A guiding light,

  on willowed bough,

  to good or fright,

  a wisp of hope.

  An unknown will,

  This noose or rope.

  It laughs a tune,

  Your fate, afloat.

  ”A Guiding Light”

  Gunther’s Translated Wood Elf Poems

  They had to move on. Every single member of the party was in agreement on that. On everything else they differed: to follow the wisps, to seek out a Watcher of this forest, to follow Ferngal’s directions, or to move slowly and scavenge a stash.

  Syrdin stirred the pot–the cooking pot–watching zheir companions simmer over the day while attempting to plan. Gale ogled as yet another wisp wafted daintily over a stark white branch, chirruping some kind of false greeting. Gale’s eyes were glossy and large–a sure sign of bewitchment. The others remained focused on one another, though Fenn did have a sketch open of the glowing creature.

  That book. Zhe needed to steal his notebook again and find out what he knew of Ath-togail. He could hear her. The pot boiled higher as zhe grew distracted from stirring. It was almost as if he could see her. The easiest way to talk to Fenn without engaging the others was to write him a note. The hissing of the pot brought zheir mind back to the task at hand.

  “Kupraak,” Syrdin whispered to the spice bag, pleased to see the bitter herb fall into the pot. That would cover the taste of anything, even the antidote zhe had been requested to slip into Gale’s bowl. Which of course led to it being “Syrdin’s turn” to cook. Ugh.

  Fenn finished reading the poem about the wisps for everyone. The thing on the branch “sang” its call as they stewed in silence.

  Syrdin frowned at the fungi turning over in the pot. Nooses and ropes–zhe’d rather avoid engaging with either if the chances were split. Zhe would just cut zheir own path without the help.

  Krid crossed his arms. “That can’t be right. The rhymes don’t follow.”

  “Actually, that is the original rhyme scheme. ABAC, then DCEC. Even translated, it’s the same. A good interpretation, I might add.” Gale kept her gaze fastened to the creature while she spoke.

  “Thank you,” Mell smiled, apparently somewhat responsible for the translation, “but regardless, this is all of the information we have on the creatures. With that, I’m hesitant to follow, even if I am curious where they would take us.“

  “But it wants us to follow it. I can feel it.” Gale pointed to the misty wisp. “And it is a guide. I still believe we should listen to it. After all, it knows plenty of things we don’t, and, I believe, based on the fact that our government redacted them from our literature, that they are probably related to the gods and magic you all are searching for.”

  Fenn nodded. “That is likely, but we don’t know what kind of magic they’re connected to exactly. Or god for that matter. They could be worse than the pixies.”

  Krid scratched his thorny chin.

  Syrdin sent a subtle nod of agreement to Fenn. It’s not worth the risk.

  “Do you know anything about wisps, Syrdin?” He asked directly.

  Arsdark, he’s learning! “Not much,” zhe answered honestly. “But Ferngal gave us directions. We should stick to what we know.”

  “I agree,” Krid admitted with a grudging rumble.

  Fenn sighed with a scholar’s regret. “I’m sorry, Gale, but you’ve been outvoted. We’ll keep following Ferngal’s directions, and unless anyone argues, we’ll do it right after we eat.”

  “But I just have this feeling that it’s a good thing to follow it. Like it was sent to us. And it could take us to hope.” Gale spoke with an airy drama that pulled an assortment of concerned and judgemental stares from the others. Bewitched. They were all thinking it.

  Fenn shook his head. “Or ill. It’s a bad gamble.”

  She pouted first, then opened her mouth again.

  “The agreement we have,” Krid interrupted her, “demands you drop this.”

  She flinched, but sank her chin into her hands and her elbows into her thighs. “Alright.”

  Thank the shadows for that drakeman’s rules. Something needed to shut Gale up.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  As Syrdin seasoned the stew, Fenn and Mell found a few moments for study of the wisps themselves–their appearances, their kinds. Fenn had sketched them all–four so far. They never appeared more than two at a time. Most were foggy, some were just wads of wind and leaves, but sometimes they were silvery or coppery blobs. Fenn “proposed” that perhaps the leafy ones were dryads instead. Mell entertained the possibility, but pointed out that even the leaf-wisps chirped.

  “I don’t see why there can’t be breeds of wisps. I mean, even the sudfieds here come in different colors. And the pixies. And the elves.” Zhe pointed to zheir own face for emphasis. “Now come scoop your bowls.”

  Fenn gaped, scratched something down in his book, but forgot to share it with the group. And that’s why I keep pilfering it.

  “Did you know,” Krid said, handing over his bowl, “that old Dragonfolk tales speak of spirits like these?” He had been silent for a long time, and unhappy about it. Bored, probably.

  “Really? What do they say?” Mell took Gale’s bowl from her relaxed hand and passed it to Syrdin. It was easy to slip a potion in when Gale spent the entire time watching the wisps.

  “The spirits of dragons are supposed to appear as tongues of fire to guide the worthy drakeman. I’d always imagined something like the copper wisp.”

  The bowl went back into Mell’s hands, and then into Gale’s.

  “Spirits of those passed on? Hrm.” Fenn turned from scooping his own bowl to discover Mell had moved, leaving a space for him between her and Gale. He tried to hide his hesitation as he sat.

  Syrdin repressed a snort. So Mell wants to play matchmaker.

  Fenn grabbed his notebook again. Gale sniffed her bowl, wrinkled her nose, and began to stir it absently as she stared off.

  Eat, girl! Syridn tried to imagine what would get her attention off the wisps. It was obvious: an annoyance. “Did you say you imagined, Krid? I didn’t realize that was something a drakeman could do.” Zhe lilted zheir voice in exaggeration and grinned.

  “Of course we imagine! We have art and stories just like any other people! It’s yours who only know the art of war–until taught otherwise.”

  “Really? You do?! I gotta admit, I’m not much of an artist. Only color I ever painted in was red.” Zhe glanced at Gale, who was now frowning in zheir direction. “But what art do you do, Krid?”

  “And you tried to pretend you’d lived in Brikhvarnn?!” He rasped. He was sounding genuinely vexed. Not the goal, but worth the cost.

  Fenn looked up from his notebook, finally, almost as single-minded as the bewitched girl.

  “Nope! You assumed I lived there, and I didn’t correct you. It’s different. Anyone with an imagination would’ve asked where I lived.” Syrdin bit zheir tongue with mischief.

  Mell sighed. Krid’s nostrils flared. Gale was scowling, but still didn’t eat.

  “Then, where are you from?” Fenn asked.

  Syrdin blinked, zheir grin faltering. Zhe plucked it back up again. “Oh, here and there.”

  “At least answer his question!” Gale snapped.

  “Oh no, someone’s still hangry!” Syrdin prodded with raised brow. “I’m just joking around, princess. Besides, I’m pretty sure he already knows if he’d think for a second.” Zhe jabbed a finger towards Fenn.

  Fenn cocked his head, considering it for the first time. Gale stared daggers at him.

  “If zhe had a home, it would’ve been in Rockfall, where Mell met zhem. There’s a large hub for mercenary and adventurers’ guilds there. Plus, it borders several regions, meaning the cultural mix would’ve made zheir differences less obvious. But knowing zheir sense of humor, I’d say zhe didn’t have a house in particular, just a place to touch base, and so zhe wasn’t lying.”

  Syrdin gestured to him. “There, he gets it.”

  Krid rumbled in a disgruntled, guttural way.

  Gale bit her lip in a withheld defense. Her bowl wasn’t even in her lap anymore, left beside her on the ground. A no-longer-distracted Fenn picked it up and tried to hand it to her. Syrdin had accomplished something, at least.

  She glanced at it, then gave him a demeaning look, her pointy little Highland nose wrinkling. She was as disgusted with him as the soup.

  Syrdin feigned focus on zheir own bowl of gunk, watching from the side of zheir eye.

  “You need to eat,” Fenn whispered. “The food won’t get better from here.”

  She scrunched her forehead in a don’t-tell-me-what-to-do look.

  He bumped the bowl against her arm. “Please?”

  At last, she accepted the bowl from him with a sigh. “I really hope you are wrong about the food not improving.”

  He followed her sigh with a heavier one. “Me too.”

  “At least Syrdin never claimed cooking as a skill.” Krid grimaced. “Even if it does take imagination to cook this bad. I’ve had better goat’s liver!”

  Mell’s lip curled. “Not that this is at all tasty, but I doubt that.”

  “Nah, I believe it.” Syrdin added. “I think this might be the worst thing I’ve ever made.” The more everyone insulted it, the more easily Gale would believe hers tasted the same as everyone else’s.

  Fenn sent Syrdin a pitying look, and zhe rolled zheir eyes. I’m the one who seasoned the oatmeal, you fool. I know how to cook.

  He jerked his attention away as his dominant left elbow was jostled by Gale’s right. She was sitting closer than she needed to, despite the constant arguments. Syrdin took that as a sign that all the arguing was for attention. Gale couldn’t have been more obvious about what she really wanted.

  “Pardon,” Gale said quietly at the next jostle, her ears turning pink despite her sour face. She attacked her soup with an angry gusto.

  Oh goddess.

  “It’s fine,” Fenn whispered too fast, tucking his arm against his side.

  Please tell me Mell’s simple ploys aren’t actually working.

  Fenn took a breath and relaxed into place beside her.

  Clarify, child, Ath-togail whispered back to zheir thoughts. What are you asking of me?

  Syrdin scoffed at zhemself. For a moment, zhe had forgotten that zheir prayers were usually answered–at least in words. Nothing, goddess, I’m only witnessing the worst romance in all the five realms.

  Are you asking me to intervene?

  Syrdin weighed the idea against their shared goals. No. Syrdin could intervene on zheir own anyway. And that would be much more fun.

  Gale finished her soup and kept on staring longingly at the wisps.

  not willingly agree to the matronage with Gale (see this years four-part Holiday bonus for more details)