlight, and not a single source of burnable material existed on or near his person - at least none that he was enthused about igniting. Proceeding further without either of these would be fatal at this height. He breathed slowly and focused his mind on the intent to illuminate. Pain seeped into his uncovered eye as if someone were tracing a needle along a nerve, deeper and slower with each passing second. It had been ages since he last attempted to use this "gift" of his, which meant that his body lacked the resistance that it used to have. As a result, he knew all too well not to dawdle needlessly, and channeling this power in succession without sufficient rest - at least a day - would render him unconscious or perhaps even lead to cardiac arrest. There was a time when he could push beyond his limits, but he was not of that youthful age any longer, where he could heedlessly afford to risk life and limb.

Thankfully, the potency of this innate power had not dwindled. He could see as far as his natural sight allowed, as if he were outside on a bright, cloudless day. Gritting his teeth to bear the ever-present fluctuating intensity behind his eye, he lowered himself as fast as he dared. Once or twice, his hand or foot would fail to set themselves properly and slide outwards. His balance was firm enough to prevent an unwelcome tumble, although his heart threatened to burst.

After what felt like several hours, when in fact it was a mere two, Gathrok finally settled on solid ground. Confirming the path ahead was unobstructed, he removed his attention from his intent and gave himself a moment to recuperate. The space around him grew dark once again, and he had nothing but his own laboured breaths to keep him company. He proceeded once he was able, guiding himself with his hand against the cold dirt wall.

It didn't take much longer until he spotted a faint stream of light at the end, emanating from a thin crack between rock and dirt. Reaching it, he pressed his ear to the gap. There seemed to be no movement, apart from the gentle lapping of water. Assuming it safe enough, he set his shoulder and hand on the rock, and used considerable force to shove it open.

He raised a hand to his brow and squinted. The nearby stream ran clear, reflecting sunlight into his eyes. A rabbit had darted away into a patch of tall grass, its eyes unflinching and its nose twitching erratically. Ahead lay sets of mildly fragrant evergreens, and past the foliage Gathrok could spot the simple white panels on Jhesaiel's house, a large woven basket full of clothes sitting beside and a strawberry-coloured sunhat perched atop the handle. Some common jerabirds and ubilis sang all about with oscillating sopranos and altos. Were it not for the growing trail of smoke overhead in the distance, one might say this village was the epitome of idyllicism.

He approached the house, his awareness sharp and his arms loose at his sides. The scent of a freshly baked tamparol berry tart wafted out of the kitchen window. Towards the back, he spotted a terrapin woman with a blue-and-green-tinged shell and an ankle-length scarlet dress flowing beneath it, to whom he greeted, "Good morning, Jhesaiel."

"Gathrok?" She turned to face him, a quizzical look playing between her crow's feet. "Well, I suppose it is, but whatever are you doing here?"

"Had no one disturbed you earlier?"

"I should think I'd know." She wandered to her hat and basket, picking them up. "You're my first visitor today."

"I see."

"Are you expecting company?"

Gathrok pointed upwards. "Found some earlier."

She noticed the smoke and gasped. "Goodness. Is anyone hurt?"

"Only my home," he sighed.

"And what of Vyplnm? Did she not arrive last night and seek shelter?"

"She did, though she didn't appear to be there when I woke up earlier. Perhaps she didn't feel safe enough."

Jhesaiel stared worriedly at the billowing trail of grey and black. "We best continue this conversation inside. Come along."

The inside of Jhesaiel's house was as prim and proper as her decorum. Shelves were lined neatly with small knicknacks and souvenirs, spotless and free of dust. The walls were a very light cream colour, adorned every few feet with framed crochets or pictures of her family. The furniture was well-loved, but polished, gleaming ever so slightly in the light through the crystal-clear windows. Even the kitchen was orderly, despite being used just recently; neither a speck of stray flour nor an unwashed pot lay on the smooth granite countertop, and the tiled floor was nothing but spotless. It was altogether baffling how she found the spare time to do all the things she did, considering she would accept no help from others.

"Have a seat, dear," she said, motioning to one of two couches, each with their own homemade throw pillows. "Tell me what you know."

Gathrok reclined in the nearest couch and relayed the events since last night. Jhesaiel listened attentively, nodding but never interrupting.

"Then I'm relieved you're safe and hale," she replied upon the end of the tale. "You're sure Vyplnm had escaped?"

"I can't be fully certain," Gathrok admitted, "but I have little reason to doubt, as I heard and saw nothing when I awoke."

"Yes, you're quite right," Jhesaiel said, bobbing her head. "I, too, believe she's unharmed. However, might I ask you a favour?"

"You may."

"Would you look for her? I think I truly shan't rest quietly until you confirm her safety."

"Jhesaiel," Gathrok said with a small sigh, "I don't think I should get tangled in this more than I have already."

Jhesaiel gently put a hand to her cheek, the corners of her mouth dipping. "I rightly understand. You have a deep history with the law. But surely, you could humour an old woman with a fragile heart?"

He scoffed. "Ah, pulling that card, are we?"

"Please, Gathrok, it isn't much. If you find nothing after two days, we'll assume she's fled and you can return."

"Ah, but to where? A smouldering pile of ash?"

She hummed, looking out the window. "I think Mr. and Mrs. Lyndamier are moving to stay with their daughter a few towns over. It would be another week, but you're more than welcome to take refuge here until then."

"I couldn't impose like that," he said, rising from the couch.

"Nonsense," Jhesaiel said as shrilly as her voice allowed. "I have a spare room, and you would be keeping a lonely woman company." She walked over to Gathrok and rocked him with her hand gently by the shoulder. "It's the least you deserve, so do consider it."

He lay a hand over hers and clasped it lightly. "Then I shall consider it."

Jhesaiel released her grip and smiled. "Wonderful!"

"Ah, before I forget." Gathrok reached into the pocket of his pants and drew forth Jhesaiel's charm. "This is yours."

"Thank you, dear," she said, taking it by the chain. She placed it delicately in a small padded cabinet drawer and slid it shut. "I don't believe I heard an answer to my request."

"The dangers are naught to laugh at," he answered with light exasperation. "If the Gamunt don't maim me on sight, then I would be fodder for the giant golden irsuus. Not even a well-placed strike would pierce its double hide."

"Yes, you're quite right, of course."

"However, I would do well to quell your anxieties, so you may consider your request accepted."

Jhesaiel lightly clapped her hands together. "Wonderful! You have my deepest gratitude."

"Think naught of it. Have you an inkling to where she might have fled?"

She took a moment to ponder. "Hmm, I'm afraid I have very little to aid in that matter. Vyplmn was understandably reticent."

Gathrok nodded. "I'll have to get resourceful, then."

"I'm sure you'll do marvellously. Was there anything else you needed of me, dear?"

"No, that's quite alright. You've been very helpful already."

"That's kind of you to say." She wandered into the kitchen and rummaged in the cabinets. "I'd be remiss to let you leave without a meal and a few spare poultices. Give me a moment to prepare everything."

He raised his voice slightly over the clanging of pots and silverware. "You know that's not necessary, Jhesaiel."

"Many things are not, yet that doesn't mean I can't extend what kindness I can afford."

"You've been far too generous. I wouldn't feel right if I let you continue to spoil me."

She tutted as she cut a slice of pie. "That's quite enough. This old woman won't hear any more of that. Now, come take a seat at the dinner table before I give you a proper scolding."