text: ou're watching a moving picture of yourself completing the gesture. Two fingers tapped against the throat, followed by outstretching the hand, palm open towards the sky. You attempt to mirror the motion with your physical body. E'ffy's eyes grow wide, the small moment of surprise before recognition appears. She returns the gesture, running the tips of her fingers across your open palm.
  
  "Unfurl your black wings and wait..." you start
  
  "...Let the wind carry you home," E'ffy finishes the greeting, a phrase that strikes you as a farewell too, another insight from the voice. "So it has begun already."
  
  "What has?" you ask.
  
  "The bonding of Amir'sshan. He has chosen an outsider. This has never happened before. He has chosen you as his bondsman."
  
  "You mean the artifact?" you say, drawing the dagger for a closer look.
  
  "I mean the god trapped within a mithril prison," E'ffy corrects.
  
  Ignoring the god comment, although that'll quickly be addressed next, you anwer. "The first bond to an 'outsider' shouldn't be that hard to believe. We've only just discovered this World, after all."
  
  Both E'ffy and Redding give you the same look at the statement. "Should I tell him or do you want the honors?" Redding says. E'ffy points towards the former corporal giving him permission.
  
  "Kid, the New World may be new for you and I, but it's not in the grand scheme of things." E'ffy nods, understanding the position that you're in.
  
  You challenge Redding. "And I'm supposed to believe that you had knowledge of a New World all along, and you didn't claim discovery or wealth in Alteran? The first explorers came back with trunks and trunks full of gold."
  
  "A hoax," Redding says. "Do you see gold lying around, waiting for you to snatch it up? I wasn't the only one that learned of the New World's existence. Tell me, kid. You've had some level of formal education. Do you remember Jeremiah Reddish, famed explorer of Alteran?"
  
  "Vaguely," you answer.
  
  "Then allow me to fill the gaps in memory."
  
  Four years at sea he's been. Not the entire time was spent on the Frontrunner, Reddish's schooner and lady of the sea. No, the ship captain loves the boat more than--no, not more than Liza and the kids, although she might argue that's the case. He loves the ship as well as anyone loves anything, a dog his bone, an artist his painting, a father....no, best not to go there. Finally, he's home in Alteran. It wasn't the welcome he was expecting. The ship captain had ventured where no one dared before. A New World! As dangerous as they come. Yet he survived with most of his crew. Half stayed back to build a new life for themselves. Reddish allowed them to. Rations back to Alteran would have been tight anyway. And he may be captain of a vessel, but he's not captain of their lives. Each man steers his own life ship. Reddish would not take away from that.
  
  The Frontrunner pulled into harbor mid-morning. The docks were bustling with cargo ships and many fishermen scrambling to find today's catch. Reddish guided the schooner into the appointed place and dropped anchor. No fanfare. Not even a second glance besides the bookman, who immediately tracked Reddish down and charged an enormous amount for simple docking. A lot has changed in four years. They've forgotten me, Reddish thought to himself, a similar thought that echoed through the minds of his sailors. In their defense, four years is a long time, almost double of the time the expedition was supposed to take. Complications. There are always complications.
  
  Meandering through the streets of the capital city, Reddish took in the sights and smells. It's dirty. Fucking dirty. The cobbled streets hold traces of horse-drawn carts, tracks left not by wheels. Too many people crowded so closely together, the smell from each spreading to the next. And the beggars. When did so many appear? They line the streets and alleys like birds on a tree branch, squawking for spare coin. After spending four years away from the Old World, suddenly civilization felt...wrong. Too many people packed together like...well, like how the Frontrunner's cargo bay currently sits, not a sliver of space between goods. An abundance of wealth lies in the New World, not in gold or jewels, at least not in the sense most men seek. In the New World lies a treasure that is nonexistent in the Old World, a treasure that no amount of gold can purchase: a life of freedom. True freedom. That's why half his crew stayed behind, the other half planning to return with their families, Reddish among them.
  
  Through the winding streets, Reddish wanders until he's finally reoriented himself with Alteran. It took a few hours and a few ales, but he's arrived. He almost headed straight for the King's castle. If he did, this story would have been cut prematurely, a limb severed from the body of possibility, world events changed forever, both New and Old. But something, perhaps guilt? (longing?) caused Reddish to detour his journey at the final moment. Instead of heading straight to the castle, always his first destination upon return, Reddish cuts down Crow's Lane to a certain two-story house with a certain family inside. His.
  
  It boasts a new coat of paint, a stone gray. Martha was always on his ass for a new coat. Seems she finally went through with it on her own. One door. Five windows. Reddish took a deep breath in preparation, still unwashed from his four-year expedition, still exhausted from the journey. But he's home. Finally. Fucking, home. Reddish took the first step and then stopped. Someone moved inside the house, briefly passing by one of the five windows facing the street, a man, a man who looked perfectly in place in Reddish's home. Did Martha move without telling me? The explorer wondered. And how would she tell him? He'd been unreachable by letter or pigeon. Then, a second movement. One that stopped Reddish's heart within his chest. Martha.
  
  She's laughing. She's dolled up nice. Are they going out? Her chestnut hair is curled, reaching just past her shoulder blades, covering the space of bare skin that her little black dress exposed. A flash of light drew Reddish's eyes towards her hands and the rings that seemed to cover each one, all falling short of size and glimmer of the diamond around her purity finger, in the place where Redding's own, smaller, diamond once rested. Replaced, both with the ring on her finger and in his very own home. Four years exploring the New World, finding all sorts of weird creatures and wildlife, fearing for his life during encounters with the natives, Blackbirds, journeying across the sea, unsure if food and water rations would see him to Alteran alive. Four years, and he never expected this.
  
  He doesn't know how long he stood there, outside, watching his (ex) wife rush back and forth getting ready. It must have been awhile--Reddish remembered how long Martha usually took to get ready. Felt like (four years) hours. But when the distinct sound of the doorknob clicked, HIS doorknob, Reddish, moved by instinct alone, quickly side-stepped behind a nearby lamppost. It's unlit now. Cold. At dusk it would be lit by torch. The two of them, arm in arm, travel down the stone steps to their home and take off down the street in the other direction.
  
  "Mr. Reddish, sir?" a childlike voice, unsure of itself, rings softly behind the man hiding.
  
  Reddish turned to find Gabriel, the neighbor boy who often played with his own son. That was years ago. Gabriel appears to be 11 or 12, the age his son would be by now.
  
  "Gabriel, you recognized me after all this time?" Reddish can hardly get the words out. Rather than met by his family, he's met with the boy who played tag with his son, the boy who would discover mischief along with his own heir.
  
  "You are wearing the same coat, Mr. Reddish," was the reply.
  
  The mention caused Reddish to glance down. Sure as hell Gabriel's right. It's tattered. Frayed at the edges, and like his home was, the color was faded. He could afford a new one. Now that he's returned with news of the New World, Reddish could afford 50 new coats if he wanted. But he doesn't want to. He liked the one he wore. Money will never be an issue again in his life, he's sure of that fact. But he's on the outside, a man thought dead and cut from the lifeline of his family. He wouldn't put them through his return. They seem at ease. Happy. Martha got her new coat of paint. All he would bring is pain to their lives. In four years Reddish became a man who gained the world, a New one at that, and somehow lost everything in the process.
  
  "How's Jack doing, Gabriel? How's my boy doin'?" Reddish uttered, managing to hold back emotion.
  
  "He's good," Gabriel answered, a typical response for someone of that age speaking to an adult. "I'm going there now. Want to come?"
  
  Want to come? See his son after four years. The answer is a whole-hearted yes, yes-fucking-please, yessir, lead the way! But that's not what Reddish said. He couldn't do that to Jack, who had a new father now, a new life. A boy needs a stable home. Reddish would only cause chaos, disruption to a life that boasts a sturdy foundation. Martha got her new coat of paint. Reddish had no doubt she got a lot more than that.
  
  I...can't, Gabe," Reddish whispered. "I have something for Jack, though. Would you give it to him?"
  
  Gabriel nods.
  
  "Good. Come with me. We'll be short, I promise."
  
  Gabriel nods again. Just around the corner. Yes! It's still there. Macagans. The old tavern was a favorite of Reddish's, unless Cliff changed the menu drastically. Knowing the old barkeep and owner, Reddish doubted it. As a regular, he couldn't even persuade the man to serve water for free. Reddish told him it would keep patrons there longer to purchase other food and drink. The barkeep simply said, "If I pay for it, they pay for it." Can't argue with stubborn.
  
  It's not late enough for the usual night scene to arrive yet, which was fine with Reddish. Macagans was built from an old docking bay and warehouse. Two giant barn doors serve as the entrance, the inside large, open, and full of fresh air, something that a seasoned tavern patron can appreciate. Often establishments are too tight. High risk of bumping into another and spilling a drink. Like the New World he just arrived from, Macagans gives the freedom to move and sit where he pleased. In the reorienting process, Reddish was grateful for the former warehouse.
  
  "Is that Reddish or do my eyes deceive me? Damn those restless orbs if they do." Cliff spotted him almost immediately, coming from behind the bar, same apron and by all appearances, the same tunic as he wore four years ago. Besides a little more around the gut, the barkeep looks largely (ha) the same, long sideburns, hairy forearms. "And is this your kid. Oh..."
  
  Realization seemed to fall upon Cliff. It's as if he spilled a secret he wasn't supposed to say. His face becomes like the explorer's, reddish. "You know then," Cliff spoke again.
  
  Reddish ignored the statement. He didn't want to think about that now, definitely did not want to talk about it either. The letter will be difficult enough to complete. "You still carry that dark ale, Cliff? The one with the frothy top?"
  
  "Aye," Cliff answered.
  
  "Keep 'em coming. Anytime you see my cup empty, replace it with another." Glancing down at quiet Gabriel, Reddish added on. "And a candied apple for Gabe here."
  
  "Aye. Sit anywhere you'd like. I'll get the first round."
  
  Reddish picked a spot in the corner. Facing the bar, it presented an entire view of the tavern, back to the wall. Exactly how the man himself felt. A single table, two chairs. Reddish took one. Gabe the other. From within his coat (she got her fresh coat), Reddish pulled a parchment and quill. He might not be able to be in Jack's life, but damn if he wasn't going to leave him with something to remember his father by. His real father. Where to begin? How can a father pack all that needs to be said in a single letter? A tankard is placed on the table. That'll help. That's for damn sure. Reddish starts by getting the hardest part out of the way. Often the most difficult step is the first one. Then momentum builds, carrying. This was the path he's been forced on. Like in the New World, Reddish sees fit to explore it.
  
  "Reddish...Redding, what's the relation?" you ask.
  
  "My grandfather," Redding answers. "My father, Jack Reddish--Redding changed it in early adolescence."
  
  "Why?" you start to ask, but then lessons from your history book creep in. If you remember correctly, the explorer was executed for crimes against the king. Treason. "Were the charges justified?" Strange thing to ask, but it already left your lips. It's like a friend disclosing an argument they had with a stranger and taking the stranger's side. Luckily, your strange question is directed towards a strange man.
  
  "Some. Although there was some embellishment of course, as there are with any trial. Treason aside, my grandfather was silenced. He spoke the truth about this place." Redding kicks the dirt beneath his boots for emphasis. "There were those from his crew that stayed behind. It's a hard life, but a free one. Damn if those under the shackles of civilization don't deserve the chance to break free."
  
  "The first outsiders," E'ffy comments. "They moved west. The tribes drove them from the coast."
  
  "I was wondering about that," Redding says. "No doubt the High King would have put them down if they stayed. By the time the military organized and settled here, it left too much time in thought for the crew. Too much freethinking time. The Old ways only work when each link in the chain is content to do their job without questions. Once they start asking them, however...then it threatens the entire structure of civilization."
  
  "And yet they named Frontrunner's Camp after Reddish's vessel?" you ask.
  
  "And yet they did," Redding utters.
  
  "That's why you're so hell-bent on changing the New World," you add on. "The High King's father wronged your family. It's been revenge, slowly building until the opportune moment. Your father, Jack, could not accomplish it in his lifetime. Now the burden rests on your shoulders."
  
  "I'm so hell-bent on changing the New World because it's the right thing to do," Redding retorts. "Or did you already forget the way Alteran citizens are treated. Links in the chain. Spokes in the wheel. Cattle under yoke."
  
  You're tired of arguing with the man. It never accomplishes anything, and you're certainly not going to get anywhere debating the task that was passed down from his father's father, not that you're against it anyway. Secrets. There seem to be too many, even withheld from your closest allies, which in this case is a single man, perhaps a Blackbird priestess in addition. I'm talking about the god trapped within a mithril prison. Secrets. Too many of them. One problem at a time.
  
  "Where does this leave us?" you wonder aloud.
  
  "I need your help," E'ffy answers without a second thought.
  
  You glance at Redding. He offers a shrug. "How can we help?" you ask.
  
  > Continue
  "The S'umbra have taken over. They have poisoned the mind of the chieftains. The tribes are united, yes. But they are bound under the false priests' rule."
  
  The similarity is not lost on you and Redding. The ways of the Old might not be limited solely to the world itself. It seeps in, the corruption of leadership, a steady deluding until the creek is pure no more. You need only to look around you to be reminded of that fact. A place once peaceful, unstained with blood is littered with the fallen. Perhaps that's the byproduct of civilization. No, there's more to it than that. Evil men taking power, allowed to. Without common men standing up, they're allowed to flourish in their closed-fist approach. Reddish's, Redding's, your mission can first be accomplished with the natives on the land. The New World in its rampant overgrowth seems to have a few thorns, a thicket choking the lifeblood of the Blackbirds. The Blackbird priests, the false ones, need to be pruned, cut away from their constricting path. First with the Blackbirds, then, perhaps with native allies at your back, you can turn your attention to the soldiers from the Old World.
  
  Receiving Redding's approval, you answer E'ffy. "We'll do what we can."
  
  (Ever the hero. I once was like that. We have a lot in common, you and I.)
  Except I'm not considered a god.
  (Just a title. Nothing more, nothing less. I sense the Harri'ar will not approve of my bonding.)
  I have a feeling they won't approve of anything when it comes to me.
  (You and the girl, you mean?)
  Did I say me and the girl?
  (It was implied.)
  You're reading into things.
  (Eyes on the prize, hero. There'll always be another set of tits. Trust me.)
  
  E'ffy waits for you to continue. If she has knowledge of the artifact and its power, then she shouldn't be surprised by instances where you apparently space out...you might need to check your surroundings more when the voice speaks. No, not the voice; the god trapped in a cage, one that has bonded with you for some reason. Amir'sshan, E'ffy called him. Hey, having the six-shooter isn't a bad deal, especially when compared to the standard issued Alteran flintlock. The voice is simply an annoying side-effect. Nothing more, nothing less, as it would say.
  
  "The war party hunts the artifact?" You phrase your statement as more of a question.
  
  E'ffy answers, "Yes."
  
  "Then wouldn't returning back with you be heading straight for our deaths?"
  
  She smiles. "Under my protection you will be safe. The Raven extends a protective wing over those who do its work."
  
  "Yeah, but I'm not so sure the others will see it that way. They are 'false priests' after all. Who's to say they won't bend the law to..." You make a motion with your finger across your throat.
  
  The motion causes E'ffy to laugh. It's a pleasant sound, a clearing in the forest, an oasis in the desert. "Then they would have to..." She runs her finger across her own throat. "...me as well."
  
  A reassuring statement if you ever heard one. "Alright then. That settles that," you say, a meaningless comment in its own right. "Ladies first."
  
  E'ffy eyes you puzzlingly, likely not hearing the phrase uttered before. Once it registers, she takes off from the creek. Ignoring the fallen Blackbird warriors that you slayed. It's a nice place, not the first, and it sure as hell won't be the last to be ruined by mankind. You make it a point to discover a similar place...and leave it pristine. Beautiful. There's bound to be many such areas in the New World, yet untouched by civilization. The creek softly sings its farewell as you take off after E'ffy, a sad song of melancholy and loss, the cries of an innocent victim.
  
  E'ffy leads you through the forest. You and Redding follow behind, single file. She takes you straight into the heart, journeying farther away from Frontrunner's and the garrison. If you could see through the canopy, you'd see that you're heading uphill. The overgrowth masks the climb some; you're already needing to step over fallen trees and wayward roots, the forest floor on the other side being at a slightly higher level than where you came. Part of you wonders if you're walking towards your execution. E'ffy seems to know what she's doing, however. After all, she healed Redding's fatal wound in mere seconds. The woman could have more surprises; women often do. And there's still the matter of the god trapped in your dagger...one with a, let's say, unconventional demeanor.
  
  She leads you to a cave overlooking the sea. From the elevation, you're afforded vision over the trees from which you just traveled. They look as if blades of grass, unlike their towering trunks when standing next to them. Here, though, here they are small specks in your vision, nothing but pine needles, small green-tipped matches. Leaving the forest canopy, you're left in the same darkness. This one is a true dusk, not the false dusklight of the thick leaves. Two great rocks rest on either side of the cave's opening, like soldiers standing guard for their king. Starlight starts its first shimmer, the way a small diamond would sparkle turning it over from different angles. Soon the sky would be full.
  
  E'ffy does not travel with any equipment. All you and Redding have are your weapons, waterskin, and a few odds and ends that fit in your belt pouch. More odds than ends, matches included. After receiving approval from E'ffy--campfires draw attention, unwanted or no--you flick one and light a small flame just outside the cave's mouth. Orange glow meets dusklight. Warmth fights the creeping coldness of night. E'ffy didn't disclose if you're close to the Blackbird tribe or not. You're assuming not if you're stopping here for the night, although arriving in the middle of the night with two Old World soldiers probably wouldn't sit well with the Blackbird warriors. Likely you'd be greeted with an axe. Or hundreds.
  
  You settle down next to the flame. No bedroll or pillow for your head, so instead, you use one of the great rocks to lean against. E'ffy takes a place next to you. Redding, unsurprisingly, takes the other rock for himself uttering something about a boat only having two oars.
  
  "If your tribesmen haven't spotted us before, they surely have now," you comment, eyes glued on the flame. A piece of wood cracks in the fire as you finish your last word.
  
  "They have spotted us hours ago," E'ffy says. "I told you, the Raven--"
  
  "Yeah, yeah, takes those under his wings of protection," you cut her off. E'ffy glares at you in response. Framed within the part of her black hair are two smoldering orbs, pupils as dark as the artifact you carry.
  
  "You would do well not to mock the Raven."
  
  "Who says anything about mocking? You've lectured me on your doctrine before."
  
  (Yeah! You tell her!)
  
  E'ffy continues her glare, gauging your intentions. From what you can tell, she settles on mistrustful forgiveness. Or something like that. Something about her look says, I'll let this one slide. Next time, however...
  
  "Why don't you two kids get some sleep," Redding says from across the cave's opening. Speaking of the cave, no one in your little trio went to explore it. There could be wild animals inside. Or worse, angry Blackbirds. In either case, the artifact would appear in your palm, a small thundercloud along with it, and death would rain from the six-shooter's chamber. Your other companion flashes you a look much different from E'ffy's. Two hour shifts. You take first. It's a traditional sleep watch schedule. Makes for a low energy day the next, but better to have low energy than no energy, life (and energy) taken away in the unsuspecting night by blade.
  
  > talk with E'ffy
  "Hey," you whisper. Redding is softly breathing, either asleep or faking it rather well. E'ffy turns your way, whispering even lighter than Redding's breath.
  
  "What?"
  
  "We're arriving at the war camp tomorrow?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Have you ever had outsiders before?"
  
  "None that weren't prisoners."
  
  "Is this going to be the classic case where you pretend to bind us, masquerading two captured soldiers around to gain entry, while feigning as prisoners allows us to enter the camp without issue?"
  
  It's a good trope. Unfortunately, it hasn't made its way to the New World quite yet. Give it a few decades, and you're sure more than one heroic adventure will involve it. In this case, you're stuck with solely a beautiful native princess, probably a virgin, too, if you had to guess. E'ffy voices her confusion.
  
  "I do not know of what you speak."
  
  "Nevermind," you say. Turning more serious, you add, "You know, this is probably the place--or at least a hill nearby--where the Blackbirds fired upon our ships. There's a perfect view of the water from here. If it were light, that is."
  
  "Why do you call us that?" E'ffy asks, sounding truly interested. Her eyes, losing the previous glare, look at you the way a child listens to their father telling a bedtime story.
  
  "Blackbirds? I don't know. It's what everyone calls you back home. Has something to do with your religion. The Raven, I mean. As far as I know, there hasn't been any friendly contact between our people. So someone along the way called the people here, your people, 'Blackbirds,' and that's what we know you by. I'm sure you have a name for us outsiders."
  
  E'ffy smiles. Her teeth shine more brilliant than any full moon you've witnessed. "To be polite we call you outsiders to your face...between the Harri'ar you are the tek'usans, 'stunted pale skins.'"
  
  It's the same word the Blackbird warrior called you at the clearing. Your face grows long. "You're not taller than me. Maybe just an inch or so."
  
  She points towards your boots. "Take those off and it is more."
  
  Right. E'ffy walks around barefoot. The bottoms of her feet must be conditioned beyond belief, for the forest floor of the New World isn't soft by any means. True, it's mostly dirt. But still, rocks, roots, and thorns aren't a rarity. You imagine it's a little like walking barefoot in the backyard of your home, having a familiarity with the environment to the point where protection isn't necessary. Not all backyards have poisonous plants and wild animals though. E'ffy's might, but yours sure as hell doesn't--didn't.
  
  "Fair enough," you answer. "Tell me something as our lives are in your hands... Are you in good standing with the tribe? If we are going to help you take the false priests out of the picture, will there be support from any others?"
  
  "Mmm," E'ffy ponders, fingers grasping at the single braid down the side of her face in thought. "Very few. My beliefs are...traditional. They hold true to the sect of the Raven that has brought us flourishment. The S'umbra are different. They bind the chieftains together like a crude water raft, riding safely atop while our people take the brunt of the waves."
  
  "If you are a priestess, then you must have a temple. Is it large? Do many (Blackbirds) visit?"
  
  "It is sizable, yes," E'ffy says. "I believe I already answered that question."
  
  Very few. Great. So you're about to bring religious revolution to a native people that have currently assembled all their tribes together to hunt the very thing that rests on your hip, the artifact. Amir'sshan. The fucking whipped cream on top of the pie is that the people, the natives themselves, aren't in support of the revolution. If anything, you're attempting a tyrannous overthrow, backed with six shots in the chamber and a ravenblack blade. Though to be fair, that's probably how the S'umbra came into power in the first place. Power begets power. Once you gain momentum, perhaps the tribesmen will turn towards the cause. The cause...what exactly in the fuck is the cause? The individual. Collective thinking, a poison upon both the New and Old World.
  
  "E'ffy, I have so many more questions for you," you say, exhaustion settling in.
  
  "Save them for tomorrow. Tonight we need rest."
  
  Truer words have never been spoken. The warmth of the fire lulls you to sleep, normally something that doesn't come easy. Tonight, it hits you like a gust of wind. Absent one moment, then present--in full force--the next. The last thing you remember is E'ffy mindlessly running her fingers down her braid. And comfort. Comfort from the fire. Comfort from companionship. It's not a feeling you're used to.
  
  > Sleep
  The first thing that draws your attention is the wind, a howling gale that would have Alteran women holding the hats upon their heads. The second thing is the moon, full and bright, covering the world below in its lunar glow, shining far brighter than any moon you've witnessed before. It's as if you're closer, brought together by the nature of the New World. So close, in fact, that you can see and identify dimples on the moon's surface, craters brought upon by a celestial beating.
  
  And the third thing, the thing that rises far over the rest, is that something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
  
  It's the feeling of being watched, the feeling causing you to shut your window blinds at night, the feeling brought from a pair of eyes in a crowd full of people. The hair on your arms rises, as if reaching out themselves towards the moon. Adrenaline pours throughout your body. High alert. Your eyes scan the wilderness around you; your finger rests on the six-shooter...
  
  ...it's gone. The artifact is gone. After a quick, if not rapid check for the others, you discover they are gone as well. In response, you draw cold steel. You pull the longsword from its sheath, noticing the hollowness it brings compared to the artifact. The difference between the two weapons is like a fresh batch of ale opposed to an unfinished tankard that's been sitting out for days. But still, like the two-day old ale, it'll do the trick in a pinch. And you're in a goddamn pinch, to say the least.
  
  You rise from your seat. After leaning against a rock for what, two-three hours, there's a stiffness in your lower back. Let that be tomorrow's issue. Tonight has plenty of its own. The moonlight affords you vision of your little camp. The fire's long burned out, black embers and ash lie in the place where flame once danced. Prints on the ground reveal your presence. You never tried to mask them anyway. Off in the distance, the sea, the Great Sea as the Blackbirds would call it, crashes against the shore. The sound doesn't reach you in your elevation, although your mind fills in the gap, imagining the sound each time a cloudy white line of foam touches the New World beach, the place that almost killed you with a little help from the Blackbirds.
  
  The footsteps. They lead into the cave. Sword drawn, senses high, you follow.
  
  Not four steps in, the moon, shining brighter than it's ever before, abandons you to darkness. You've stepped from its watchful gaze, from a place of light where misdeeds and lawlessness can be witnessed into a place where the shadows thrive, a place with no accountability for one's actions. The floor is dirt. You feel its soft impact on your feet, almost sand-like, it's so loose. You pause a moment to allow your eyes to adjust. They don't, at least not entirely. What was dark and formless is now dark and slightly-less formless. You can't see any hard edges, the specific shape of those sharing the cave with you, but you receive a rough outline, spots in your vision that are a shade lighter than the constant darkness. It'll have to do.
  
  The cave, with its serpent-like entrance, winds around a few twists and bends. Large stones line the interior, similar to the two standing guard just outside. At least that's what you silently think they're for; instead of royal guards, standing post outside their king's throne room, they could be something else entirely. Jailors, for example, making sure no one escapes the cave. After a few more turns, no branching tunnels or other paths, luckily, the cave opens into a wide cavern.
  
  It must be deep as you can't even see the ceiling. It's dark, and like dropping a pebble into a body of water, once it goes beyond your depth of vision, it might as well be infinite. There's a small torch lit, however, a tiny flame standing alone against the impending darkness of the cave. It's not a normal torch though, but it's one that you're well familiar with. Ravenlight. It highlights the other figures in the cavern, shadows brought to life, one free, one bound. Their backs are towards you. Even then, it's easy to tell who they are. Who else? Redding and E'ffy.
  
  Redding is tied to a pillar. HIs arms and legs are spread like the four corners of a compass, bound at the ankles and wrists. Ravenlight dances. The sudden shift in light reveals that Redding has been stripped of all clothes, exposed to the world. More importantly, exposed to E'ffy. She remains in her tanned leather dress, standing completely still in front of Redding. Something in her hand flashes in the ravenlight. The artifact. It's a dagger in her palm, the wing-tipped handle poking out just outside of her hand. Not that you've felt particularly bonded to the artifact, even if that's the term used for unlocking its power, seeing someone else, E'ffy, holding the artifact (IT'S MINE) feels wrong. It feels very damn wrong. She speaks without turning around, perhaps sensing your presence, perhaps not caring if you watch what's unfolding. E'ffy carries the artifact, after all. How could you dare stand up to such a power?
  
  (Worthy is the one who sacrifices himself for the Raven. Under the protective wing, the Raven covers those who follow its will. There is no greater glory than the surrendering of one's life for the greater good.)
  
  Her voice stops you in your tracks. It's a mixture of the woman herself and the voice you hear in your head. "E'ffy..." is all you can utter, the rest of the words lost to you.
  
  (The second coming is near. All that stands in the way of the Raven will be smote. Let the thunder ring. Let the clouds pour black rain. Its return is here.)
  
  "E'ffy," you say a second time, finding the strength of your lungs. You grip the longsword tightly through both hands, raising it defensively. Nerves run through your body. It's the feeling before an unavoidable argument, the feeling standing in formation waiting for the battlefield commander to wave you to march upon the enemy. The eventual battle is coming.
  
  She finally turns around. You wish she didn't. You wish to every god that was or has existed that she didn't turn around, that she kept looking forward, fixed on Redding's bound body. But she does. She turns to look at you, the one with your weapon drawn, knuckles tightly wound against the handle, the blade itself growing increasingly heavier by the second. She turns to face you, and that's when you see her in all her passion, a religious devotion to bring the Raven's will about by any means necessary, a hurricane of a woman destroying all in her path to do the Raven's work.
  
  Her eyes are solid black, pupils hiding in the shadows. No. Ravenblack. E'ffy's braid, once perfectly weaved together, is completely loosened at the end, strands of hair escaping in single-piece runaways, like the way a sister's hair looks after a brother ruffles it for fun. A thin line sits where her mouth once did, both lips pressed together tighter than a workman's vice. Her chest breathes heavily, bouncing up and down, something that would perhaps send your mind into a man's imagination under normal circumstances, but this is anything but. A dark pool of sweat accompanies her dress, wet blotches near the underneath of her arms and stomach, matching the glistening drips at the base of her neck.
  
  (Would you join me in bringing about the Raven's will?)
  
  She--they--don't wait for your response.
  
  (The end of the drought is here. Those who have taken up in my Father's house will be driven from it. Wolves in sheep's clothing. Predators in the night. They now face one far greater than their own. The Raven returns.)
  
  E'ffy's face seems to melt, features rolling down her head like a mudslide, twisting and mixing with one another. Her skin drips from her face like melted wax from a candle that's long been forgotten. Ravenblack feathers appear, the woman herself becoming the exact creature that she worships. Sharp talons pour from her fingers, blending in with the artifact; wings sprout at her back. The transformation is almost complete. Her eyes, no longer E'ffy's, land on you. They're shifty, the way a bird stares, then cocks their head a few seconds at a time, far quicker than a human eye can follow. With a cry, E'ffy, the bird-like creature bears down on you. Your longsword is useless.
  
  > wake up
  A hand on your shoulder, a head resting on the other. You awake face-to-face with Redding, squatting to eye level. He holds up two fingers. Time's up, sleepyhead. You nod and turn to the head resting on your shoulder. When you see her, it takes every instinct in your body not to startle, jump, run. E'ffy's sound asleep, shifting in the night to use your shoulder as a makeshift pillow, body leaning on one hip the way a woman sits on a picnic blanket in order to save those downwind from an unsavory flash. You suppose it's a natural position to sit, considering her traveling companions are two men.
  
  Then, Redding and you have the same thought. It's the instinct that animals seem to have when an earthquake is near, the bones of an old grandmother alerting her to rain clouds on the horizon. Your vision collectively draws to the subtle place E'ffy's hand has wandered. Whether by accident or not, it rests on the handle of the artifact. Worrisome, to say the least. Your bet is that it's accidental, unintentional, whatever. After all, she didn't--or at least it appears she didn't--try to draw the weapon itself, the artifact currently asleep in its dagger (talons) form. Redding gives you a shrug, one that's becoming just as patented as his constant smirk, as you gently slide from underneath the woman, lightly placing her hand from the artifact.
  
  (Concerned I'm cheating on you, hero?)
  
  Ignoring the jest, you think back, Do I need to keep an eye on this woman?
  (Have you ever not had eyes on her?)
  You're useless. I'm in no mood.
  (Well you certainly seem like you're in some sort of mood.)
  
  The voice's demeanor reminds you of an older sibling being difficult on purpose. It seems to sense the thought...or hear it.
  
  (I would not concern yourself with the priestess. She's but a wolf pup seeking to take on the pack.)
  That's exactly what her allies want to hear after throwing in their lot.
  
  Redding interrupts the dialogue, whispering, "If you're going to have conversations in your head, do it while I sleep. I can only assume that's what you're doing since your mouth is moving in small patterns, but no words are coming out."
  
  Right. It's your shift. You decide to take Redding's position on the other rock. Perhaps some separation between you and E'ffy will help your thoughts flow freely, even if they are altered by the voice. Taking a seat, you glance at the night sky. A cloud layer hangs over you, a steady, well, cloud of dark gray, glowing in the section nearest to the moon, who's seemed to take a backstage position tonight. The voice, helpful as always, quiets down, allowing you to focus on your watch. Small animals cry out in the night, their howls, chirps, and oddly enough, clicks, unfamiliar to your ears. The night passes without any further interruption, at least not any that don't occur every two hours on the dot.
  
  The next morning you awake famished. The events of the previous day took precedence over hunger. It's a shame you don't have any travel rations, not even a small amount of dried meat for a quick fix. You voice it to the others as they awaken. E'ffy takes the chance to volunteer to teach you which plants are safe and which are fine to eat from. WIthout equipment to pack up, there's nothing else to do than follow her.
  
  Surprisingly, last night was warm. Warm enough to rest comfortably without blankets or a sleeping roll. The morning is a bit brisk, however, making you think exhaustion won the warm/cold battle the previous night. You doubt you'll return back to the campsite, if you could call it that, and take one last look at the two giant stones guarding the cave's entrance; the mouth of the cave itself sits dark and void. Will you join me in bringing about the Raven's will?
  
  E'ffy leads you cheerfully down the path; there's almost a skip in her step. You'd consider yourself a morning person. Being in the military forces you to be one, although you've never felt energy like E'ffy in the morning. You think you catch Redding rolling his eyes a few times, and confirm he's never felt the same either. It's the endless energy of a young child, yet unaffected by the weight of life and the tendency to lean on the bottle. E'ffy stops and plucks a few bright berries from a nearby bush.
  
  "Dark red is good. Bright red is bad," she says, handing the berries out. You look down in your palm. The fruit she placed in your hand are red, yes, but different shades of which one could consider both dark and bright.
  
  "These ones are...ok?" you ask. Next to you, Redding pops the entire handful into his mouth, the way one would toss back a shot of vodka.
  
  "Dark is good. Bright is bad," she repeats again.
  
  You slowly raise your hand to your lips. E'ffy watches intently. At the last moment, she nods her approval, upon which you toss back your handful as well. Flavor bursts into your mouth. Juice squirts out from the berries like a puncture in the side of a ship. It's sweet. Fresh. Like the inside of a pastry.
  
  "Not bad," you comment.
  
  "Way to understate it, kid," Redding says, plucking more berries from the bush. You take a few more for the road. Today you'll arrive at the Blackbird war camp. They assembled an entire war party to march on the outsiders, tek'usans, who disturbed a sacred resting place. You've burned bridges with both superpowers from the Old World and can't rely on their support. You doubt even Prinn, a childhood friend with whom you've survived much, would come to your aid. That is, if he even recognized you. You arrived in the New World with a thousand soldiers as your allies, traded them for the Magda garrison, and now you stand with a single Blackbird woman to count as an ally.
  
  (Don't forget me!)
  
  And now you stand with a single Blackbird woman and a mouthy...voice as allies.
  
  (You're too kind.)
  Be serious for a moment. Are we rushing to our doom?
  
  A pause.
  
  (I know not. In my current form, I've been passed from user to user. Spent centuries as a royal heirloom, given from father to son. There are only a small number that I've bonded with. Those who I bond with hold possession far longer than the others.)
  Yeah, possessing a gun with endless bullets tends to preserve one's life.
  (And this is what you heroes live for, is it not?)
  Don't call me--
  (--your type lives for odds stacked against them, a lone man against an army, standing against the onslaught of enemies.)
  Sounds romantic and all, but I'd much rather have an army at my back.
  (Well, you don't.)
  Well, I don't.
  
  The voice turns quiet, almost reflective. You draw closer to the Blackbird war camp. It's not their traditional home, at least that's what E'ffy makes it sound like. Rather, it's a temporary dwelling to unify as a war party, ready to mobilize at a moment's notice. It's around midday, just past, when you arrive. This close to the war camp, you're surprised that you haven't run into any warriors. They must be watching though. There's no way three people are allowed to wander this close without several eyes, and likely arrows, pointed in the direction.
  
  The land itself bears the dense overgrowth that you've grown (ha) to expect from the New World. No stranger to military camps, the Blackbird's presence is unexpected, or rather, their lack of presence. The numbers that you fought at the garrison were a significant amount. Holding that many members in one place should be telling in the environment around it, heavily marched trails, lessened wildlife noise, the occasional discarded item or smoke. Nothing here. Unless E'ffy was leading you here, you'd have no idea you're able to stumble upon hundreds of Blackbird warriors.
  
  Twisting vines run across the path you take, mirroring tree roots that have rampantly grown underfoot, poking their heads up from underneath the ground. Then, a rush of water. It's soft at first, barely heard through the trees. With each step it gets louder, a steady crsssh of white noise. The air itself becomes misty, like that of a morning dew. The jungle opens up to a clearing not much more than ten feet deep.
  
  "Gods above," Redding blasphemes under his breath.
  
  Directly across from the cliff's edge, a large waterfall crashes down to a pool of water, the impact of the water creating white mist. The waterfall itself gracefully falls from a sheer cut of blackened rock, the color of rock that you'd imagine seeing next to a volcano. Jagged edges guide the waterfall, sharp edges that frame either side like armed guards escorting a prisoner of war. Surrounded by green, the blackrock waterfall is a deadly oasis in the New World forest, a clearing in the woods, the eye of the storm.
  
  "The camp is here?" you comment, eyes glued to the water like the way one stares into a fireplace and the flames that dance within.
  
  "You will see," E'ffy answers with a smile. She steps to the cliff's edge with both arms outstretched. "May the Raven protect us in flight." She waves you and Redding to imitate her.
  
  "You're--you're not going to leap, are you?" you ask, glancing down. It must be at least a hundred feet straight down.
  
  "Are you coming or not?" E'ffy asks.
  
  "Ladies first," you answer without a beat, arms similarly outstretched in flight position. Redding simply shakes his head, but also does the same.
  
  "Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and--"
  
  A hand at your back. And suddenly you're falling, falling, falling...
  
  ...and land on your back not two feet behind the cliff's edge, pulled down by E'ffy's grip at the back of your shirt. A dazed look shines on Redding's face before the patented grin appears. It's brief, but you catch it. You probably have the same look on your face minus the grin. E'ffy's laugh fills the air, a womanly tone mixed with childlike glee.
  
  "It is a common trick we play on coming of age warriors. 'In order to test your loyalty, jump.'"
  
  "Yeah, and did we pass the test?" Redding utters under his breath.
  
  E'ffy shrugs.
  
  "So how do we get to the camp then?" You try to get things back on track. For the mission that you're on, you're finding it strange that you need to. Chalk it up to words lost in translation or something like that. The clashing of cultures. Men and women...that one's a bit more of a stretch.
  
  "I will show you," E'ffy says, back to being serious. "The path leads down here."
  
  Off in the distance, not nearly close to "here," there's a break in trees. The overgrowth parts just enough for several bodies to pass through side by side. It appears to be a natural break; there aren't signs of Blackbirds chopping away at vines, branches, and bushes, not that you'd expect them to anyway. The natives are much in tune with the New World's overgrowth, and even though you aren't completely understanding of their religion and customs, you're fairly certain taking an axe to the jungle for a simple walkway isn't something they're keen on doing.
  
  As you pass through the break, the air itself feels different. Cooler. Fresher. The first breath is like that of walking in the night air after being tightly packed in an alehouse for hours, the difference between icy spring water and water that's been left in your waterskin for days. Of course the war party would reside here. If you had a choice, you would too. The path leads downhill, twisting, spiraling. Overhead, tree branches hang