Untitled Science/Fantasy Project

        A little over a week had passed since Kebmar had set out on foot from Dyania’s Crossing, walking west into the rolling hills. All of his planning had culminated in this trek across the very furthest edge of human exploration, into the unknown. The circumstances were dire, yes, but all things considered his excitement had grown as the date of his escape drew near. Since setting out, however, he had quickly lost much of that enthusiasm. Nothing bad had happened yet. Though often he felt as though misfortune were lurking just ahead, waiting to put an end to his little excursion. Mostly, it had just been quite boring and lonely.

But on this particular day, at this particular hour, Kebmar was focused resolutely on finding a place to lay low for the night. Maybe even get a few hours of sleep. Walking was exhausting work, it turned out.

        He came upon the settlement at dusk, just as the vibrant warmth of sunset began to fade into the darkness of night. Insects chirped and buzzed around him, interrupted only by random gusts of wind that rose and fell without warning. Cresting a low hill in hopes of finding a campsite, he was startled to see a dozen domed buildings clustered in the wide valley below. Stone walls enclosed the buildings in a large oval. Sickly scalebark trees obscured much of the space between the domes and through their twisted boughs he could see the throbbing blue glow of goren beetles and the silhouettes of what he assumed were people moving about.

        Crouching, he took several slow steps forward to get a better look.

“Hail, traveler,” said a deep voice from only a few paces down the hill. Kebmar jumped, his hand instinctively moving to his chest, to the opening of a small pouch he had sewed into the breast of his long gray cloak. Three figures crouched against an outcrop of stone, camouflaged amid the rocks in formless robes made up of layers of tattered fabric. On their heads they wore cloth bags with small holes cut for their eyes. It had been the one closest to him, furthest up the hill, who had spoken. “Be still; we mean you no harm.”

Kebmar was unfamiliar with the speaker’s accent, but immediately got the sense that these people were something quite different than humans. The tone had been strange, as well. Slow and steady, without any discernible intonation. He was thankful they at least spoke common Aemolasi. He took a deep breath and straightened to his full height, willing his heart to return to its normal speed. Inwardly he cursed himself for not noticing them sooner. Outwardly, he bowed his head and raised his hands, palms out. A gesture of deference that he hoped they understood.

“Greetings,” he said, “I am Kebmar. It seems I have lost my bearings. I was scouting for a patch of dirt on which to spread my bedroll. But I see now that this valley is taken.”

“This is the village of V’ket,” said the figure, gesturing towards the domes below with a sweep of patched fabric. “We are its Protectors. I am called Oelk.” The two other Protectors shifted uneasily but neither spoke. Kebmar got the impression that Oelk was in charge, at least as far as this trio was concerned.

“Well met,” he said, bowing his head once more.

They were the oddest village guards he had ever encountered: three vaguely humanoid mounds of dusty rags, with no weapons in sight. And there was something strange about the eyeholes cut into their hoods. Tiny points of pale yellow light floated in the center of each one, all six focused intently on him. Kebmar had heard that the wilds were home to a wide variety of strange folk, and his first contact was proving that to be true.

“It is unwise to wander these lands alone and without protection, traveler Kebmar. I see no blue lantern among your meager belongings. You will stay within V’ket tonight. Follow.” With that the Protector turned and began to make their way down the hill.

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to impose,” said Kebmar, caught off guard. He had not expected this. So many days without interacting with other people left him feeling awkward and nervous. He was quite tired, though, and night was fast approaching. “It is kind of you to offer.”

He couldn’t help but feel relief at the chance of a safe place to sleep for the night. Was this a safe place? He knew nothing of these people. Despite Oelk’s strange manner of speaking and their bizarre attire Kebmar could sense no hostility, however. Caution and condescension, maybe, but not fear and definitely not malice.

“You may sleep among us. For a night. It is dangerous once the sun has fully set and without beetles nearby. We are not opposed to guests. Only wary.”  One of the other Protectors stepped forward and for a moment looked as though they might interject, but froze when Oelk’s gaze shifted in their direction.

The mention of sleep brought a yawn from Kebmar even amidst the tension. His legs were sore from days spent walking the unfamiliar terrain and he hadn’t been able to rest more than a few hours each night for fear of being taken unaware by the beasts and bandits that were said to frequent these parts. A few times he had glimpsed figures or camps in the distance but had maneuvered around them without drawing attention. Now he was tired and hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He counted himself lucky his dulled wits hadn’t landed him among a den of giant venomous spiders. A village of sentient unfolded laundry didn’t seem so bad in comparison.

He straightened his pack on his shoulders and began after Oelk down the hill, nodding awkwardly as he passed the other two Protectors. They watched him with their strange yellow eyes, unblinking. Only after he had walked ten or so paces did he hear them move to follow.

“We do not see many humans,” said Oelk over their shoulder. That deep flat voice made the statement sound ominous, but again Kebmar sensed no hostility. They led him through an arched gate in the wall and into the village proper, where the domes sat around them like a handful of giant marbles half sunk into the dust of the valley. Goren beetles crawled overhead among the branches of the trees, casting their glow down onto the well worn dirt paths that meandered between buildings.

Kebmar noticed that Oelk seemed to walk with a slight limp but gave no outward sign of pain, exuding stoic confidence as they led on. Aside from the irregular gait there wasn’t much to separate Oelk from any other villager they passed, few as they were. Each bowed to the Protector but none spoke. As soon as Oelk moved past them they would take a long, curious look at Kebmar and then return to whatever they had been doing. Most of them seemed only to be walking from one dome to the next, carrying bundles or tools.

As Kebmar passed them he began to notice more about these people. Their hands were comprised of three long fingers, whereas their feet had two wide toes, all a deep matte black. He couldn’t tell if they wore tight black gloves and stockings or if that was their flesh he was seeing poking from their long sleeves and the bottoms of their ratty cloaks.

“I have never seen people like you, at least I don’t believe I have. Is there some significance to the way your people dress?” Kebmar wasn’t trying to be rude, he was honestly curious. The hoods themselves barely resembled faces at all. They looked more like burlap sacks.  And their eyes were unlike anything he had encountered in nonhumans of the east; glowing orbs set deep back in pitch darkness. Oelk did not answer, moving along as though he had not heard the question.

The domes looked to be made of clay and aside from low circular doorways bore no ornamentation or architecture. They reminded him of giant pieces of pottery. Oelk led him to one of the larger ones that sat apart from the others, pulling aside a curtain and gesturing for him to enter.

A musky, pungent odor wafted out as he ducked through the doorway. The room was larger than he had expected, its open center surrounded by hundreds of pots and jugs stacked high along the curved wall, seemingly molded from the same clay as the dome. A large basket hung from the ceiling, casting pulsing blue light down upon several seated figures. They sat together in the center of the room, looking up as Kebmar entered. Thin pillars of smoke wafted upwards from several of the clay vessels nearest the villagers, creating a dense cloud that churned lazily above their heads. Oelk ducked in behind him, followed by the other two Protectors.

“This is the meeting house. Others may come and go throughout the night, but none will disturb you. Take one of these.” Oelk limped further into the room and pointed out a pile of blankets that Kebmar had at first thought was just an abnormally large villager in repose. Was this the V’ket equivalent of an inn?

“Thank you,” Kebmar said with another polite bow of his head. He had his own blanket rolled into the bedroll on his back, but did not want to offend his hosts. He pulled one that was more or less intact from the top of the pile and moved to an empty area nearby, removing his pack and sitting cross legged upon the square of faded blue fabric. He allowed himself to relax a bit, even though he could feel every eye in the room on him.

Aside from the scuttling sound of the goren beetles in their basket and the flaps of the door whipping in the breeze the room sat silent for minutes on end. An uncomfortable silence, to be sure, but he chose to act as though nothing were amiss. His motives were innocent, after all. He really did only wish to spend a single night within V’ket. And despite the rude staring bit, no one seemed upset. Hesitant, maybe, but not threatened. Besides, if worse came to worse he always had a way out. His secret weapon, so to speak.

Kebmar nonchalantly checked the pocket inside his cloak, ensuring his most prized possessions were still safe in their pouch. He would not disrobe before sleep tonight. As harmless as the people of V’ket seemed to be he could feel their curiosity around him like a heavy fog. He could imagine them wondering what strange trinkets the strange creature could have brought from his strange land.

“Do you have any further needs, traveler Kebmar?” asked Oelk from the doorway. Their two cohorts stood behind them again, impassive.

“You honor me with your hospitality, Protector Oelk. No thank you, I will get some much needed rest and be out of your hair in the morning.”

“Very well. I shall leave Raek with you in case you require assistance,” Oelk said simply, turning and bowing out of the room. They were followed by the other protector and three of the villagers who had been sitting together in the center of the room when Kebmar had arrived.

That left Kebmar, protector Raek, and one other villager that sat far off on the other side of the room wrapped in a blanket, now facing away. Raek nodded their flour sack head and moved back to stand by the wall only a few paces from the doorway. The Protector’s gaze didn’t falter, however, and so an uneasy tension hung in the air as Kebmar endeavored to pretend not to notice. Such a strange little village, he thought.

He opened his pack and ensured the rest of his belongings were in order, pulling out two strips of dried meat and his bulging leather journal. Pieces of parchment stuck out from it where they’d been inserted to append gaps in his own research. He ate the jerky as he went through and straightened the papers as best he could, but it still looked as though it were going to fall apart at any moment. If he could reach a larger settlement perhaps he could purchase another journal to keep things more organized. He wanted to continue to write of his travels, if only to add some context to what he assumed would be a gruesome and lonely death among the mountains to the west. If he even made it that far. So far he’d been able to avoid any dangerous confrontations, but he had a sinking feeling that sooner or later this place would undoubtedly catch him by surprise.

He flipped through the section of his notes that listed out known races within the western wilds and found none that described anything like the people of V’ket. Most of the entries in this section were little more than names and brief physical descriptions. He had a lot of notes about the Lims, a race of fur covered barbarians who plagued the northern forests, as well as a page dedicated to the Xyrelith, a matriarchal race known to specialize in fire magic.

“You will find no mention of V’ket within your big book, human,” came a soft voice from over his shoulder. Still flat and emotionless, but several octaves above Oelk’s. It was the villager who had remained when Oelk and the others had left, now suddenly standing behind Kebmar and peering down at the pages in his lap.

“Can you read Aemolasi?” asked Kebmar, surprised. He turned to get a better look at the only one besides Oelk who had so far deigned to engage him in conversation. This one still had a thick blanket of green and yellow stripes wrapped tightly around themself, which struck Kebmar as odd given the bulk of the layered cloak it wore beneath and the temperature of the room.

“I am Gawb,” they said, sitting down next to him without taking their eyes off the open journal. “I can hear the words.”

Kebmar had no idea what to say to that so he smiled politely and closed the journal. “My name is Kebmar.”

“Humans are a good omen,” mused Gawb. “We see only hilljaws and strubs for months now. Not even a goren matron. Strange times.”

“Hilljaws?” Kebmar asked, opening the journal again and flipping through to see if he could find anything related to such a group.

“Beast-mad clans from western mountains. Come down during the cold season to hunt. You are lucky you have not met one. If you had, I do not think you would be sitting here now.” Gawb looked him up and down, apparently not impressed.

Kebmar took this opportunity to begin an entry for hilljaws, then flipped a few pages to make note of strubs and goren matrons before asking, “And what race are the people of V’ket? Where do your people come from?”

“Heh heh heh heh,” came a sound from Gawb that was as dry and expressionless as everything else they had said so far. They were laughing. “We are not like humans. We are not so many. Thirty and seven. All here.” Gawb raised both arms as if to indicate the village as a whole.

Refugees, then? Exiles? Kebmar could hardly believe they were the last of their race, inhabiting this small cluster of buildings in the middle of an otherwise barren landscape. They didn’t even have a road, or a river. Just a pile of rocks he’d nearly tripped over. More likely, Kebmar thought, Gawb had misunderstood the question.

“Well you seem to have carved out a home for yourselves, here,” he said, writing out the current population of V’ket under the heading. In the margin he sketched out one of the domes, with a silhouette of one of the villagers next to it for scale and reference. He spent only a few moments on it, and it was rather sloppy, but small illustrations helped him find specific entries while shuffling through the many pages. And he thought they added a bit of a personal touch, some charm. Gawb watched him draw and slid a bit closer.

“Once we were fifty. One moon ago we were forty and two,” said Gawb in a flat whisper.

“I’m truly sorry to hear that,” said Kebmar.

“Do not be sorry. With each subtraction we grow closer to peace.”

“What troubles your people, Gawb?” Kebmar asked. Again he thought for a split second that his curiosity might have come across as rude given the context, but Gawb showed no sign of offense. These people, this village, something was wrong, and he got the impression that Gawb wanted to discuss it. This tension had not entered V’ket with Kebmar, then. It had made its home here long before he had arrived.

“The children of V’ket are doomed, human. As they should be. The Protectors would have us believe they speak for the Makemaiden. Gawb believes the Protectors speak for the Protectors,” Gawb said this in the softest whisper, their face now only a foot from his own. They smelled musty and earthen, like the ground after an autumn rain, and their eyes seemed to flicker, up close. Like flames.

“Enough, Gawb,” came a voice, cold and steady, yet carrying an unyielding weight. Kebmar turned to see Protector Raek step forward, arms crossed, their presence filling the space. “Do not bother the traveler.”

Gawb let out a sound that might have been an exasperated sigh, drew the blanket tighter around their shoulders, then stood and walked past the Protector and out of the building.

“They were not offending me, Protector. It has been some time since I have had anyone to talk to.” Kebmar was actually quite annoyed that they had been interrupted, but he kept the irritation out of his voice. The Protector said nothing, simply returning to their original spot by the door. Now it was just the two of them. And more of the stark silence he’d walked through these last eight days. Spans and spans of it.

Kebmar had left his home country of Aemolas two months prior, alone, with only the same worn pack that sat beside him now. The bulk of that time had been spent aboard a merchant ship known as The Starving Gull. He’d done odd chores for the crew during the day and slept among crates of grain at night. Once they had agreed on payment, the captain had been friendly enough, if a bit wary. Kebmar wondered if the man had known what he was, or why he was paying so much for passage west. He hoped not.

After the sea voyage, it had been two nights in Dyania’s Crossing, said to be the only true human city on the continent. Aemolasi scholars and historians disagreed on this, but not openly. Not anymore, at least. And if they did, not for long.

Regardless, he didn’t want to risk leaving an impression in the city, staying only long enough to stock up on rations and purchase a map. Finally, eight days ago, he had stepped through the gate of Dyania’s Crossing and out into the western wilds, the madlands—towards freedom, adventure, and almost certainly death. He hadn’t made a single friend in that time, had not made so much as one witty comment where anyone else could hear. A shame.

Kebmar made a point not to look at the Protector as he rose, gathered his belongings and made his way across the room to sit further away. He then opened his journal again, flipped to the back, and began an entry detailing his past few days and his meeting with the villagers of V’ket. He was writing as small as possible to conserve parchment and after a few minutes had to pause to stretch his writing hand.

Stretching his hand led to stretching his arms, shoulders, neck, legs, and ankles. And as he leaned back, satisfied, a long yawn escaped him. Through watery eyes he could still see Raek standing where they had been, no doubt watching him intently. So rude, that one. At least Oelk had managed some friendly if only a bit condescending conversation and concern for the lone human stumbling through a famously dangerous foreign land. And he had been excited to learn more of V’ket from Gawb. No doubt Kebmar could’ve stayed alert for some time fueled by the prospect of further information about the area and its peoples, but Raek had put a stop to that. And suddenly the exhaustion of his journey had overtaken Kebmar.

“Have a lovely evening, Protector,” Kebmar said, yawning again. He turned over on his side, facing away from Raek, and gathered his cloak so that the hidden pocket lay between his arm and torso snugly. He hugged his leather journal to his chest and for the first time since leaving Dyania’s Crossing slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.