The initial spectacle of their arrival on the giant lily pad slowly subsided, replaced by the persistent, workaday rhythm of Oja-Ibo village life.
The sun, beginning its descent, painted the river in hues of orange and gold, and the air filled with the savory scents of evening meals being prepared.
The villagers, while still casting curious glances their way, largely returned to their tasks—mending nets, scaling fish, and calling their children in from the docks.
"Alright," Leonotis said, taking charge with a sense of weary responsibility.
"First things first: food. And Low, you need… well, not a blanket."
Low glanced down at the golden werebear hide she had wrapped around herself, which was starting to feel uncomfortably warm and distinctly animal.
"Don't have to tell me twice," she grumbled. "I saw a weaver's shop back there. I've got some coin from those bounty hunters. I'll meet you back here in an hour."
She gave the fur a thoughtful tug. "And I have an idea for this."
"Jaqueline can go with ..." Leonotis started to say but was silenced by a harsh look from Low.
"I will be fine on my own," Low said under her breath.
With a nod, she strode off with purpose, leaving Leonotis and Jacqueline standing awkwardly by the docks.
"Food mission?" Leonotis asked, offering Jacqueline a hopeful smile.
She nodded, her gaze taking in the bustling, unfamiliar scene with a mixture of apprehension and wonder.
"Food would be… acceptable."
They found the village's small market square, a chaotic but vibrant space where vendors sold everything from roasted plantains to shimmering river pearls.
The aromas were dizzying: sharp ginger, sweet fried dough, and the smoky char of grilled fish.
Leonotis, his stomach rumbling loudly, purchased a half-dozen steaming meat pies from a cheerful woman who gave them an extra one for free after hearing a heavily edited version of their "boating mishap."
Jacqueline, looking overwhelmed by the rustic fare, settled for a piece of sweet, sun-ripened mango, which she ate with a delicate, almost clinical precision.
As they ate, Leonotis became aware of a subtle, persistent presence.
A small troop of village children, their faces smudged with dirt and their eyes wide with curiosity, had been trailing them from a safe distance, whispering and pointing.
As Leonotis finished his last pie, the boldest of the group, a little girl with a missing front tooth and a fearless grin, darted forward.
"Are you really going up to the graveyard?" she asked, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
Leonotis, surprised by her directness, nodded.
"Widow Eno suggested it. Said it was peaceful."
The girl's eyes grew even wider.
"But it's not peaceful! It's haunted!" she declared.
Another boy, slightly older, crept up behind her.
"Yeah! Old Man Hemlock's ghost wanders there! They say if you fall asleep on his grave, he steals your breath!"
The other children nodded in solemn, wide-eyed agreement, their earlier amusement replaced by genuine concern for these strange newcomers.
Meanwhile, Low entered a shop filled with bolts of colorful Ankara fabric and the clacking sound of a loom.
An elderly woman with kind, knowing eyes looked up as she entered.
Low placed the bundle of golden fur on the counter.
"I need a simple tunic and trousers," she said, pushing a few of the bounty hunters' coins across the wood.
"And… can you do anything with this?"
The woman picked up the fur, her skilled fingers testing its texture and weight.
Her eyebrows rose.
"Golden werebear," she murmured, her voice calm. "Haven't seen a pelt this fine in fifty years. The curse was broken cleanly."
She looked at Low, not with fear, but with a deep, appraising respect.
"You want a shawl? It will be warm. And protective. The spirit of the beast lingers, but in a good way, if the hide is treated with respect."
"You can do it?" Low asked, surprised by the woman's lack of alarm.
The weaver smiled.
"Child, in Oja-Ibo, we've seen stranger things wash up from the river than a girl with a golden pelt. Come back before the moon is high."
When the trio reunited at the docks, Low was dressed in a simple but sturdy new tunic and trousers, a vast improvement over her blanket.
Draped over her shoulders was a magnificent shawl of shimmering, golden fur, expertly stitched and surprisingly elegant.
"Wow," Leonotis breathed, impressed.
"It's warm," was all Low said, though she couldn't hide the flicker of pride in her eyes.
Leonotis quickly relayed the children's warning about the haunted graveyard.
Low just snorted.
"A breath-stealing ghost? After giant spiders, werebear curses, and bounty hunters, I think I can handle Old Man Hemlock."
Despite Low's bravado, a new layer of unease settled over them as they began their trek up the hill overlooking the village.
The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, and the path grew steep and overgrown, the cheerful sounds of Oja-Ibo fading behind them.
The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—the faint, sweet smell of funerary flowers.
They soon reached a low, crumbling stone wall that marked the graveyard's perimeter.
Inside, ancient, tilting headstones stood like crooked teeth against the twilight sky.
"Well, this is charming," Low muttered, her hand straying to the reassuring weight of the throwing knives at her belt.
"Wait," Jacqueline said softly, her voice drawing their attention.
She pointed not towards the graveyard itself, but to a spot just outside the wall, partially hidden by a thicket of overgrown jasmine and a gnarled, weeping willow.
Nestled there was a small, derelict hut.
It was made of river stone and dark wood, with a sagging thatched roof and a single, grime-covered window that stared out like a blind eye.
A crooked wooden door hung slightly ajar, beckoning them into its shadowed interior.
It was clearly abandoned, likely the former home of a groundskeeper or a reclusive hermit.
"Now that looks more promising than sleeping with a ghost," Leonotis said, a wave of relief washing over him.
The thought of a solid roof, however derelict, was infinitely more appealing than a bed of cold earth.
Together, their footsteps quiet on the overgrown path, they approached the abandoned hut, the silent gravestones their only witnesses in the deepening gloom.