Beneath the cloudless dawn, a patch of Krick grass, copper-gold and barely shin-high, swayed as a golden creature no longer than a short sword, four-limbed and serpentine, typically called a Slick, slid toward a smaller spider, a Trick.
Blended into the grass, it was invisible to humans, but not to the Slick. Its forked tongue flicked the air; vibrations reached the visionless Trick, which scuttled away. The Slick lunged, beginning a brief chase, until its tongue, one-third its length, struck the Trick.
The scorched land shimmered under the zenith sun. From the distance, a cloaked figure approached. Dust swirled around their boots, passing a Slick lying dead in its own blood—its mouth slit open, tongue severed, held in the Trick's fangs.
A rare cool breeze swept the land, breaking the heat. The figure walked east, unbroken rhythm in each step, boots leaving jagged impressions with a butterfly-shaped symbol at the center. Dark clouds rumbled over the distant mountains. Their slanted blue eyes under the hood didn't flinch. A thunderous second rumble flung dust into the air; the figure's cloak snapped against it.
Suddenly, a dome of swirling wind formed around them, keeping the storm at bay. Twilight slanted through the west as the dome faded. A cry like a dying eagle split the air, followed by wings flapping.
A black-winged creature hovered overhead, its red, elongated neck and pupil-less blood-red eyes dwarfing human scale. The figure's right hand revealed a sword: golden hilt, ruby in a winged crossguard; a white bracer with a silver crystal cradled by a gold-etched fairy covered the left arm. Glimpses of gold-trimmed white armor caught the fading light.
The creature's abdomen puffed, its neck arched, maw snapping, releasing a narrow wind beam. The figure dodged instinctively, flung backward by the blast, leaving a crater wide enough to swallow the creature. Dust swirled. The creature's eyes scanned, abdomen inflating again. A flame erupted from the vortex below; the creature tried to ascend, twisting its neck to track it.
Flames collided with gusts of wind, erupting into a blinding flash. A roar tore the air; the impact flattened Krick grass and scattered creatures. The monster struggled, thrusting with its wings, but the flame persisted. Its eyes sealed behind yellow membranes; the abdomen shriveled as the column dispersed.
At the heart of the chaos stood the figure, cloak charred, armor glinting. Left arm gauntleted in gold, right hand gripping sword. The creature dove, neck lashing in a strike. Instinct raised the arm; metal rang as neck slammed the gauntlet.
Steel met flesh as the figure drove the sword into the creature's right eye. Blood surged, drenching cloak and armor. A gust of trapped air from the creature's neck threw the figure downward. They carved a crater, rising unsteady but hovering. Scarlet eyes locked on the beast, now retreating into the clouds.
Turning east, the figure continued, each step a steady rhythm, leaving a trail of maroon and scarlet that caught the glow of the rising moon and dying sun.
The Trick laid its eggs as the full moon climbed high in the sky.
From the distant charred earth, a trail of maroon and scarlet blood bled into a darker red. The figure's right hand reached for a golden-trimmed white pouch at their belt, glimpses of white armor catching moonlight.
The pouch opened like a small chest, its tab marked with a green vial symbol framed by a butterfly-like leaf. A double tap clicked like a key turning. Seven bright green tubes nestled in golden dividers. Lifting the leftmost vial stretched the others slightly before they settled.
The figure removed the cork, embossed with a butterfly emblem. A crisp, luminous fragrance rose, carrying countless subtle flavors. They drank. Moonlight caught strands of white hair, lips red against pale skin. A drop slid down their cheek, striking the ground where it met scarlet and maroon blood. The maroon hissed; the scarlet deepened under the stars.
Exhaling sharply, the figure corked the vial and returned it to the pouch. Wiping their face on the cloak revealed a vivid red streak.
Cold winds swept from the cracked earth, and from the barren ground, a Bilim emerged. Grey-winged, clawed, with white eyes, it seized a slick moving through the grass. Nearby, a Trick's eggs remained hidden. The Bilim tore the slick apart, dropping an eyeball-sized egg, swallowed by the others as they feasted.
The figure gazed at the star-filled sky. Among them, creatures like Bilims roamed. Suddenly, smaller stars began falling rapidly, piercing creatures and ground alike. These Fall stars, spherical and glistening with prey blood, aimed at the figure, who stepped aside just in time. Hitting the ground, they dimmed as the blood within was absorbed. The shower ceased; slicks scavenged the remnants.
Beneath the stars, on unlit land, a town glimmered.
From high ground, the figure surveyed it: a slight depression, lights on tall poles marking its edges, brown, red, and white houses. One building towered above the rest—white, blue, and gold, with a tall pillar and a flame atop. Carvings spiraled upward; below, a white-robed figure guided others along a white staircase.
The figure's rhythm shifted stepping onto the brick path. Streets were empty, paved in bricks; houses mostly had golden slanted roofs, walls of clay, sod, or stone. Doors of wood and adobe, glass windows veiled with curtains.
Subtle footsteps approached, accompanied by murmured voices.
"Well, look at that fella ahead. Reckon he's from the Hall of Truth?"
"Naw, why'd they send just one in dark robes?"
"But look at the armor, barely visible through holes. And them boots ain't hidden proper."
"Still don't make sense. They don't work nights, last I heard."
"Yep, wish they did. Sure'd be somethin' to see."
"Quit readin' them conspiracy books."
"You think there ain't a secret branch or two? That feller what wrote Hall of Lies? Burned alive."
"Maybe God punished him for misusin' truth."
"God don't punish, friend. Still, good the Pillar of Light burns. Imagine if it went out."
"Lucky, I reckon. The Yahar never ice the crystal extra. Wait till it's damaged—can't repair it 'fore nightfall."
"Don't think that way. Hope today's shockwave ain't an omen. May Yaxsim grant us truth."
"Yeah, yeah. Still ain't forget I gave up some crystals to fix broken ones."
"Only a few were needin' replacin'."
"You don't get it—they're expensive! Mine were spares for home and store. Without 'em, your house'd be dark."
"Don't fret. We'll cover it together, soon enough. For now, a drink at the best tavern, my treat."
"You mean the only one left?"
"Ha! Always was the best."
"You never been there since yer favorite closed."
"Well, folks said it's the best. I don't lie."
"Whatever, man."
The figure slowed, letting them pass. They were on the far side of the road: one wore a cap and grey boots; the other, barefoot, with a white pillar necklace of gold stairs and sun-and-moon emblems.
"Hey, you new here? Follow us if you need a rest," called the necklace-wearer.
The cap-wearer muttered, "Don't be invitin' him along."
"Relax. He let us pass. We're talkin' tavern anyhow," replied the other.
"Fine. But how do you know it's a he?"
"Just guessin'. Most folks with armor are men."
"And the face, hair, height? Pale, white hair, like a woman?"
"Ah, don't matter. We'll see when he talks."
Voices grew louder. Ahead stood a building with a wooden sign: Jerry's Rest. "Jerry" in red, "Rest" in blue, flickering slightly. A round green symbol of a sleeping woman followed, with sky-blue trims around doors and corners. Posters lined the wall: people partying, resting, couples kissing.
"Maybe that sign's why folks think it's the best tavern," said the necklace-wearer.
"Lighting crystals won't hide the fact it's just another joint. Flame crystals do just fine," scoffed the cap-wearer.
People came and went. Some women in short clothes tried entering with men—some succeeded, others were pushed back.
"Here we are. Come on in, maybe share a bit 'bout yourself," said the necklace-wearer.
"Responsibility's on you if somethin' goes wrong," grumbled the cap-wearer.
"Responsibility? Funny, coming from you whose wife ran off."
"At least I had one. You're still stuck with whores on the street."
"High-class ones, and they even work for free."
"Maybe they pity ya."
The two men approached the double-swinging doors, each etched with jagged crystal shaped like lightning, and two glass panes. Onlookers paused, curious.
The men stepped through the doors and disappeared. The figure lingered, eyes fixed on the light spilling through the glass, then stepped inside Jerry's Rest.