Hello and welcome reader, to the latest instalment of the Character Development Threads! These shared story exercises help budding writers develop their characters alongside the characters of other budding writers. No sign-up is needed; just jump right in with your characters. It is recommended that you read the Setting Page and the last couple of pages before starting.

This is a "Casual Series" thread and, as such, violence is discouraged. Rules and participation guidelines may be found on this page.

The Setting Page groups active characters under the areas in which they are active, enabling you to see who is at a given location in which you might be interested or to find out where to go to encounter characters with whom you wish to interact.

Kindly add your own characters to the Setting Page, with a link to their initial post, under the area in which they are located and update the page if they change location.

Bear in mind that if your characters are arriving at a location, they are likely to know little more than what they see and hear as they arrive - what the location looks like, what other characters are there (both of which can be read on the Setting Page) and the last few lines uttered and actions taken as they are arriving (which can be found in the last few posts for that location in the story thread itself), so inserting characters need not be a terrifying process.

If you need help, have any questions, or want a quick recap (if the page count is daunting), head over to the discussion page, and someone is sure to help you out!

As this is a Casual setting, there is no need to have any motive or goals beyond perhaps having an enjoyable - and well-deserved - break from adventuring.

The setting is specifically designed to be a vast sandbox into which some details can be inserted by participants (for example, you are free to decide that there is a particular temple in the midst of the largely-unexplored forest in which something may be found), if you come up with a location that you desire/expect other characters to visit, please add it to the Setting Page as a sub-location of the relevant area.

Special thanks to all those who helped in getting the thread launched or provided ideas and feedback. In alphabetic order, they include:

KillerClowns, Ryuhza, WillDeRegio and yours truly

Apologies if I missed anyone - just let me know and I'll update the post.

Let the story commence:

There are many places between worlds. "Liminal" worlds, if one is feeling fancy. This is one of them.

At the end of a winding road leading through a mountain forest is the Hilbert Inn. Or so says the sign above the door. An unremarkable and mundane place, on the surface, though it always finds a way to accept any currency offered. And it always seems to have enough rooms.

There is a large dining room on the main floor. Nobody quite reads the same menu, but there's usually something of interest on it. The staff has a talent for finding just the right food for those with particular dietary needs. For the most part, however, it and its staff, in a quiet, proudly professional way, prefer to stay out of the spotlight. A jukebox lies in the corner, a primitive thing still filled with vinyl records. Yet somehow, nobody has ever failed to find just what they were looking for.

The Hilbert Inn sits lies within a forest, high in the mountains, and today is an agreeably cool spring day. Follow a walking trail upwards, and there is a rough, chilly hike to a plateau. The view is spectacular, but there is also a circle of tall, mossy stones whose shielding runes still glow suggest an arcanist's sparring ring. Downwards, and somehow, the day gets warmer as one approaches a pleasant, clear lake. Or perhaps there is more to be found in the woods, if one wanders on the right trails. Nobody has quite recorded everything out there.

A tree-lined driveway - marked by a sign with symbols depicting tent, trailer, RV and picnic table - leads from the front of the inn to the camping areas at the back.

Here, as the sign indicated, are berths for trailers and RVs with free-standing power outlets that always seem to have the right connectors. Here and there are rubbish bins, and wooden picnic tables with bench seats.

Ungendered ablution blocks containing toilet stalls and showers are available for those whose mobile homes are not fully self-contained. On the outside of each of the ablution blocks are two faucets, one with the image of a drinking vessel, the other with an image of a drinking vessel within an interdictory circle, to signify both potable and non-potable water supplies.

A small sign-posted driveway gives access to the Dumping Station so that those with self-contained mobile homes can empty out their waste water tanks if desired.

The unpowered camping area is a large area of mowed grass, dotted with trees - plenty of room for people to set up their tents wherever they like.

Small "outhouses" with two doors - one labelled with a toilet, the other with a shower - are scattered around the area. For all they look like glorified "long-drop" or chemical toilets, they contain proper flush toilets. On the outside are the usual faucets for potable and non-potable water.

Scattered around the area are wooden picnic tables and concrete-lined fire pits surrounded by rings of wooden benches. Each fire site has a rubbish bin and a waterproof wood box filled with sawn logs.

How do people end up here? Frequently through intention, or via an invitation, an opportunity to step outside their current struggles — and perhaps, in a sense, out of time. Sometimes through a wrong turn on a road, a strange door a teleport gone wrong, a miscalculated FTL jump. Sometimes they don't quite recall how. Sometimes they are dreaming, or tell themselves they are dreaming.

See the Setting Page for updates.

Tropes associated with this shared story are located here.

Edited by Wolf1066 on Aug 29th 2021 at 6:35:37 AM

[Outdoor Firing Range — Koyel qo'Etasa ul'Netho, Mortimer "Mort" Gerhardt]

Those near the edge of the camping area might be alarmed to hear gunfire. Relatively quiet gunfire, but gunfire nonetheless. They'd be relieved to see a man was merely taking shots at a target set up against a thick wooden wall, while an elder watched with a teacher's gaze.

The sleek, futuristic, blue and gold SMG they were using it was at odds with the pair of dingy fellows using it. Unlike the characters handling it, it seemed to have been drawn from a cyberpunk world. It was a work of deadly art, an aesthetically pleasing tool of death that would have been a natural fit in the hands of a wealthy dystopia's enforcers.

The target itself was also unusual, a large sheet of paper portraying a figure covered entirely in high-tech white armor with turquoise highlights. Certain spots on the armor, presumably weak spots and seams, were highlighted with red circles. Aside from a few stray early shots, the bullet holes were almost all accurate shots to, or at least near, those weak spots.

In addition to their shooting setup, the pair had set up a folding linoleum card table. The table was a product of the 1970s that remained in mostly solid condition aside from some crude repairs on a rusted hinge, but its aesthetic had not aged gracefully and it was showing signs of having endured almost a century of spilled beers, sodas, and liquor.

Atop this table sat the pair's drinks. First, a six-pack of pale, golden beers with a red and white label; cheap beer, but good as far as cheap beer goes. As another option, a handmade, stoppered ceramic jug full of lightly spiced mead. Like the beer, it was cheap, but pleasing. There was also an unlit pipe, matches, and genuinely high-quality tobacco. Finally, leaning on the table were a hard case for the gun and the pair's melee weapons, for later practice: a hefty darkwood staff and a sturdy wooden baseball bat.

The old man watching was Mortimer "Mort" Gerhardt, a man in his early sixties straight out of central casting for extras in a disreputable Midwestern dive bar. He was short, but wiry and healthy for his age, and had blue eyes, pale skin, and shoulder-length white hair. He wore loose, worn jeans, and a red plaid jacket open to reveal a black T-shirt depicting an intricate mass of jagged white brambles. Those expert in reading the logos of esoteric heavy metal bands might be able to make out the name on the t-shirt as "Tzaraath". He leaned back, carrying himself, even now, with a killer's swaggering ease. "You can shoot, Koyel," the old man said. "We all knew that. But even that mag won't last forever. How fast can you get a new one in?"

The younger man, Koyel qo'Etasa ul'Netho^note Koyel, son of Etasa, raised in the village of Netho, seemed to have been pulled from an entirely different world. He looked to be in his early thirties (despite actually being in his twenties), with dark skin, blue eyes, sharp features, scraggly black hair, and a rough goatee. He was a bit shorter than even his companion, and his callused hands and wiry muscle suggested near every day of his life had known battle or labor. He wore an off-white linen tunic, plain but newer and more well-tailored than one might expect from a man so obviously a crude laborer of some kind, with some spiral patterns on the hems, and matching pants. His boots were more fitting: jungle-worn, mud-caked things hand-made by a village's shoemaker with some sort of reptilian leather. Around his tunic, he wore a similarly hand-made belt of the same leather, from which currently hung a pair of spare mags for the improbably advanced gun he was using. Like the old man, he carried himself with a certain weighty presence, but it was calmer, gentler. A tree that would stand against the storm and shelter those in need.

Koyel turned his attention to the weapon he'd been shooting. The magazine was flush with the weapon's frame. He pulled it out in a smooth motion, handed it to the older man — still half full, but he was practicing his reloads — and replaced it with another magazine on his belt. The only hint that he was still learning this particular weapon was a moment of hesitation, when all was done. He paused, double-checking his work. Nothing more needed doing, he'd gotten it right the first time. He squeezed off a burst, calmly filling a seam marked at the target's neck with three subsonic bullets. "Y'know, Mort," he said, "I guess I can see the advantage, 'specially with the way this thing spews bullets. But damn, this ain't nothin' like my hunting rifle."

"Oh, it's a MegaCorp weapon," Mort said. "They've got all the best toys, so when you can steal one from 'em, you steal one from 'em. Always use the best tools you can get, that's what I say." He leaned against the card table, his ease briefly disrupted as some dark memory flashed across his mind. Only a moment; then he let it go and said, "now, move the sight from weak point to weak point. Don't shoot. Get a feel for how its weight." Koyel complied, getting a feel for how the weapon moved. Mort said, "yeah, that there thing's the best killing machine I've ever handled. Perfect balance. Heavy enough to absorb the kick, light enough to haul around, fits under a trenchcoat. Now, the subsonics will only travel so far, but urban combat's the name of the game. And I wouldn't rely on it to get through CorpSec armor either. You hit those weak spots and you'll do the job, but hit the plates and the goon probably just gets a bruise. Nothing that'll stop them from killing you."

Mort had trampled the Qorisayane taboo of speaking directly of death; a Qorisayane would have said, nothing that'll stop them from sending you to the next world or a similar euphemism. Fortunately, Koyel found the blunt-tongued American's manners endearing rather than offensive. He simply nodded and said, "now, I reckon, I did a pretty good job putting holes where they needed to be in that target... but I see where you're coming from. That target weren't trying to shoot at me. I ain't been shot at before..."

"Really?" Mort said, genuinely surprised. Then he thought about it for a moment and acknowledged. "Right. You're a hunter, not a street sam."

Koyel said, "rice farmer first, hunter second, but famine's got me shootin' more than usual." He removed the magazine he'd just added, and racked the weapon to make sure there wasn't a round in the chamber. Then he put the weapon down carefully, still pointing at the target, and said, "mostly I'm picking off rock lizards, trash birds, and the like. And there ain't anyone teaching them how to shoot. Thank the Gods, though I s'pose better I should keep my mouth shut 'fore I give 'em ideas."

"The hell's a 'trash bird'?" Mort said.

"Them things you called, what was it? 'Velociraptors'. Aseyu might've given you the 'proper' name, but out in the riverlands, they're trash birds. On account of the feathers and them gettin' into our trash all the time. Or anything else they can get them claws on, especially our grub farms. Trash birds ain't the best eatin', tough and gamey bastards, but pluck one, dice it up, and throw it in a soup pot with rice noodles, some veggies, and some spices if you got 'em, and you got yourself a decent dinner."

Koyel reached over and took his pipe, lit it, and took a drag as he considered what he had seen. "Anyways," Koyel continued, "don't get me wrong, I been in bloody situations. You're looking at a real lucky fool: I made a mistake with a red pig, and most stories about that are told on the other side of the Glass Gates." He rubbed his leg, remembering the recently-healed flesh wound. "Also had, lessee, angry deer running me down. I've gotten my ribs thumped and head rung in staff fighting plenty, all that padding only does so much. Taken a few punches and elbows in village brawls. Near brush with a poison frog once, and had a scare with a boot spider in a shit house. So I've had things trying to send me to the next world, I've had fights with my fellow humans, been a few times Soqaxil had his pen a few hairs above his book, but..." he took another long drag from his pipe, "I don't think I've ever had a thinkin' fella ever seriously trying to send me to my ancestors. And I don't think I've ever really tried to send another soul to theirs."

While loosely based on the FN P90, the weapon in question is the fictional LPM Libra, invented 20 Minutes into the Future. The main difference, as mentioned, is that it's specialized for subsonic ammunition

Edited by KillerClowns on Nov 21st 2022 at 12:11:05 PM

Louise had called it "going somewhere, nowhere" and the name - and practice - had stuck, even though he hadn't seen Louise for years. The premise was simple: pick a starting point and a direction and go; each time you reach a side road or an intersection, decide on the spot which direction to go. You never know where you will end up or what route you will take to get there. That was half the fun.

The Yamaha XT225 was the "perfect weapon" for "going somewhere, nowhere". As a road-legal trail bike, the combination of off-road suspension and dual-sport tires meant it could handle anything that was legally defined as a public "road" - and quite a few things that weren't. Tarmac, gravel, dirt, grass, sand, mud - they were all the same to this bike. The engine was powerful enough to sit comfortably at a shade over 100 kilometres per hour all day on the open road, yet the bike was still lightweight and agile enough to effortlessly climb hills, scramble over forest trails or manouevre through narrow city streets. This was the other half of the fun.

The XT's black fenders, fairing and side covers were obviously the result of an inexpert "rattle-can" paint-job as here and there the paint had been scraped off - evidence of more than one fall - revealing the original white plastic underneath. The tank, too, showed signs that its black colour was entirely due to a can of Dulux. On the front fender were two yellow stickers - one rectangular, depicting a stylised motorcycle, and the other an oval with the letters "ADV" - and on the small motocross-style fairing, above the headlamp, was a gold-coloured vinyl decal of a stylised wolf's head.

The bike was equipped with aluminium "bark busters" on the handlebars to protect the rider's hands and a sturdy "bash plate" mounted below the engine to protect the sump, and was fully kitted-out for long-distance adventure touring: pannier cases and top box at the rear; smaller pannier bags either side of the fuel tank and tank bag on top.

The rider was likewise kitted-out for adventure riding: black helmet that seemed to be halfway between a Motocross helmet and a standard full-face helmet, black "safari-style" Cordura riding jacket with retroreflective strips and panels of high-visibility yellow, riding gloves with rigid plastic shields on the knuckles, black Cordura riding trousers and sturdy boots. The bulkiness of the jacket and trousers hinted at some serious armour beneath the waterproof shell.

You never know where you will end up...

It had been an enjoyable ride up the winding mountain road through the forest and now it seemed that the road - and the ride - ended here. Wolf brought the XT to a halt, kicked the gear shift into neutral and turned the key; the headlight went dark and the clangour of the XT's single cylinder abruptly ceased.

Wolf looked around at his surroundings as he stashed his keys in one of the jacket's lower pockets. The Hilbert Inn - Wolf smiled at that, hoping the choice of name was a deliberate reference rather than just a coincidence - wasn't the most impressive hotel he had seen, but it was certainly not the most modest, either. He saw the sign indicating that there were camping sites available and his smile widened. A tranquil, scenic setting and a choice of where to spend the night - there were certainly worse ways to end a road.

He dismounted and let the bike settle on its side stand then made his way to the rear of the bike and opened the top box. He took off his gloves then unfastened the helmet's chin strap. In order to remove the helmet without violently removing his eyebrows and forehead as well, he had to open the helmet's polycarbonate visor and remove his glasses through the opening before lifting the helmet off his head. He slipped his glasses back on then took a black leather broad-brimmed hat from the top box and put it on. Then he took a black single-strap "tactical" bag, with a cylindrical pouch on the side, from the top box and the helmet and gloves went into the now-empty box. He reached behind his head and pulled his ponytail free from under the back of his jacket and then slung the tactical bag over his left shoulder and fastened the strap across his chest.

Wolf appeared to be in his early-to-mid fifties but was now closer to sixty than he was to fifty-five. His face was only lightly lined - mostly crow's feet at the corners of his greyish-blue eyes - his long dark hair was generously speckled with grey and the "door-knocker" beard and moustache that surrounded his mouth was more grey than dark. In his left earlobe were two plain gold rings.

He took a black box-mod vape from one of the jacket's chest pockets, took a massive hit from it and exhaled a sizeable cloud of vapour before heading towards the entrance of the inn. Despite deliberately taking his time, he only got a couple more puffs on his vape before he reached the door; he stowed the vape in his pocket and entered the inn's foyer.

Foyer

A neon pink blur came hurtling down towards the front entrance, eventually revealing itself as a young brunette riding an old-fashioned flying broomstick, with a black cat perched on her shoulder. Just to complete herself as an airborne stereotype, she had on comfortable robes and a wide-brimmed pointed hat, none of which did squat to prevent her from faceplanting into the pavement.

As she dusted herself off, the cat looked at her and mewled, "Do we need to have somebody redo the spellwork on this thing, Hazel?"

The sorceress stared daggers at her familiar, who knew full well who had enchanted the broom in the first place. "Yeah, yeah, keep talking. We'll see if you have nine afterlives." Heading inside, she went up to the front desk. "Hazel Harris, checking in."

A little ID card printed out from a kiosk, reading Witch- Hazel Harris. Hazel groaned. Was that stupid joke going to follow her halfway across the multiverse? Apparently so.

Foyer

On enquiring, Wolf discovered that the prices for rooms and camping sites were about what he was expecting. He could easily afford a room but he had his camping gear on the bike and the weather looked good - always an excellent combination of circumstances! After briefly toying with the idea of a powered site, he decided to go for unpowered; after all, he had sufficient batteries to last at least a couple of days of typical gadget use and could easily recharge if needed.

Having made his choice of accomodation, he took a trifold Cordura wallet, with a "Real Leaf" camouflage pattern, from a jacket pocket, extracted his debit card and paid for a night. If he decided to stay longer, he could always pay for more.

He pocketed the card that printed out for him and as he turned away from the counter, he saw - through the glass-paned hotel door - a figure drop from the sky and face plant on the pavement outside. The young woman (at least, they looked female and were presenting as feminine, so Wolf went with that) - dressed in robes and a broad brimmed, pointed "witch's hat", picked herself up and appeared to be talking to someone. She appeared to be unharmed, despite the rather unusual circumstances of her arrival.

Wolf muttered "what the fuck?" under his breath then looked around the room. The concierge on duty must have seen it, too, but did not seem surprised and the room remained the same as it appeared earlier. On the one hand, if it were a dream, the room probably would have changed appearance and the young brunette's arrival would have seemed normal; on the other hand, in real life people generally don't descend out of the sky on a broomstick dressed as a witch. Back when he was pagan, Wolf had met numerous witches - along with other pagan variants - and none of them actually flew around on brooms. Of course, she had a cat with her. Most the witches he had met seemed to think a cat was compulsory.

The witch - there really was no other word to describe her - entered the foyer. Wolf gave her a nod - one traveller to another finding themselves in the same place at the same time - that conveyed friendly acknowledgement but effectively avoided making more than the most fleeting eye contact.

He turned his attention to the dining area while she checked in - clearly she had planned on coming here, as she obviously had a booking - and gathered that her name was Hazel Harris.

Try as he might, he could not think of any "reasonable" explanation for what he had seen. All of the possible explanations he could come up with were convoluted and just as unlikely as a person flying a broomstick - with the added question of "why would anyone go to such lengths, anyway?"

He looked back at the sound of a groan and saw her looking at her printed card. What it was about the card that caused that reaction, he had no idea. He frantically searched for a suitable response... if a response was appropriate - it probably wasn't his business. In the end he settled for quietly seeing what would happen next. He felt rather out of his depth with people apparently falling out of the sky with broomsticks.

Wolf's left middle finger was rapidly tapping against his thumb but he was unaware of it.

Edited by Wolf1066 on Aug 31st 2021 at 12:51:09 AM

Road to Inn -> Foyer

A lone figure quietly walked beside the road goin up the mountains, away from the fast-moving vehicles that moved on it. Actually, it was two figures: A horse, and it's rider.

The horse, at first glance, was a beast, figuratively and literally. It had the body shape of a draft horse, a size to match (being as tall as a grown man at the withers, not counting the head), and an appearance that would have sent even a hardened warrior screaming: A coat black as coal, and the mane and tail the color of hot iron, and its eyes red like two lit embers. Even without this visage, the horse always looked like it was constantly glaring at everything. It was saddled, and the simple brown bag tied to its hindquarters contrasted with the rest of its appearance.

The rider was not as intimidating as its mount, at least not actively so. Even if it was dwarfed by the horse size (but then again, anyone would be small in comparison), the figure was quite tall, almost 6 feet tall. It was clad head to toe in black plate armor, although it looked less like a conscious choice of colour, and more like it had been charred time ago. It also looked worn, bearing the marks and dents of many, many fights. Tied to the rider's back was a pavise shield, almost as tall as the rider. Said shield, charred like the armor but still bearing some of its original white and gold colours, bore a symbol on the front: A golden left hand, open, with the palm facing forward. Tied to the rider's waist, was a hammer, a simple large slab of metal, almost as big as a head, useful when violence was necessary.

But lately it had not been. These roads had been incredibly calm, and even it there hadn't been a single guardpost in the last miles, there were no sign of bandits. Or of other people, thinking about it. It certainly gave the whole place, a deep forest, an air like out of a fairytale.

The pair had been going for quite a while, and had not seen civilization in almost a week. The horse had been content with grazing whenever it felt hungry, but the rider had to ration what little food and water was left on the travel bag. Some people met on the road had said that there was an inn some miles away, up the mountains, but as the days had passed it seemed that they had miscalculated the distance and travel time. But they had not been wrong about the inn.

Finally, the figure of a massive lodge built with wood rose beyond the horizon. The rider suprred on the horse a bit, and the animal responded by getting into the road, picking up the pace into a trot. In just a few minutes, the two arrived at their destination. The inn was much larger than it had looked at first. At a side of the road there was a large sign that read: 'Hilbert Inn'.

The rider got off the horse. Another person, a man that looked like a local stablehand, approached the two. "Good morning," He greeted. "Are you looking for a stay?"

"Yes, please." The armored rider responded. The voice was low, and a bit distorted by the barrel helmet worn. "Is there still space?" They asked as they unhooked the travel bag from the horse's saddle.

"Of course." The stablehand said with a smile on his face. "At the Hilbert Inn, we always have room for one more." An inn with a slogan, now that was something new. "Don't worry about the horse, we have the facilities to care for mounts and vehicles." He moved a hand towards the horse, but the animal quickly snapped at him and glared.

"Ack! My bad." The knight apologized. "I'm sorry. She is always like that. Bastilla." The knight turned to the horse with a firm tone, which had turned back, listening. "Go with him." The knight pointed at the stablehand, and put the other hand on Bastilla's neck. The animal seemed to get the message, and letting out a snort (that almost sounded like an annoyed sigh), turned back to the stablehand.

"Ah, I see." The man looked at the imposing creature, while the knight unhooked the travel bag form the saddle. He didn't seem scared of Bastilla, but he made sure to keep distance. "Not my first time dealing with moody steeds, let me say. I'll make sure she doesn't cause trouble." He turned to the knight. "Reception is right through the entrance." He pointed at the doors. "Ask for a room there, they always have one." With this said, he made a motion to the horse to follow him as he walked to the side of the inn. Bastilla followed him. Hopefully, she wouldn't cause any trouble.

The knight walked heavily towards the entrance of the inn, walking past a man and a woman, and walked up to the counter. "Good morning." Said the receptionist with a friendly smile. "What accomodation would you like? A room or a place in the cmaping site?"

"Just a room, if it's not much trouble." He knight pulled out a small leather bag form the travel bag and pulled what meager money had left: Two golden coins, five silver coins, and a handful of copper coins.

The receptionist made the calculations mentally. "For a room, one with two is enough." The knight nodded and handed the receptionist one golden coin and two siver ones, then put away the rest. "Now, before I give you your keys, I just have to take your name... Sir? Ma'am?"

"Ma'am is fine." The knight left the travel bag at their feet, and took off their helmet. Under the armor was a woman, in her late fifties. She had blonde hair, streaked with white, and blue eyes. Her face didn't have many wrinkles, mostly crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, but soprted a few scars: a diagonal one going down the left cheek, and a pair of small ones near the right corner of her lips. She smiled. "My name is Hilda. Hilda Reiter."

The receptionist wrote down the name without a problem, and handed Hilda the keys to her room. "Here. The number is on the key. If you lose it, ask here for a new one, but you'll be charged for the lost one. Have a nice stay."

Hilda nodded and took the keys, then turned form the counter, helmet and keys on one hand, and her travel bag on the other. She saw the two people she had walked past earlier were still there. Hilda gave them a nod. "Good morning." She greeted with a friendly smile.

Hazel looked across the foyer and hung her broom on the wall. It twitched for a few seconds, then laid still. Stupid thing seems to have an attitude, she mused, never noting the irony that the same could be said of her. A few others had showed up, namely what looked to be a woman in armor and a biker. The latter looked somewhat intimidating, so she went over to talk to the former.

"Hey there. That's some good steel you're wearing. I've got a friend who needs a new suit of mail, maybe you could tell me where you got it?"

Foyer —> Camping Area

The door opened and there was another arrival, this one an impressive figure in battered black plate armour with a massive hammer on the belt and a shield on the back. The newcomer was taller than Wolf by a good fifteen or so centimetres, or about six inches.

Wolf's left middle finger tapped all the more frantically at his thumb as his gaze followed the newcomer to the desk. The helmet was removed to reveal a woman with streaks of white in her blonde hair and a visible scar on her left cheek.

Wolf had seen quite a few armour-wearing women in his time, as well - Society for Creative Anachronism, National Association of Ancient Martial Arts, various Historical European Martial Arts groups and numerous cosplayers - but there was something about this woman that suggested she was used to real combat.

She turned from the desk and gave a pleasant nod and greeting. Wolf responded with a brief friendly nod and "morning" and the witch complimented the woman's armour and asked about where to get a suit of mail for a friend.

It was obvious that the two were going to have a conversation to which Wolf had nothing to contribute and standing around waiting for the topic to change would probably come off as creepy so he gave a smile and a wave to both, and headed out the door towards his bike, fishing his keys from his pocket as he went.

Pausing only long enough to ensure his hat was secure and the bike's side stand was up, he started the bike and followed the driveway around the main building towards the camping areas. He rolled quietly past the powered sites and ablution blocks until he came to a large grassy area with, he was pleased to see, plenty of trees. At the edge of the grassy area, he didn't bother stopping, just rolled gently onto the grass and rode to roughly the middle of the camping area before stopping and shutting off the engine.

There was a lake visible through the trees to the right and there were plenty of promising-looking places to set up camp. He dismounted, dug out his vape and took a couple of puffs, noting that the wind was blowing the exhaled vapour towards the lake. With a smile, he set off for a walk around the area, specifically looking for pairs of trees about the right distance apart and favourably oriented.

His walk accquainted him with the picnic tables, fire sites, seats, rubbish bins and "outhouses" and it was during the process of searching, he spotted a couple of men near the edge of the camping area - and what was interesting about them was that they clearly had a rifle case leaning against their table. Wolf decided to wander closer.

On nearing the two, other details could be picked out: old-style folding card table, wooden staff, baseball bat, bottles of beer and the two men themselves: one short and wiry with shoulder length white hair and dressed in jeans, T-shirt and jacket; the other younger, shorter, dark skinned, bearded and wearing a belted tunic and trews - but compared with a witch and an armoured warrior, that seemed practically normal.

Wolf approached closer and gave them a friendly nod. "G'day. If I'd'a' known there'd be shootin' here, I'd'a' brought me rifles." His speech was rapid and carried a strong New Zealand accent.

Edited by Wolf1066 on Sep 11th 2021 at 1:30:59 AM

Foyer

Another person then arrived through the doors. A Chibi, looking about to be about to be 4 inches tall. She has strawberry blonde hair, with a hint of red. Her eyes are blue, except for her right eye, where it is black. She's wearing a yellow cardigan with a pink undershirt underneath and a blue skirt. "Wow!" She said, "It's pretty big in here!" Her voice sounds raspy, like she has a frog is in her throat. She went up to the check in desk and notices how high it is. She knocked on the side, getting the attention of the women there. "Good morning uh..." The women said, not seeing anyone there. "Execuse me, but, I'm down here", the Chibi spoke. The women peered down at her, noticing her presence. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry Ma'am. I didn't see you there. My apologies", the women said. "It's okay", the Chibi replied, "Do you think you can help me up?" "Oh, certainly, Ma'am." The women came behind from the desk and goes towards the Chibi. She lowered her hand and the Chibi got on it. "There you go", she said as she put her palm on the desk, allowing the Chibi to get off.

"Thank you", the Chibi said as the women returned to her desk. The woman smiled at her. "I'm here to check in." "Alright, I need your name." "Alright, you can just call me Aspen. I don't actually have a last name." Aspen said as she looked down, embarrassed. "Oh, okay." The receptionist wrote Aspen's name down. After she was finished, she handed Aspen her room key. "Here you go" She said as she handed Aspen her key, "Although it might be kind of big for you." Aspen accepted the key. "Thanks. Think you can help me down?" "Certainly, Ma'am." Again, the women took her hand and Aspen walked on it. The women lowered her hand on the floor and Aspen jumped off. "Here you go. If you need anything help, you can call the hotel staff here to help you." "Thank you!" Aspen then puts the key in her pocket, which stuck out. She noticed a group of people. She approaches the group and looks up at them. "Umm... H-Hello..." Her voice sounded conserned, unsure of how the response will be.

Edited by AspenKarch on Sep 10th 2021 at 6:43:37 AM

[Camping Area (Wolf; Mort, Koyel)]

First, reflexively, Mort sized up the newcomer. Physically bigger than Mort, but then, most men were. One of the myriad ways old Mother Nature had fucked Mort over. A bit younger as well, but somehow, he seemed like the kind of person who'd been old when Mort had been younger. Bulky jacket and pants, armored against a fall from a bike, but not bad to have in other circumstances either. Probably not a career brawler; those earrings would hurt to be pulled out, and he didn't quite have a street sam's presence. Still, these kinds of biker old-timers had usually taken enough spills to not lose their nerve when they took a solid hit, and odds were better than even he could throw a proper punch as well. Mort reckoned he'd probably win against the biker in a brawl, if only through experience and killer instinct, but it wasn't a sure thing, and there would be some painful new bruises on him even in a victory. If this guy showed up offering his services as muscle for the Collective — and passed the security check, of course — yeah, Mort would probably hire him after a bit of sparring to make sure.

So Mort nodded at the newcomer and said, "eh, we were packing up anyways." He jerked a thumb towards the bullet-riddled paper target. "Thinkin' we already flatlined that corpser." Instead, he headed over to the table and said, "you're welcome to join us for a beer, though. We brought more than enough. Or this guy's mead, unless you're allergic to nanites. Or honey."

Koyel, who had been filling his pipe with tobacco, lit it and headed over as well. His own examination was not nearly as thorough; he lacked both Mortimer's killer's eyes and the context to see anything other than an old-ish fellow whose advanced materials clearly suggested a man of the Dying World of Earth. So Koyel held the pipe in his left hand as he brought his fist to his chest in a salute, and said, "pleasure to meet you, traveler. Name's Koyel, and my friend here..."

"Mort. Mort Gerhardt," the old man said, buying time to decide how honest to be. "Private security by trade. And no, that ain't," he scowled in disgust, "CorpSec. I just keep discount Nazis and other lowlifes away from my employer's warehouses." Which was... well, it was what Thao was officially paying him for. She couldn't put "anti-corporate sabotage, espionage, and robbery, occasional assassination" in the memo of those checks, could she? And yes, sometimes he did get to knock discount Nazis around. "And my friend here, bit of a long story..."

"Gods made me to be a rice farmer," Koyel said. "Also do some hunting, when the season's right or something needs putting down." He frowned and added, "lately, though, I been running odd jobs for a lady down in Oriyith — big city by the coast — on account of the famine hitting my village. Mort's boss and mine know each other through a... a fella." Koyel was still learning the art of discretion, but even he knew better than to name drop a Dead God. "So they put us to work keeping a mutual enemy of theirs from doing any more damage then they already done. Seeing as they got proof them children of scorpions and swine poisoned our river, can't say I'm that unhappy 'bout it." With that all explained, Koyel took a long drag from his pipe.

Edited by KillerClowns on Apr 18th 2022 at 8:57:18 AM

Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)

Wolf was surprised to note, as he got closer, that both were shorter than him by a few centimetres. He was used to almost everyone he knew - even many of the women - being taller than him.

The older guy - from somewhere in America, by his accent - said they were packing up and called his attention to the riddled target which depicted some sort of futuristic or science-fiction armoured trooper. More than that, Wolf couldn't tell at that distance. Then the bloke offered a choice of beer or mead that apparently contained nanites - which, to Wolf, belonged in the realms of science fiction. This was as puzzling as a woman falling from the sky with a broomstick or, for that matter, an armoured woman who did not look like the average Ren Faire attendee, reenactor or cosplayer.

A drink, however, did sound good. It had been a long ride and Wolf wasn't planning on doing any more riding. Beer was certainly a safer choice than mead, given his typical reactions to anything vaguely wine-like.

Before he could answer, the younger man stepped forward, gave a fist-to-chest salute and introduced himself as Koyhel, which prompted the older man to introduce himself. Private security - but definitely not corporate (Mort's expression told Wolf exactly what the man thought of corporate security).

Wolf positioned himself so that his field of view was roughly between the two so he could converse with both with ease, which also meant he was not obligated to look either directly in the eyes. He was angled slightly more towards the man to his left.

He took a deep draw on his vape and listened intently while Koyhel spoke of his farming, hunting and pest control - in more ways than one. Try as he might, Wolf could not place the man's accent and the locations he mentioned were unknown to him - but Wolf did not pretend to be an expert on languages, even though they were one of his life-long interests, nor was he an expert in geography.

Once Mort and Koyhel had finished introducing themselves, Wolf gave a nod. "Pleased to meet you both. My name's Wolf. Sorry t'say, but my job's nowhere near as interesting as yours seem; I'm a data analyst - but I do go camping and hunting from time to time. A beer does sound great, thank you - it's been a long and thirsty ride 'n' it looks like I've got hours yet before I haveta set up camp." He looked around. "Buggered if I know where this place is, t'be honest, I was just riding at random 'n' wound up here. Never b'n here before."

He stashed his vape in his pocket while he fought his way through the snap fasteners, Velcro and zips of the three-layered storm guard on the front of his jacket and finally got the jacket open, revealing a black mesh garment underneath fitted with panels of closed-cell foam topped with rigid grey plastic. He unzipped the front of the armoured garment and his stomach, no longer constrained by the constricting mesh, sagged into its usual "dad bod" form. Wolf let out an audible breath. "That's better," he said to no one in particular.

[Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)]

Koyel said, "lemme try that stuff you drinkin' so much of."

"Sure thing, Koyel," Mort replied. He grabbed a pair of beers, and deftly used the edge of one's cap to pop the other. He handed the opened bottle off to Wolf, and repeated the process with Koyel's beer.

"Huh," Koyel said after sampling the beer. "Yeah, this ain't bad."

Conversationally, Mort said, "data analyst, huh?" He bit his lip, trying to recall what exactly what that meant. While he'd never held a job that required a degree in his life, he'd rubbed shoulders with white-collar sorts enough to have some idea about what that title could mean. "So is it mostly AI wrangling at your place, or does your company still do things like they did back when they were still putting dead cow on Big Macs?"

"Dead cow on what?" Koyel said.

"Big Macs," Mort explained. "Two synth-meat patties, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, and some damn fine special sauce. They used to use real beef, but dead cow prices went up and synth-meat kept getting better and cheaper, so..." he shrugged, indicating that the rest was left as an exercise to the listener.

Edited by KillerClowns on Sep 13th 2021 at 9:29:50 AM

Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)

Wolf watched as Mort opened the bottle - old-school, not twist caps, he noted. He accepted the beer with a nod and a sincere "thanks".

Mort's questions seemed to be predicated on a number of assumptions, the ramifications of which were - quite frankly - startling. Wolf searched Mort's face for any sign that he was winding him up, pulling his leg or otherwise telling porkies, but saw no such sign. If Mort was winding him up, then he was an excellent actor. Then Koyhel asked what Big Macs were and it seemed a genuine question.

Mort's answer came across as matter-of-fact and meshed completely with what could be surmised from his second question: Big Macs - or at least the ones to which Mort was referring - had synthetic meat rather than "dead cow". This was puzzling for a number of reasons.

Wolf spent a lot of time online, enough to know that synthetic meats were now possible, but they were hellish expensive and not commonly available - not even in the USA. Yet Mort claimed they had come down in price to the point where they were cheaper than actual farmed meat - which meshed with doing things "back when" and wrangling AI...

Wolf was a long-time fan of Science Fiction or "Speculative Fiction" and was well aware of the various premises, conceits and tropes associated with them. Between what Mort was saying and the earlier encounter with the witch that apparently fell out of the sky, the thought "Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore" flitted across Wolf's mind.

It seemed preposterous, unbelievable. Unfortunately, the idea that a bunch of random people all took it into their heads to fuck with his mind, and went to extraordinary lengths to do so, was also unbelievable and preposterous... and, again, why would they?

He took a swig of the beer - quite a pleasant drop, to be honest - and took a deep breath... this was going to be tricky. Fortunately and regrettably, feeling like a stranger in a strange alien land was a familiar sensation. Unbidden and unnoticed, his left middle finger tapped rapidly against his thumb.

"Ahhh, you've got me a bit puzzled, here," he managed at last, "we're still putting dead cows in Maccas - though it's generally suspected that even now, they still haven't used up their first cow. We also don't have a lot in the way of AI... mostly Google's suggested corrections for spelling mistakes 'n' typos and targeted advertising based on previous purchases 'n' searches - though I don't have anything t'do with that... I write SQL code to pull raw data from our client database 'n' occasionally bash it inta shape in Excel t'make pretty graphs." There was more to it than that but he figured neither Mort nor Koyhel would be interested in a lengthy treatise on Key Performance Indicators and local and national benchmarking forums.

"I'm not aware of anywhere that has synthetic meat cheaper than farmed meat," he was genuinely interested in hearing the explanation for that and hoped Mort wouldn't take that as an accusation or disbelief. "Whereabouts in the US are you from?"

He took another sip of the beer and fished out his vape with his left hand. He took a deep hit and exhaled; his left index finger tapped rapidly against the side of the vape's tank.

[Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)]

"Minneapolis, Minnesota," Mort said, with a puff of pride. "You ever watch Fargo?" He took a swig of his beer, then said, "it ain't that far off, even it is, what..." he paused, audibly muttering mental calculations. "Nineteen-nineties, I think? So... yeah..." He looked back up at Wolf. "Yeah, it'd be 'bout sixty years outta date. Still holds up pretty well, don'tchaknow." The last was said in a self-deprecating imitation of Mort's usual accent.

Though he showed little indication of it, Mort was quite sensitive to Wolf's reaction. The slight tension. The curious twitching of Wolf's left fingers. Mort had instinctively placed himself between the stranger and the weapons; he was ready to stop a quick dash towards them with an equally quick throw. Still, Mort wasn't too concerned it would come to that; the biker seemed more agitated or alarmed, as he read it, then hungry for a fight. Mort's increased suspicion would be visible if Wolf was paying attention.

The amiable Koyel picked up little of this, continuing to peacefully alternate between drink his beer and his pipe.

While Mort might continue talking after this, it seems like Wolf would have a noteworthy reaction here.

Edited by KillerClowns on Sep 18th 2021 at 3:01:22 AM

Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)

Wolf briefly wondered whether Mort meant the Cohen Brothers movie (which he had seen) or the series inspired by it (which he hadn't) until the clarification of "nineteen-nineties", in which case it was clearly the movie. He was about to reply in the affirmative but what Mort said next required some serious thought.

Sixty years out of date! That would be twenty-fifties! "Back when...", "used to use", "synth-meat kept getting better and cheaper", the science-fiction-esque target... so... time travel? It seemed impossible, but it wasn't the strangest thing that had happened so far.

It was weird enough for Wolf to stop and take a quick mental stock of the situation. He definitely remembered the entire journey and all parts of the day - no weird jumps that would suggest a dream. He certainly wouldn't dream the entirety of a two-hour ride. But here was "the thing": at the start of that two-hour ride, he had been near Palmerston North and, while he was making random choices of road, his sense of direction and some of the locations he passed meant that he should be somewhere in up the Ruahine Range - though not on a road he'd ever travelled before. That was the point of going "somewhere, nowhere": you wound up taking roads, and discovering places, you've never seen before. And the hotel had accepted his bank's debit card and charged him New Zealand dollars.

Yet here was a person from Minneapolis and apparently from the 2050s. And his companion, well, Wolf had no idea on that score. He could not place the ethnicity, accent or place names and the clothing looked vaguely Ren Faire.

Ever since the exchange about Big Macs, Wolf was consciously trying to read Mort and Koyhel's faces and body language, trying to determine if they were as they claimed or pulling his leg. Now, he sensed a slight shift in Mort's demeanour - possibly guarded or suspicious, possibly offended. Had he said or done something to cause offense or suspicion? He became aware of his finger tapping against the vape and abruptly stopped doing it.

He took a puff of his vape. He needed to phrase this in a way that would not cause offense or come across as rude. "Ummmm, Yeah, I've seen Fargo," that seemed a safe enough start. "Years ago. Cohen Brothers, right? Quite a fun movie."

He took a sip from the beer and another puff on his vape. "Y'say it's about 60 years outta date... so you're from the future? From my perspective nineteen-ninety-one was only thirty years ago. How'd you get here?" He paused. "Assuming 'here' is where I think it is."

Foyer

"My armor?" Hilda gave her own armor a quick check. Charred and battered by many fights, but it had never needed replacement. "Thank you." She repleid with a smile. "It's been with me since I started service. So, a very long time. Made by the best blacksmiths in Nordenwall" She gave her chestplate a knock, to mark her point. But as she said the last part, her smile turned sad. "Nordenwall was sacked and razed years ago, unfortunately." She shook her head. "Not many survived. I'm sorry, you're probably out of luck."

Hilda sighed, then shook her head vigorously. "Enough bad memories. What about you?" She said. "What brings you here? Just passing through, like me, or something more important?"

Before she could say something else, a third voice spoke up. Hilda looked around, but could not find the source of the voice. The other man had left a few moments ago. Hilda looked down and saw what looked like a tiny little girl. Tiny, as in about four inches tall. Kind of cute. If Hilda hadn't noticed her passing through before, it was probably because of this one's small size. Some kinf of fairy perhaps?

"Uhm, hello?" Hilda said, trying to sound firendly, but not sure what to make of this new arrival.

Foyer

"Hi!" Aspen greeted the knight and the witch. She looked like she was curious about the two people. "Um... Who are you?", she said to the witch.

Foyer

"A shame. Well, it is what it is, I guess. Sad that people have to resort to violence, though." Hazel shrugged as someone else came up, even smaller than her. In point of fact, she looked smaller than her cat! Even pixies weren't that tiny. The sorceress tipped her hat to the newcomer.

"Hello there. I'm Hazel Harris, apprentice magician. And this is my familiar, Felix," she said as she gestured to the feline.

Felix, for his part, bowed low. "It's a pleasure to meet you both," he said in a faintly upper-crust English accent.

Foyer

Hearing the witch's comment, Hilda couldn't help but give a dry laugh. "You don't know half of it..." She said.

She turned to the newcomer, and gave a courteous nod. "My name is Hilda." She introduced herself, to both Hazel and the tiny one. "I'm a... traveller. A mercenary, you could say. I've been travelling, looking for some new job to earn some money." The knight stretched her back before going on. "But for now, I'm here just to rest. I've been on the road for almost a week now. A soft bed wouldn't be a bad idea."

Hilda only raised an eyebrow at Hazel's talking cat. If she found that shocking, she didn't show it. "You're a magician?" She commented. "I've never seen one before. They're not very common in my homeland."

She then turned to the tiny one. "What about you?" She asked in a kind tone. "What is your name?"

Foyer

"My name is Aspen" The Chibi introduced herself.

[Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)]

Koyel and Mort exchanged slightly puzzled looks. Finally, Mort said, "we tellin' him?"

"Thuexatiqome said the Megas didn't have the key," Koyel replied.

"Normally I'd not be so sure," Mort said, "but if Big Blue says we're good, we're good." Then Mort opened his mouth as if to speak, before awkwardly turning to Koyel. "Shit, son. You were payin' more attention than me when Big Blue was going on, right?"

Koyel nodded, then turned to Wolf. "Dead God, name of Thuexatiqome, said this place was Between." The capital letter was somehow audible. "Woven from stories instead of numbers, Thuexatiqome said. Not right sure what that means, except that Dead Gods are about as comfortable here as rats in a kettle." He seemed remarkably comfortable with this bizarre topic, his tone relaxed and matter-of-fact. "Still, humans like stories like Dead Gods like numbers, so places like this draw humans from all sorts of could-have-beens. So odds good we ain't from your future, and you ain't from our past. We're a could-have-been to you, you're a could-have-been to us." Then, as if an afterthought, Koyel added, "should be easy to get back where you were. Once I got them to stop with the geometry stuff, I ain't never been much for numbers or letters, Thuexatiqome told us how you came in should get you back. You ain't even got to be all that precise about it. Simple 'nuff so far, right?"

Mort shook his head. "How the fuck did you get all that outta Big Blue's rambling?"

Koyel shrugged and simply said, "I'm good at listening".

Edited by KillerClowns on Sep 28th 2021 at 8:41:18 AM

Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)

Wolf listened intently to what Koyhel had to say. As strange as the brief exchange between Mort and Koyhel - about Thuexatiqome, Megas and something or someone called "Big Blue" - had been, what Koyhel was saying was stranger - and yet, because Wolf was so familiar with Speculative Fiction and fantasy, also made sense. It was logical, consistent.

What Dead Gods were, he had no idea, but apparently they were - like computers - more at home with numbers than narratives.

So, "here" was apparently not New Zealand but "Between" - there was a tone to Koyhel's voice that suggested the capital. A liminal place... common in all manner of fantasy and science fiction stories. The concept was linked to a large number of things Wolf had read and seen and they crowded his mind.

Wolf weighed up what Koyhel had said, comparing it with his experiences since arriving at the Inn and found nothing that conflicted with what he was being told. Rather, it explained things... the witch and knight made a lot more sense when viewed as "could-have-beens" attracted to this area as he, Mort and Koyhel had been.

It was certainly a simpler explanation for what was going on than an elaborate delusion or an even more elaborate deception.

Wolf gave a smile at what Koyhel said about returning. "Thank you, that's one-a the weirdest things anyone's ever said t'me 'n' yet th'most sensible thing I've heard in th'last couple'v hours. As to gettin' back, I generally do just try t'retrace m' route until I get somewhere I recognise - though I've got a GPS in m' tank bag if I needta find a quick route out in emergencies." He doubted the GPS would be any use here, though.

He took another swig of beer and puff on his vape before continuing. "It appears that even as 'could-have-beens', we've got some common hist'ry - like Fargo f'rinstance - so what's y'r future like?" He looked over at the bullet-riddled target. "I'm pickin' it's not all crystal spires 'n' togas."

Edited by Wolf1066 on Sep 29th 2021 at 7:24:15 AM

[Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)]

A sharp exhale from Mort, somewhere between a scoff and a mirthless laugh. He poured himself a glass of mead as he explained. "Short version? Everyone who was paying attention knew global warming was gonna cook us and the economy was running on hot air and empty promises. But nobody wanted to pay the price to keep us afloat on either count." He took a swig of mead, then put the glass down on the table. Then he pulled out a cell phone, and continued explaining as he fiddled with it. "The powerful kept playing chicken with each other. And sure enough, the Megas barely noticed when it all crashed; we were the ones who paid for their shit. Now?" He put down the cell phone, and surprisingly powerful speakers blared the song Mort had chosen.

Good luck, you're fucked
And we hate to see you go, man
But everyone knows you're screwed.

As a note, Mort is extremely pessimistic and cynical; his words should be taken with a grain of salt. You'll be seeing evidence of this soon enough, even if Wolf doesn't actively prod at him.

Edited by KillerClowns on Sep 29th 2021 at 7:52:33 AM

Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)

Wolf took another swig of beer and puff from his vape while Mort gave a brief description of runaway global warming. Mort's terse and bleak summary of the situation reminded Wolf of himself when he was in his more cynical frame of mind.

The song Mort played sounded like Metal but was not one with which he was familiar.

"Sounds like yours could be my future, the way things are going with global warming. On top of that, we've had a major global pandemic for th'last seventeen months or so - Europe 'n' the USA have been seriously hammered by it - millions dead all over the world, lockdowns, quarantines, travel embargoes, businesses going tits up in the resultant economic cluster fuck... It's all pretty fucked up." Wolf wondered about the differences and similarities between Mort's USA and the one he knew. "On my world, the USA's havin' a pretty bad time of it - over half a million deaths from th'pandemic 'n' then there's wildfires, hurricanes 'n' political upheaval. I haven't seen it personally, but the news comin' outta there is fuckin' horrendous."

He turned his attention to Koyhel. "Y'don't look or sound like y'come from th'States 'n' I don't recognise any-a th'names y've mentioned. Where are you from, exactly?"

Edited by Wolf1066 on Sep 30th 2021 at 11:19:44 PM

[Camping Area (Mort, Koyel; Wolf)]

Mort just chuckled at this question and took another swig of mead. He'd let Wolf ask the obvious question after hearing Koyel go on for a bit.

"Proud citizen of the Qorisayane Empire, born and raised in the Riverlands of Thasul. Don't think the Gods ever put a more beautiful land on Alos or the Dying World." Mort cringed at the Qorisayane nickname for Earth, but did not challenge it. "Seeing the moon at full glow, like a ruby in the sky, shining on the leaves and reflecting off the river... ain't nothing quite like it. Now, the trees grow so thick you can't tell where one ends and the next begins. And the colors... folks wonder why Qorisayane got so many names for colors, but you see the jungle in bloom, you'll know we need 'em all."

"And a dozen ways to kill you per square mile," Mort added.

"Wouldn't say that," Koyel said. "Though... suppose we got..." he counted on his fingers. "Needlefish, emerald wasps, poison frogs, boot spiders, thunder pods, alligators, ripper fish, red pigs, burrow-worms, dream leeches, wisp-trees, hedonist's bane... huh, guess that does make a dozen."

"That ain't even a complete list, Koyel." Then he looked over at Wolf and added, "I suppose you'd know something about that, though." (Mort was thinking of Australia, with its memetic reputation for dangerous flora and fauna, not even considering the possibility that Wolf was from New Zealand.)

Edited by KillerClowns on Oct 4th 2021 at 9:59:08 AM