The eyes were not made to linger on Mokosh, and it wouldn’t be long before the familial charm would wane to the dull routine of travel. Unchanging scenery, repeating schedules, and confinement to the vessel were concepts far too grey for the colourful whims of a growing girl.

  “Are we there yet?” Fjalla would ask.

  “No,” Walshland would reply, sounding less amused as the days went on.

  “Well, when will we be?” she would question him.

  “TEN DAYS!” he responded in frustration, his fingers spreading on his temple, “It was eleven days yesterday, and it’s ten today! Come on, Fiona, you put it together!”

  She could obviously deduce how many days were left on her own, but the daily question was her way of starting a conversation with Walshland. He was the only person she could really talk to there; the elderly couple barely spoke any Yormick, keeping to themselves, while the guards were, well, the guards. Moreover, she secretly got a mischievous sense of pleasure watching Walshland get frustrated.

  “EUGH,” she sighed loudly, lying back in her bed and burying her face under her pillow!

  “LUNCH STOP SOON!” signalled the guard, shouting from the front of the carriage as they usually do.

  “Oh boy,” whispered Walshland sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he sat up in his cot. He couldn’t imagine how boring it must be to work as a carriage guard: travelling down the same route every day for the rest of your life, seeing the same places, eating the same food, and avoiding interaction with the passengers, your only changing variable. Must be miserable, he thought, becoming an Einhrar must come with its own assortment of challenges, but the glory, money and repute made up for it. There seemed to be no redemption in being a Transguard Escort Guard.

  “EUGHHH!” she sighed even louder and longer this time, slamming the pillow down on her head multiple times. She’d grown tired of the same food twice a day.

  Bikosh was quite nice, it had a full-bodied texture, savoury notes and a dense nutrient profile. This traditional stew of lamb, roots and leek was the pride of Mokish cuisine, a seasonal favourite. But there was only so much of a dish one could have before they grew tired of it.

  Unfortunately, Bikosh was arguably the only outsider-friendly dish this alien nation seemed to offer, and Fjalla would learn this the hard way. The other night, she’d decided on a change in routine at one of the stopping inns, where she randomly pointed to an item on the menu. Against the advice of the elders, Walshland and even the waiting staff, she ordered and devoured a dish of Glechka, a grey pudding made from an assortment of local beast blood.

  Needless to say, she’d spent the night belching and moaning, writhing in her cot as her stomach twisted and clenched around itself. The next day, she had skipped lunch, and by dinner, she had learned her lesson of sticking to the safer option. And every time she did, the elderly couple would be roused into a scene of pointing, shrugging and gleeful snickering, pridefully restating their philosophical triumph.

  Despite this, and despite their rare interactions otherwise, Fjalla had garnered a fondness for the snarky geezers. Their separation from the group, which came two days later at their home in the village of Lazule, would appear a bittersweet end to their unconventional family.

  She couldn’t help but well up as she embraced the couple, Marzia and her husband Ivar, for a final goodbye. Weeping softly as they gestured for the young ones to look after one another, with Ivar reaffirming that Walshland in particular keep an eye on his younger contemporary. A request, Walshland confirmed by nodding firmly with a stalwart gaze upon his face.

  Luckily enough for Fjalla, the change of scenery she so dearly desired was due to come as they approached the overnight stop at Clowick. The dense forestry of the marshlands began to slowly disperse as the road swung widely around a vast body of water. It stretched so far and wide across the horizon that one unaccustomed to such a sight could confuse it for the ocean. Its silver surface lay flat like a levelled playground for low-hanging clouds that roamed across its distant shorelines. Every so often, when the clouds shifted, one could trace the outline of towering grey plumes, dead center of the aqueous mass, coughing clouds of their own into the atmosphere.

  Fjalla had been staring through her windows in complete awe when she felt the warmth of another face beside her. She darted her eye sideways to peek at the presence, which she revealed to be Walshland. Blushing, she squealed and recoiled away from the boy who was peering outside in equal awe.

  “The Purifiers,” he muttered in a long, wonderstruck tone, planting his index finger upon the glass towards the structure.

  “The what?” asked Fjalla, shaking off the blood rush from her cheeks.

  “The Purifiers,” he explained,” it’s how they keep the Vaelor river clean.”

  Fjalla peered back to the plumes; the clouds had once again concealed them.

  “Mostly clean, that is, at least for the nearby villages,” he continued,” Last time I went by the lake, the clouds had been so thick, you couldn’t see a thing past your own nose.”

  Fjalla had her eyes wide in awe, her mouth slightly agape as she watched Walshland retreat to his own bed. Never had she witnessed a structure so brutish and massive in her humble country life. Shortly after, she would return to the window, mindlessly watching the clouds conceal and reveal the plumes as she wondered about their next stop.

  Within the hour, the cart had begun to slow; the consistent rumbling of its wheels against the gravel was overshadowed by the murmurs of crowds. Fjalla was too engulfed in the lake and mists that she didn't notice that, across from her, viewable from Walshland’s window pane, was the Laketown of Clowick.

  Dense yet humble, the town curved around the shore, sitting at the foot of the Eastern Dion Mountains. Its architecture was short and stout, boasting rows of stone-brick buildings with sloping wooden rooftops. Trees and greenery were randomly dispersed along its alleyways, increasing in number towards the tail ends of town, which merged with the mountain’s forests.

  Towards the center, by the port, a massive cathedral overlooked a bustling fish market. There, the finest local crop hung from hooks and nets across wooden stalls where buyers from all across the continent haggled with the vulgar vendors.

  The carriage had come to a stop not so far from the commotion, a short distance north of the cathedral. There, a wooden ticketing stall, much like the one at Tir Albis, had been erected by a sign displaying “THE TRANSGUARD EXPRESS” in bold red letters.

  “Alright, fellas,” the guard stated through the shaft, “we’ll be stopping overnight here. Take your tickets to the Dancing Fowl Inn down the road; they’ll provide you with a room and service. If anything goes wrong, report back here.”

  Walshland was ready to go; he’d dressed, packed his bag and sat up since they’d first made their way into town. Fjalla, who had noticed all this, was just about as ready, except she hadn’t darted to the door just as the man finished talking.

  “Finally!” Walshland exclaimed. He took a second to stretch and breathe in, “Civilization.”

  Fjalla had slowly descended after, taking in her own gust of local air as she stood in the open.

  “Blekgh!” she yelped. Civilization smelled awful.

  “Oh, and make sure to be back before sunset tomorrow!” insisted the guard.

  Walshland responded with a vigorous thumbs-up, while Fjalla was still scouting her surroundings, trying take in the scene at the plaza. It reminded her greatly of Tir Albis, swarmed with people, obnoxiously loud, and overwhelming. This time, it came with the bonuses of fish stench and uncomfortably cold weather.

  What caught her eye, however, was the cathedral that towered above. She’d seen large cathedrals before in South Rock; there were at least two in Tir Albis larger than this one. Yet, none quite had the same visual appeal as the Cathedral at Clowick. Its bright copper roof was fashioned in the shape of a dome, and its outlines were generally more arched and bowed, contrasting the more jagged design of the churches back home.

  “Vaelen Architecture,” said Walshland, watching Fjalla as she scanned the structure,” Father talked about large round cathedrals of the Old Vaele. There are many like this one still being maintained in Tirune.”

  Fjalla looked back at him in wonder. He had a calm repose to him, smiling as he posited, “Maybe we’ll get to see them someday!”

  “We…” she thought. Yes, of course, they were friends now, friends travel together. “But wait. How would they?”

  Her mission returned to her memory. She’d forgotten about it for the past couple of days; the routine had taken up much of her thinking space.

  Logically, she knew her time with Walshland was limited, that once in Dansfurt, they would take very different paths. He would go back to his post, and she, hopefully, eventually, would be reunited with Papa. She would never see Walshie again. That. That sucks.

  Her nose stiffened, her eyes got all heavy. Then, she shook it off. There was no point worrying about this now. Walshland was here to stay, and who knows, maybe he’ll come to visit her and Papa once all this madness is over.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned by Fjalla’s frowning expression.

  “Yeah,” she sniffles, “it’s nothing.”

  She probably misses her dad, which is what he thought; he misses his too.

  “Listen, I’m hungry,” he states, his stomach gurgling to confirm this, “let’s go see if the inn has more of that lamb stew.”

  It had already been getting quite late, and by the time they’d reached their abode, the sun had long ventured past the horizon.

  The inn was a plain, two-story, wooden building. Its bottom floor served as the kitchen/reception, and the upper floor was divided into a set of rented bedrooms. Hungry, they enjoyed their respective dinners before the landlord escorted them to their respective chamber. Inside, a pair of bunk beds lay on either side of the room, accompanied by a double drawer table. Each of the young ones would then claim an entire bunkbed as their own.

  By the time they had settled in and rested their backs, Walshland had drifted into a deep slumber, knocked cold by the tolls of the day. By contrast, Fjalla’s night seemed to tarry longer; the ramblings of her sleepless mind overpowering the urges of her tired body.

  Earlier this evening, she had a fleeting thought of her father; now she thought about him more deeply. Where was he now? What had he been up to? And most importantly, when would she see him again? It’s been about a month since she last spoke with him and told him about her day, and now she has so much to yammer about. The places she travelled to, the people she met, the foods she ate, the friends she made. Walshland!

  She couldn’t wait to tell him about her newfound friend! What would he think of him? Would he find him as charming as she did? Maybe a potential son-in-law? She blushes.

  Oh, she couldn’t wait to meet Papa once again. Her excitement had kept her from sleep for quite some time, forcing her to toss and turn in her bed for hours. Eventually, however, as the night got quieter and the air got cooler, the hymns of Hypnos would lull her into slumber, ending her nocturnal suffering.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  There it was, a setting quite familiar, yet recently less so.

  The workshop in the woods, empty and unassuming, with its front door at half mast.

  This time, there was no cawing; instead, it was the rhythmic beat of dripping water.

  Its droplets emitted audible “plinks” and “plonks” at distant yet regular intervals as they collided with the floor below.

  Soon, through the narrow opening in the door, a viscous red liquid flowed slowly out into the courtyard. Pooling slowly as it drowned her dream world in blood. It had measured a few inches high before a familiar booming voice dissipated the vision and brought Fjalla back to reality.

  “WAKE UP, SLEEPY HEAD!” yelled an overly excited Walshland, “IT'S TIME TO GO SHOPPING!”

  “Shopping?” questioned Fjalla, rubbing her eyes open as she got out of bed.

  “Yes, silly!” responded Walshland, “You don’t stay the night at a Mokish town and skip visiting the local flea market!”

  “A market of fleas?” she wondered, very confused by the foul proposition.

  The swamplands around Mokosh were famed for their abundance of diverse fauna: from smaller animals such as musk deer and lime lizards, to large winged beasts such as harpies and griffons scattered across its mountains. Its soil was extremely dense with minerals from Black Fall, too dense to allow any sort of proper farming, sporting pits and deposits of various salts across the biome.

  Combine these factors with the Mokish array of socio-economic struggles, a disposable workforce, lack of proper regulations, and the swamp-ridden frontier becomes a coveted destination for money-hungry corporate tyrants to start their talisman-crafting business. Thus, Mokosh earned a reputation as the primary producer of lesser talismans in the Panthean Regions west of the Jades.

  Despite the government's best efforts to export these talismans, there remains no better place to browse the local wares than the Mokish flea markets. Known for their jam-packed corridors, lively atmosphere, and rows of miniature kiosks embedded within the traditional market structures. Every major town in Mokosh proudly hosted its own, and the lake town of Clowick was no exception.

  The Clowick flea market lay on the northern end of town, further from the plaza and closer to the mountains. It began under an archway between two townhouses, stretching down an alleyway about a half-mile to the west.

  Its edges were lined with stores displaying talisman stones of all shapes, colours, and sizes. Some were smoother than others, some were more colourful, some were clear and prismatic like crystals; each inscribed with a functional rune. They hung from ropes from the ceilings, sat on shelves on the walls and lay scattered across countertops. While most commonly sold in their raw form, one could purchase a talisman pre-embedded into gear, trinkets or even jewellery.

  The flea market was also host to workshops, which didn’t necessarily sell any talismans, but often worked in crafts adjacent to them. This included Runesmiths, body modders and artificers.

  It was still quite early in the morning when the pair arrived at the narrow corridor. Shop owners were yet drawing their curtains, sweeping their doorsteps, and setting their external displays. There were but a few people strolling by, mostly local townsfolk heading to their respective workplaces, with the rare foreigner scouting the goods on display.

  Later in the day, the market would be so swarmed with people that it would be difficult for one to see past their own nose, let alone view any products. Walshland knew this, and thus he made sure to get up before sunrise to allow Fjalla and himself an opportunity to experience the market.

  Fjalla was mostly trying to take in the moment, hypnotized by the seemingly infinite variety of stones and little wares before her. She bore no intent to buy anything and so never really interacted with the shopkeepers aside from the occasional smile and wave.

  Walshland, on the other hand, was quite the opposite, browsing all sorts of trinkets and gear he could get his hands on. Oddly, a vocal customer despite his shy demeanour, he bargained tirelessly with the shop owners over the silliest of things.

  “Fifteen bezels for this junk?!” Walshland questioned, “Surely I don’t look that naive!”

  He was holding a small tube with a tiny talisman embedded near a perpendicular metal blade towards the top. The shopkeeper had said this was a runic shaver, used to give cleaner facial hair trims with fewer cuts.

  “It’s seven bezels or nothing!”

  Obviously, the keeper declined, grabbing the item and placing it on the shelf. Fjalla had thought Walshland was being ridiculous, bargaining for half the price was madness. Furthermore, he barely had any facial hair to begin with, and his thin moustache was barely visible from a distance.

  The air was cold and crisp, perfused by light gusts of morning breeze. Fjalla was grateful she had brought her red shawl with her, and was grasping it tightly as it wrapped around her shoulders. She was admiring a rack of peculiar runic lamps where the talisman stone was embedded into opaque, intricate sculptures. In the background, she could hear Walshland faintly conversing with the vendor, the sound of his voice soothing and warm to her ears.

  BANG!

  Frightened by the noise, Fjalla immediately turned her focus towards it.

  Across the walkway, the door to the workshop adjacent to her had been forced open, flung wide on its hinges against the wall. The dainty figure of a slender man came hurling out of its frame, landing face-first into the hard pavement. His hands were bound firmly behind his back, limiting his mobility as he painfully attempted to rise to his knees. Fjalla could see his face clearly now; he looked young, fair and sported a pair of long, pointed ears on either side of his head. Another elf, one of her kin, the first she’d ever seen.

  Thwarting his pitiful attempt to stand was the falling boot of another man stomping on his torso.

  “Stay down, you alien freak!” yelled the man. He was an imposing figure, dressed in a blue-grey uniform much like the one Walshland wears, signifying him a member of the Asgardian troops.

  Three other men followed, two younger men in uniform and a third wearing an apron, probably the craftsman. The craftsman also had his hands bound and was being handled by the larger of the young officers. He was, unlike the other detainee, clearly human, making a ruckus as he twisted and cursed.

  “DOES HE LOOK MAD TO YOU?!” screamed the craftsman,” IS THIS WHAT YOU CALL MAD YOU FUCKING MONSTERS?”

  The third officer, who had a slighter build compared to his accomplices, pulled out his pistol and smacked the craftsman across the chin. Sending his head ragdolling across his shoulders, he ended his fuss.

  Fjalla gasped in shock at the violence. Her heart racing as she watched the older man spit out lumps of blood and loosened dentures onto the pavement.

  “Harbouring untested elves is a crime punishable by death,” scowled the slimy little officer, “ you should be thankful I didn’t use a bullet.”

  “NO,” yelping and screaming, a middle-aged, plump woman came rushing to the door, pushing aside the vile assailant and rushing to tend to her husband.

  The officer who was handling him seemed unbothered, allowing her to see to the bloodied craftsman. However, the smaller man, insulted by her act, would viciously grab her hair and yank her back towards him.

  “You fucking bitch!” he glared at her as she screamed in agony, “We should take this one with us too! What do you say, Captain?”

  He had a malicious, disgusting look on his face as he peered towards his Captain, who had his knee nailed to the elf's face. The lady's screams got louder, wailing and pleading to be let go. This commotion had caught the attention of Walshland, who, along with many of the market-goers, had gathered to witness it.

  “LET HER GO!” demanded Walshland, shifting the little man’s attention towards him.

  “What did you say, you little shit?” the officer asks, squinting his eyes in a demeaning manner.

  “I- I- s- said, let her go,” Walshland stuttered from rage, his fists clenched and his face turning red.

  The smaller officer was about to respond before his captain interrupted, “ Let her go, Scott.”

  Shocked and embarrassed, he looks to his larger friend, who nods to the side and goes, “You heard the boss.”

  He releases the lady, who immediately falls to the floor on all fours, sobbing audibly.

  “Fergusson, take the man. Scott, come take the elf,” commanded their Captain,” I will meet you by the carriage.”

  “But-” began Scott.

  “No buts!” asserted the Captain,” Move! Now!”

  Muttering in displeasure, Scott takes the elf and walks behind his teammate towards the carriage. The crowds begin to dissipate, whispering rumours amongst them and shaking their heads in dismay. Slowly, the captain approaches Walshland, placing his hand on his shoulder.

  “What’s your name, kid?” he asks him in a condescending tone.

  “P-P-Private Walshl-land sir, from the South Rock Division,” Walshland stutters before looking up at him and nodding.

  “Private. Alright,” the Captain nods back, rolling his eyes before he continues,” Listen here, kid. Keep up whatever you’re doing, but, uh.”

  He glances at Fjalla, who was eying the exchange.

  “Mind your own business, will you?” he goes on, “I know how to handle my own men.”

  He brushes Walshland’s shoulder and pats it twice, “Have a good day.”

  Walshland nods and turns around as the Captain departs to join his men. Fjalla could notice he wasn’t well, his breathing was heavy, his temples flushed a deep scarlet, and his eyes were glossed over with tears. She laid a hand on his forearm, looking up to comfort him.

  “I’ll be fine,” he insisted, his voice cracking as he tried his best not to cry. His emotional display had dispelled Fjalla’s own fears momentarily and turned them into concern.

  “Pigs,” came the foreign voice of the shop owner, marching towards the two,” you did great, good soldier. The cards are on the house.”

  Reaching forward, the shopowner handed Walshland a deck of cards. He had planned to purchase these earlier. The kind gesture and words eased Walshland’s pain into a sense of pride.

  “You didn’t have to…” responded Walshland.

  “I insist,” responded the shopowner, “take care of yourself and the little princess.”

  Fjalla smiled at the shopowner, issuing a sweet, “Thank you, miss!”

  “Thank you,” nods Walshland.

  “Come, Fiona,” he turns to the girl, “We should get going now.”

  Fjalla complies and heads back towards the carriage with Walshland. They were going to arrive earlier than expected, but the town no longer felt as welcoming to them, and there was no harm in being ahead of schedule.

  Swinging by the inn to grab their belongings, they were quick to check out and head towards the station. It didn’t take too long before they arrived, and there was no cart by the station. The clerk explained their carriage was meant to arrive by high noon, an hour or so from now. As they waited for their ride, Walshland pulled something from his bag.

  “I have a gift for you, actually,” he admitted, producing a brass bracelet adorned with a clear-stone talisman.

  “Oh,” exclaimed Fjalla, blushing as she slid it onto her wrist,” Thank you, it’s - pretty.”

  Walshland chuckled softly as he produced another that he slid onto his wrist, then he explained, “It's a shining moonstone; it glows different shades to tell how you feel.”

  He raised his arm upwards to show her the talisman, before continuing,” They’re twin rocks, so we’ll actually know how we are both feeling even if we are far apart. Isn’t that awesome?1”

  Fjalla flushed, it was more than awesome, it was thoughtful, caring, romantic even. The gesture had left her momentarily speechless as the bright red hue emitting from Walshland’s bracelet caught her attention.

  “Wh-what does red mean?” asked Fjalla in a concerned tone.

  Glancing towards his bracelet with an innocent star, Walshland too began to blush. He knew what it meant, but couldn’t quite say it. His bracelet joined hers now, both gleaming a bright crimson.

  The pair laughed.

  Soon their carriage did arrive, and they were back on their route, heading north across the mountains and into the Sunless Marshes by the Vaanite borders. The border town of Bludansk was only three nights away, and once they’d passed the Great Bridge of Reprimand, they were back on Asgardian soil and only a short way from Asgard.

  “NO WAY!” yelled a heavily frustrated Walshland, “IT JUST MAKES NO SENSE!”

  Before him was a set of cards splayed on the floor in two rows and four columns. With a stack set to either side of the setup. Standing above the distant row of cards was a prancing Fjalla, giggling and kicking about as she celebrated her victory.

  “KRUT KRUT KRUT KRUT,” she repeated ecstatically, taunting him with her tongue,” I win!”

  “You have to be cheating,” Walshland retorted, shaking his head in disapproval. He had only taught her the game of Krut the other night, and now, a mere 24 hours later, she was making a fool out of him.

  “Oh, don’t be a sore loser now,” she responded calmly, “let’s play one more.”

  Fjalla sat back and crossed her legs, her tiny silhouette outlined by the large runic lamp centred in the inside of the vessel. She was having the time of her life, not because she was winning, but because, for once, she got to share a real fun experience with a real friend. Deep within, she thought she could spend the rest of her days, like this, chatting with Walshland, playing silly games with him and teasing him until he’d lost his mind.

  Walshland sighs, “Fine.” He forced himself to go for another round of potential shame. Gathering and shuffling the cards as the girl watched him in eager silence.

  There was, however, a matter that concerned Fjalla, heavy like a lump in her throat. Walshland didn’t know who she really was. Or at the very least, what she really was.

  The night was quiet. The light was dim. They were alone. Safe. There was no better moment.

  She fondled the brim of her hat; she had long believed it was the string that held their friendship from falling apart.

  “Walshie,” she whispered,” Do you think elves are bad?”

  She had hoped he didn’t hear her, but he was already looking up at her, startled by the question.

  His lips parted as if to begin to speak. Her heart raced. Time had stopped all around her, and she felt weightless. She’d begun to float. The cards began to float. Walshland began to float.

  “OH SHIT,” a scream had just registered within her head, followed immediately by a loud bang. She could faintly hear distant neighing before her body was jerked mid-air and slammed against a surface. Whatever surface it was, whatever happened next, she could not recall. All things went dark and quiet for a moment.

  By the time she had come to, it was still pitch black. She could see nothing in front of her spare the faint outline of a figure she knew too well. It was Walshland, his bracelet faintly glowing amber as she came too.

  “Hey,” he whispered,” are you okay?”

  She didn’t know, honestly. She didn’t feel any sort of pain, but she barely felt anything at all. Her hands and legs felt numb, and her mouth felt dry. Her cheek, however, felt oddly warm and ticklish, as if a centipede had chosen to continuously crawl across it. Walshland ran his hand across it as he inched closer to her face.

  “Shit, sorry,” he shook his head as he backed off, ”I think we crashed.”

  Fjalla could piece that together, but she had to admit, the affirmation was helpful in her state.

  “I’ll go check what happened,” he said, looking up towards the ceiling, where, oddly enough, faint rays of moonlight shone through what once was the door frame.

  “You stay here.”

  She watched quietly as Walshland made his way out of the body of the vessel, and he vanished beyond its walls. A chilling thought crossed her mind. Her hat was no longer on her head. Frantically, she searched her surroundings for it, but could only feel sharp shards of glass cutting up her palms. Her panicked state had overpowered her pain as she started to wonder if Walshland had seen her ears.

  “HELLO,” she heard him shout from outside,” IF ANYBODY IS OUT THERE. COME OUT NOW.”

  She stops looking for her hat, solely focusing on her friend's voice. Her bracelet was glowing a bright amber.

  “I’M PRIVATE WALSHLAND OF THE SOUTH ROCK DIVISION,” he went on, “RESIST, AND I WILL RESORT TO FO - HEY!”

  Silence.

  Walshland had stopped mid-sentence, and Fjalla had given him a few moments to say anything, but there was no noise coming from the outside. She glanced at her bracelet once again to see that the amber light was now flashing rapidly. Her heart raced, her chest was heavy, and she could barely utter a soft whimper, “Walshie?!”

  There was no response from Walshland, but she could hear the unintelligible murmurs of another voice.

  She clears her throat and tries again.

  “Walshie?!” she shouts.

  Still no response from Walshland, the unintelligible murmurs sounding more erratic and clear. Soon she could hear them right outside the caravan, yammering in high-pitched vocals. Their language was like nothing she’d ever heard before, certainly nothing close to Yormic.

  Her band’s gem was flickering slower now, getting dimmer as time went on. She shook her head and began to pray.

  “No, please, no”

  Her prayers were answered by a voice from above, “Fra!”

  Looking up, she saw no God, no Divine, just two silhouettes peering through the door frame. Veiled by the mist and dark of night, they mostly resembled human heads with ram horns poking through their manes. Each silhouette had a pair of bright golden pupils that darted around restlessly before setting to gaze back at the frightened girl.

  In a ghastly croaking tone, the figure proclaimed, “RALVA!”