Once outside, Mica sank to the ground; her wounds had reopened in the strenuous battle. Forge took one look at his cousin and grabbed him up. “I’m getting him back to Antonio’s. Can you handle Mica?”
Molly and Katrina nodded, hefting Mica between them.
Forge carried Darwin off, his pace falling easily into the high-endurance jog for which dwarves are famous.
Thistlepouch watched two more of her comrades were carried off injured and decided it was time someone found a temple of healing. And, since she was the only one present, uninjured, and not carting off one of the wounded, Thistlepouch decided she was the best option. She ran off to the avenue of the temples, keeping her eye open for one with a snake-entwined staff, the symbol of healing if her memory served correctly. One temple had a god holding a staff with two snakes coiled around it; another just had the picture carved into the marble edifice. It was an even shot -- the one with just the symbol was closer, so she let herself into that one. It was a very small temple containing a little altar for offerings and a couple priests moving around in the back. Thistlepouch went up to one of the priests.
He looked down on her benevolently. “Yes, how may I help you?”
“Is this the temple of a healing god?”
“Yes, this is the temple of Asklepios.”
Thistlepouch suddenly remembered Athena’s priests. . . she sincerely hoped this lot was more like Mica and less like Borglum. “Is there anyone here that can do healing?”
“I am blessed by the god, yes. Are you in need?”
“I’m the messenger.”
“I see. So you know of those in need?”
“Yeah. Three of them in one place, actually.”
“May I ask their names?”
“Grog and Mica and Darwin,” the kita replied promptly, though she had no clue why he’d want to know.
“And are they followers of Asklepios?”
She shook her head. “No, Mica is actually Athena’s. And Darwin is a little irreverent, but he’s really a nice person anyway and Grog is just. . . um. . .” she tried to think of a tactful way to describe Grog. “He doesn’t quite understand the gods. He’s a little bit. . . slow. But he’s really nice and I think he might worship a god if he knew how.”
“Well, I will go with you to see if I am able to aid them. Perhaps we can talk.” He retrieved a staff from the corner and motioned her to lead the way. He followed slowly, occasionally pausing and walking over to someone, whereupon he stopped to talk with them briefly before touching them. When he did this, his hand glowed -- Thistlepouch took it as a good sign, as it was the same kind of glow Mica got when she did her Athena thing. Of course, it wouldn’t do any good if her friends died before she arrived with help. . . which, at the rate they were going, was a distinct possibility.
Thistlepouch cleared her throat. “Not that I’m not very grateful that you’re coming, but could you maybe. . . well. . . at the risk of being rude. . . hurry up a bit? They’re kind of seriously in trouble. Darwin is, anyway.”
The priest looked down at her with regret. “I am sorry. . . as we go about the streets we must attempt to pass on at least the word of Asklepios and give his gifts to those we are able. I am sorry. I will attempt to move quicker, though.”
“Thank you.” Really, what else could she say?
* * *
As Tusit approached Antonio’s he noticed two women carrying a cursing Mica. He upped his pace to a dead run to catch up. “Hold! You two! What happened to her?!” he called as soon as he got within earshot.
The brawnier of the two looked up. “She was hurt. We’re getting her to some help.”
“I see. Um, can I hold doors for you?” he offered.
“We’ll be fine,” the woman assured him as he followed the three women upstairs to the hospice area, where doctors bustled around.
Tusit peeked in a room that hadn’t been occupied when he left. Darwin lay on the bed, badly mauled.
“I leave you people alone for a day!” cried the gnome in exasperation, and approached the doctor, stammering a bit. “The-these are my companions. . . I. . . I just left them a day ago. . . is there any way I can be of assistance? I do have skill in healing and herbalism.”
The doctor glanced up. “Could you triage that one?” He pointed to the room Mica occupied. “I’ve got my hands full here.”
“Aye. . . I shall try to stabilize her. . .” Still a little dazed, Tusit wandered to Mica’s room across the hall.
Mica, pissy and in pain, was busy cussing up a storm.
Tusit stepped past the two guardswomen and got a look at the wound on the holy warrior’s leg -- inexpertly dressed. “Good god!” He repeated again, “I leave you people alone for a day!”
“Shut up!” Mica snapped.
Tusit stepped up to her side. “My apologies, but you need this.” He cast Sleep.
Mica dropped.
He smiled up at the two humans. “I think I can take it from here -- thank you two.”
They nodded and left to find Bassano.
Now that Mica was much more cooperative, Tusit dressed her wounds, using pain-numbing herbs. She’d get interesting scars out of them, but after a little healing time she’d be fine. He went back to check on Darwin, unconscious, sewn up pretty good, but still in rough shape.
“Mica is stabilized,” he informed the doctor.
“How bad was she?”
Tusit listed off what he did, though all he said about knocking her out was that he “made her more comfortable.”
The doctor nodded. “That should be fine, thank you. I think your friend here is going to have a few days where it’s touch and go, but hopefully he’ll be in good shape.”
“Where could the rest of my party have gone? Were there any more wounded?”
“Not that I know of. . . the two guards who brought your companion in left to go speak with Bassano, and the dwarf that brought this one in left with a distracted look on his face.”
Tusit sighed. “Bother.” He looked up just in time to see Thistlepouch bounce around the corner. “You -!”
That was all he got out before Thistlepouch threw herself at him in a tackle-hug.
Tusit murpled a bit before he succeeded in prying her off. “I’ve got numerous questions for you, but first of all, is anyone hurt?”
“I don’t know, who have you seen so far?”
“I’ve taken care of Mica, and Darwin seems to be fine here -” he trailed off, noticing the tall man in flowing white robes behind the kita.
“I brought a healing priest,” she explained.
“Greetings.”
“Good day.” The priest nodded benevolently.
“He’s not one of them, but that one is,” Thistlepouch informed the priest, pointing to Tusit, then Darwin.
“Yes, I see.” He took one look at Darwin and flinched slightly. “That one will take some work.” He put his hand on Darwin’s head.
Tusit, seeing the priest distracted, grabbed Thistlepouch by the sleeve and pulled her aside.
“I leave you alone for a day -! What did you get into?!”
“Um. . . you want the short version?” She hoped he did -- she wasn’t sure she had enough energy for the long version.
“I’d like to know what happened! The first time I come back to let you know where I am, I find injured. I go away, I come back, and more of you are injured!”
“Well, um. . . they took it into their minds to go after Lockshy -”
Tusit giggled. “Okaaaayyyyyy. . . ”
“The first time we didn’t even make it out the door before these arrows came arcing from across the street, so I dragged her behind a cart full of rocks and Molly was there and -”
“Molly?”
“One of Bassano’s guards. . . she came to help us. . . she and Katrina.”
Tusit put two and two together. “Oh! The one that brought Mica!”
“One of the ones, probably. I bet the other was Katrina. Big one’s Katrina, little one’s Molly.”
“Well, continue.”
“Okay. So Katrina and Molly got all narked and ran off and I bandaged Mica and she went out and got hit in the leg with another arrow so she was cursing and I helped her get into the building across the way and went off to find a strong bracing drink. A whole bunch of people were up on the roof taking care of the archers. A couple got knocked out, and Forge and Darwin took them off to play with. Katrina tried to dress Mica’s wound but it really didn’t work that well, and it put Mica in really kind of a pissy mood -”
“As I discovered.”
Thistlepouch blanched. “Oh. Sorry.”
Tusit waved it off. “That’s all right, she wasn’t cranky for long.”
The kita brightened. “Oh, did you find some new spells?”
Tusit paused half a beat. “Let’s not mention that again. Continue.”
Thistlepouch blinked, didn’t understand, but was too tired to care. “Well, anyway, we dragged her back and found a whole bunch of really weird pages -”
“And that brings us up to the subject I’d like to talk to you about, but continue.”
“She finished most of the rest of the bottle and I had a little bit and I really don’t remember much after that.”
Tusit giggled.
“Except Forge carrying me down the street and then he put me down because I think we were just about getting where we were supposed to be going and I wasn’t keeping up because I’m short and I was tired and it’s not my fault! So he put me on his shoulders, which made me almost as tall as Mica, and we opened the door to this big old warehouse and more arrows came out so we dealt with those people and Darwin got kind of hurt.”
Tusit coughed loudly and gestured to the gravely wounded dwarf.
“No, that wasn’t that! Yet. We finished up with them and we were starting to clean off our swords and daggers and staffs and torches and then we heard this big clank-clank, and this big guy all wrapped up in metal comes clanking down the stairs and Mica Achilles heeled him from behind with her dagger and I tripped him with my staff. He got back up and Molly tried to do a flying tackle from the top of the stairs but just kind of slid down stunned when she impacted. We fought him some more and he did that to Darwin and Forge got really mad and took his head out with his warhammer, and he didn’t fall down like a good dead person should, and where his head should have been was a green glowing light and I think Katrina and Molly were a little surprised by that.
“As I would imagine.”
“Then we kept fighting him and Molly put a dagger down his neck and I climbed up his back and you know, I could see his guts and his heart was still beating and it was green and it was really neat.”
“Interesting. . . ”
“And then I pushed the dagger down just as someone else got a sword up through his gut and Mica hit him with her sword and Forge hit him with his hammer and his heart turned black and then white and then burst. And then he fell down in a little pile of goo.”
Tusit blinked, trying to take it all in. “So. . . um. . . is that the end. . . ?”
Thistlepouch thought really hard. “I went to get a priest from a healing temple?”
“All right, I just wanted to make sure you were finished. . . where did you say you got these papers?”
“At the place we burned down? With Athena’s hooter?”
“All from the same place?”
“Yeah. It was in a little locked chest.”
“When did you say this happened, with the man in the metal?”
“Not even a candlemark ago, I suppose.”
Tusit pondered a moment. “Note to self. . . talk to Mica when she’s conscious.”
Thistlepouch recalled a perhaps important detail. “Oh, the guy in the metal? He spoke a different language. And his face was all tattooed up like a skull -- before it got smashed off his head.”
That made Tusit laugh. “Good addition. So, no one else is injured?”
“Nothing big.”
“Good. All right. That’s good.”
“So did you read the papers?” she asked hopefully.
“I didn’t really have an opportunity to translate the whole thing. . . it was. . . complicated, at best. It took me over three hours to translate not more than ten lines. Suffice it to say I had a very similar experience with one of the pages you gave me that you said you had with the warrior. Needless to say, it was a bit disconcerting when it happened in my pouch, and when we have the entire party together, I’ll discuss it more. However, right now I’m a bit more worried about our companions.”
Thistlepouch wondered how it was possible for a page to lose its head. . . that kind of page, anyway.
Darwin, perfectly healed, looked up at the guy in the white robes. “Gods’ balls, man, what did you do?!”
The priest shook his head modestly. “It was not me, but Asklepios.”
“Asklepios. All right. And he is. . . ?”
“God of healing. Please, let me talk with you and tell you about him.”
Darwin gave him a twisted half-grin. “Look, you seem like a nice guy, but it’s really not my thing. So if you’ll just let me out of this bed, I’ll go get myself some spirits and I’ll be out of here.” He levered himself out of bed, took two steps, and almost sank to the floor before Tusit and Thistlepouch caught him. Groaning, between the two of them they kept him upright. The wound across his chest began to bleed.
Tusit blinked up at the healer. “Oh, was that just a two-minute healing?”
The priest spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “I fear that he rejected the healing. If the one who takes the healing does not accept it, then it has no strength.”
Tusit sighed. “Bother.”
“Darwin, you’re making this hard!” Thistlepouch complained. She knew he was out cold and couldn’t hear her, but she didn’t especially care. She and Tusit got him back into bed, and the wound slowed to a seepage. “Are you going to handle this, Tusit, or should I go for the doctor?”
“I can take care of it. Why don’t you bring this good man to Mica’s room and see what he can do for her. She’s comfortably. . . resting. . . now.”
Thistlepouch raised her eyebrows at that, but did not comment. “Mica’s more reasonable,” she told the priest. “I hope.”
“She shouldn’t complain,” assured Tusit. “Not for a while.”
The priest nodded. “Very well.” But he only got as far as the door to her room before he stopped. “I’m very sorry, but I cannot help this one. She has the mark of another god upon her.”
Thistlepouch sighed. “She’s probably not as bad as Grog, anyway. Come on.”
Melissanna sat in a chair beside Grog’s bed -- she looked up at the arrivals, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry!”
“I brought a healing god,” Thistlepouch told her, then amended, “well, the priest of a healing god.”
The priest put his hand on Grog’s head. After a bit, Grog opened his eyes.
“‘Lo,” he greeted, dazed.
“Hello, my friend. I must ask, do you accept the healing of Asklepios?”
Grog’s brow contracted in thought. “Who he?”
“He is the god of healing, the god who has returned you to strength.”
“Um. . . .”
“It’s a good idea, Grog. Say yes,” Thistlepouch prompted.
Melissanna looked down hopefully at him.
“Kee.”
“Very good, my son. If you ever are in need of aid or wish to talk with us, please come visit us at our temple. You have a good heart in you, my son.” The priest turned to Thistlepouch. “Are there others?”
“I don’t think so. Thank you very much for coming, even if Darwin was being difficult.”
“I quite understand. Many dwarves are. I wish you good day, and once again, if you ever need aid, let us know. We will do what we can.”
“Do you want me to show you the way out?” she offered.
“I can find it myself, thank you.” He departed; she went back to Darwin’s room where Tusit was finishing with the dwarf. He noticed that the wound wasn’t as bad as it had been, but Darwin was still not going anywhere for a while. The gnome half-collapsed against the bedpost and looked up at Thistlepouch. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”
Thistlepouch considered. “I had sticky muffins and cheese for breakfast. . . ”
“Come downstairs; I’ve had a very long day and you don’t look like you’re faring much better than I.”
She took a moment to think about it -- and now that she’d slowed down, she discovered he was right. “I don’t think I am.”
They found a random page in the kitchen who was only too happy to be of assistance.
“You need a meal? Certainly! I can get you a meal! Heck, Cook could make a meal out of any sort of thing. . . he could make you a Florinian meal, a meal from the depths of Veranis, or even a Veshnian meal!”
Tusit gave him a weary, exasperated look. “Good sir, in the time it takes to describe the meal that you could make for us, we could have eaten already. I would like a simple meal -- cheese, bread, and something a bit stronger than milk, thank you very much.”
“You don’t want. . . an exotic meal?”
“After the day I’ve had, good sir, I would like something quick.”
“No Charlemeinian meals? No Veshnese?”
Tusit went to find another page.
“Yes, m’lord, did the other page not aid you?”
“I would like some meat, cheese, bread, and ale,” Tusit informed him shortly.
“I see -- I’m very sorry -”
“Don’t be sorry; get me food.”
“Yes, certainly, I’m so sorry, terribly sorry about this -”
“Don’t be sorry; get me food.”
“I must atone for this; I -”
Tusit pulled out a dagger.
“I’m going, I’m going, sir! If you would follow me, sir -
The two followed to the main dining area, Tusit cleaning the dagger as if that was the reason he’d drawn it to begin with. The page continued into the back room and swiftly returned with a basket of hard bread, a platter of cold meat, a block of cheese, and a flagon of ale.
“And if you wish, I could get heated food for you very quickly,” he added.
“That would be wonderful; this is good to start with. . . thank you very much,” Tusit replied, quite a bit more civilly.
“And for you, milady?”
She thought a moment. “Do you have soup around?”
“Yes, we do have some stew that we could get.”
“That would be very good, thank you. And if you happen to have any dried fruits. . . or pickles. . . ” she added hopefully.
“Certainly; I can get that for you right away. And ale?”
“No, thank you.”
True to his word, the page brought out a selection of fruit and a couple pickles of considerable size, and added a small bottle of fruit juice as well. Not long after, the soup, warmed meat, and some other food arrived. Tusit was much more gracious towards the help now that he’d been partially fed.
Grog wandered in looking confused.
“Hi, Grog!” Thistlepouch greeted
him sunnily. “Want something to eat? Sit, have some! Lots!” She sent for
some ale.
“Kee.” He sat down and stared at the food.
“Is there something wrong?” the kita asked.
A pause. “Don’t know.”
“Well, have some of the food and tell us about it,” Tusit suggested.
Another pause before Grog spoke. “‘Sanna, she’s hurt.”
Thistlepouch’s brow creased in concern. “How’s she hurt?”
“Here.” He thumped his chest over his heart.
“Oh, dear. I’ll be right back.” She slid off her chair and started for the door.
“Explanation?” Tusit called after her.
“I’m going to find Melissanna. She sounds like she needs some girl talk.”
“Oh. Wonderful.” Tusit cast his gaze to the ceiling again. “One day. One day!” After another sigh, he threw a chunk of meat at the human. “Grog!”
Grog caught it and bit a chunk off.
* * *
Thistlepouch got up to Melissanna’s room and peeked in to find her sitting on the bed. She knocked politely on the door.
“Yes?”
“C’I come in?”
“Yes, I suppose. Can I help you?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Melissanna cocked her head to one side, puzzled. “I don’t think I understand.”
Thistlepouch plopped herself
down on a chair and swung her legs. “You look like you need some girl talk.
Boy trouble?”
A scared, haunted look lurked behind her eyes, but she stopped
what she had been going to say. “No, not really.”
“You sure? There aren’t too many women around here, and if you need to talk, I’ll listen. I won’t tell anybody.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
Thistlepouch raised her eyebrows. “You know, people usually say that and they don’t really mean it.”
Melissanna paused for a moment, looked off into space, and abruptly rose. “Actually, I should really go. I need to get prepared.”
“For what?” Thistlepouch sensed an evasion.
“Well, there’s going to be a ball, or a ceremony of some sort, for my homecoming. It’ll be so nice. . . there’ll be all the dresses; it’ll be nice to have all that stuff again. Anyway, it’s been nice chatting -”
“Then why do you still look so sad?”
“Oh, I’m not sad. I’m fine. I must be going now. Bye-bye!” She walked off.
Thistlepouch blinked and shrugged and went back down to dinner. Grog had been distractedly munching on things in her absence, Tusit attempting conversation.
“Since I’ve been gone, you seem to have gallivanted off on a few vendettas.”
“Vendetta?”
“Chasing after bad people,” he supplied.
“Oh. Bad people came, attacked boat. I stop ‘em.”
“That’s good.”
“Try. They hurt. That was bad.”
“It wasn’t bad that you hurt them, Grog.”
“Felt bad. They were mean.”
“You had every right to hit them back,” Tusit assured him.
“But still. They mean. Don’t remember much. . . after that. ‘Sanna was there. That was nice.”
Once dinner finished, everybody headed up to bed.
Thistlepouch crawled into her bunk, grateful for the goose-down mattress.
She didn’t remember much after that.
* * *
Thistlepouch and Tusit woke bolt upright from a sound sleep for no apparent reason. The windows revealed a night sky with no hint of dawn.
Thistlepouch rolled over and pulled her pillow over her head. Dark is not time to get up.
Tusit on the other hand put on his shoes and opened the door. Instead of the carved paneled wood he expected, Tusit’s gaze met a rough-hewn stone hallway.
“They couldn’t have redecorated that fast,” the gnome puzzled.
Thistlepouch couldn’t get back to sleep, so she got up and padded across the room to her door, staff in hand, and threw it open, ready to fling an insult at whatever woke her up. She also saw the stone hallway.
“This is new. . . ”
Tusit poked his head out the door.
Thistlepouch trotted out of her room and poked at a wall -- it felt like stone. A sudden thought struck her: maybe if the banister was stone, she could get going fast enough to fly! Three steps out of her room on the way there, a little glowing yellow light appeared before her. Curious, she tried to get closer, but it maintained a constant distance in front of her. She took a couple steps back.
It didn’t move.
A couple more.
It stayed right where it was.
Tusit leaned against his doorframe, grinning at her.
“Tusit? I think it wants me to follow it.”
“Either that or it’s trying to get out of your way. It doesn’t seem to be trying to get you back,” Tusit pointed out.
Thistlepouch advanced on it until it started moving forward again. She took a couple steps to the side.
It remained.
Thistlepouch shrugged and headed for the banister; at the stairway, it turned the corner and started down. Tusit went back to his room and gathered his possessions, preparing not to return. Thistlepouch went back for the tinglestick and the rest of her things, too. When she returned, Tusit was waiting for her.
“It appears we’re alone on this.”
“Where are the others?” she asked as she tingled the ball.
“I don’t know. Their rooms are empty. So, what are you getting off of it?”
“It’s just very tingly in here. Everything’s tingly.”
“Since there’s no one else to get, I expect it’s time to leave. Do you have anything in the room?”
“No, I’ve got everything.”
“I had intended to check the boat out last night but was just too tired. Going back to sleep seems pointless at this point, so let’s go back to check out the boat, if it’s still there and not stone.”
Thistlepouch clambered up on the banister while Tusit started down the conventional way. The ball maintained a constant distance in front of him. As the kita sped past, the ball zoomed to catch up and remain in front of her -- which got a giggle out of Tusit. Thistlepouch reached out, hoping her burst of speed would help her catch it, but it didn’t. At the end of the stairs, it turned right toward the front door. Thistlepouch sailed off the banister and landed painfully on the stone. She rubbed her backside, frowning.
“I think I’m going to install pillows down here,” she proclaimed as she headed for the ball again.
“Hold for a moment,” Tusit called. Once he’d descended the stairs, he made a wide berth in attempt to get around the ball, but as soon as he got to the front door, it moved ahead of him in the direction of the door.
“I think it wants us to go outside,” Thistlepouch observed.
“We seem to be being led somewhere. . . my aim hasn’t changed, so I hope the little ball wants to go visit our boat.” He walked up to the door; the ball floated through. He backed up. Thistlepouch opened the door.
The town looked normal, but very dark, lots of shadows and no people. The ball waited for them on the other side of the door, which bore no marks of its passing
Tusit’s face took on a pensive expression. “One of two- no, one of three possibilities. Either they redecorated really quick and everybody moved out, this is some other form of odd reality or Magick, or we’re both having an identical dream. Either way, I must say. . . this is. . . interesting.”
Thistlepouch surveyed her surroundings. “So this is what gnome dreams look like. I would’ve figured more dwarven, with the caves.”
“Aye, with the stone walls, I would say dwarven,” Tusit agreed, “so maybe we’re having Forge’s dream.”
“As long as we’re not having Darwin’s, I’ll be happy.”
Once outside the gate, the ball turned in the direction of the docks.
“Oh, good. It looks like we’ve got a companion,” Tusit remarked. A couple streets later, the ball turned to the right, though the docks were forward. The gnome paused a moment. “Well, it was nice to be escorted. Thank you!” He continued forward.
Thistlepouch hesitated, wanting to learn more about the ball but not wanting to let her only remaining party member out of her sight. But the ball did stay when she was at the banister. . . “Stay right here; we’ll be back -- we just want to make sure the boat didn’t sink.”
The ball rotated, and a few streaks of red shot through it.
“Tusit?”
“Yes?”
“It changed.”
Tusit looked back.
“I talked to it and it did that!”
“What did you say?”
“I said to stay right here because we were going to make sure the boat didn’t sink”
“We don’t really care where you go; we’re going to see if the boat didn’t sink,” Tusit called, and kept walking.
It spun again. And gained more cracks of red.
“Are you hurt?” Thistlepouch inquired, concerned.
Spin. More cracks. It got larger.
“Tusit! It’s getting bigger!”
That stopped him. “What?!” he demanded of the orb.
“Do you have a name?” Thistlepouch asked.
Tusit heaved a sigh and rejoined the kita. “Fine, I guess we follow the huffy ball.”
“Whether the boat’s stone or not, I don’t suppose it really matters, and it’s not going to change if we look at it, anyway,” Thistlepouch reasoned.
“I wanted to make sure our possessions are still in one place since our comrades are so beat up. . . well, they were beat up; now they’re just gone.”
“Maybe our possessions were beat up and then gone, too.”
Tusit laughed at that, made a very deep bow, and gestured to the ball.
“Okay, we’ll follow you,” Thistlepouch told it. “Where do you want to go?”
It hovered.
“I don’t think it’s listening to you, dear. . . I think it’s very. . . very mechanical in nature.” Tusit took a step forward; it maintained distance. He looked over to Thistlepouch. “See?”
“It reacted when I talked to it,” Thistlepouch pointed out.
“I think it was reacting to my leaving, and now it’s all huffy,” he replied as he walked. “Come on, Thistlepouch.”
She caught up, and tried to capture the ball with the sling part of her staff -- it passed right through.
“I don’t think it’s really there,” Tusit told her.
“It looks like it is! How else do you explain it?”
“How else do you explain the wall that wasn’t there when we hid in the doorway?” he asked pointedly.
“Oh. You didn’t make it, did you? The ball, I mean, not the wall -”
“No, I didn’t, and we’re not talking about that, remember?”
Thistlepouch sighed. “You have a funny definition of ‘we.’ Besides, who’s going to hear us?”
Tusit pointed at the ball, smiled, and kept walking.
Thistlepouch sighed. Gnomes are so weird.
The ball maintained distance, occasionally turning down a street. After three or four blocks of blindly following it, Tusit heaved another sigh and looked to his companion.
“Do the words ‘lambs to the slaughter’ mean anything to you?”
“But I don’t like lamb. . . ”
From off to the right and down an alleyway came a strange sound: Murfle?
Thistlepouch turned and looked; she couldn’t see the source, but it had her curious. She toddled after it.
“Ah, Thistlepouch? Is that wise? The ball wants to go this way,” Tusit reminded.
“But I want to go that way!”
“The last time we tried to leave the ball, it got huffy, and apparently it hasn’t recovered yet.”
“Last time you tried to leave the ball, it got huffy.”
Tusit sighed. “Fine. I’ll babysit the huffyball.
As soon as she got to the alleyway entrance, the ball did a complete spin, and the number of red marks doubled. The ball increased size.
Tusit took three steps back. “Thistlepouch! You’re pissing it off!”
It followed those three steps.
“Thistlepouch! It’s looking at me!”
“Bring it over here, then!”
“It doesn’t wa- well, it’s following me now.” He took a couple steps to her.
It swung around to separate them.
He took a couple steps toward it.
It didn’t move.
He hesitated.
“You can pass through it -- my staff did,” Thistlepouch told him.
Tusit spluttered.
Thistlepouch walked towards it -- Tusit obviously had his britches in a bunch over something. When she got closer, it spun back over to the street it wanted to turn down to begin with. It didn’t calm down any, though.
“Now you’ve pissed it off,” Tusit reprimanded.
“Huffy ball!” Thistlepouch sighed. “Fine, take us where you want to go.” She started forward.
Murfle?
She grabbed Tusit’s hand. “You come with me this time.”
“I don’t think it wants us to -”
“It can just piss off! I want to see what that is! It’s not as if we’re going away forever; I just want to check it out!”
“It doesn’t know that!”
“All right! We’ll be back!” she spat at the ball.
It spun around in front of both of them.
Thistlepouch kept going.
It didn’t move.
When she got right up next to it, she passed her staff through it. When it came back out, the wood was rotting and the sling was all mildewy. Thistlepouch dropped it with a cry, seriously narked off. That took her quite a while to make!
“Well, you’re the silly one that put it in there,” Tusit chided. “I told you I didn’t want to touch it.”
“It didn’t do anything last time!”
“That’s because it wasn’t pissed!”
Thistlepouch sighed again. “Fine, take us wherever the hades you want to go.”
“You’re leaving the staff?”
Thistlepouch shot him a Look. “Do you think I can use it?”
“No, but it’s still got parts on it! How long did you wait for that tip?”
She picked it up -- the rotting hadn’t progressed. She hit it hard against a wall, hoping to knock off the rotted bits. It felt solid, and didn’t appear damaged from the impact. She shrugged. “Character, I guess. Evidently it still works. Kind of.” She considered a moment, trying to think of a tactful way to phrase something Tusit said ‘we’ weren’t talking about. “Tusit. . . in your studies. . . do you suppose it could be an illusion?”
Tusit looked at it, but was like no illusion he’d ever seen. “Well, there’s a sure test. Where’s your tingly stick?”
“Everything tingles. I tingle. And that’s new.”
“It’s like no illusion I’ve ever seen. . . and since everything tingles, this is probably all a dream and it doesn’t matter anyway, so I say we ignore the murfle because the bright light that rots things doesn’t want us to go look at it.”
Thistlepouch followed the ball again. Tusit tried to wake himself up as they went, smacking and pinching himself when the kita wasn’t looking. It hurt. He didn’t wake up. “Nope, that wasn’t it. . .”
He smacked himself again. “That’s not it either. . .”
Thistlepouch shook her head in despair. Gnomes are so weird.
As they left they alley, they heard once more from the depths a despondent Murfle?
They stopped.
“Gonna make a dash for it,” Thistlepouch whispered lowly to her companion. “Follow me!” She pelted off after the sound.
Tusit stood dumbfounded, unable to believe the kita’s audacity.
The ball dove for Thistlepouch as she dodged past, but it only caught her sleeve. The fabric rotted, but the ball gave up. Tusit sat down and waited, watching. Thistlepouch peeked behind her shoulder, and as soon as she knew the ball wasn’t following, she slowed and tried to track on the sound. Every time it murfled, she murfled back. Since the rotting icky nasty huffy ball didn’t want her to see it, apparently, then it must be important. . . she kept moving forward, expecting the source to be on the other side of the next pile of rubbish, but it was always farther down, though it sounded like she was getting closer. Just when she thought the murfle was only five feet ahead or so, she heard another one from right in front of her feet. She looked down, stepped back, hoped she didn’t squish it. Nothing but a pile of rotted cloth. She poked it with her foot -- a deep blue lizard about two feet long (not counting the tail) rolled over. It might possibly be related to a dragon, but every dragon she’d heard of -- even the babies -- was big and fed on humans. This one had short stubby wings on its back, a thin neck, a snout on its head, scaled belly, four legs waving in the air as it lay on its back. It cocked its head.
Murfle?
She tickled its tummy.
It giggled and rolled back to its hiding spot, immediately blending with the ground.
She nudged it.
It rolled over -- Murfle?
She tickled it.
It giggled and rolled back.
Tusit, in the street, heard giggling and figured she couldn’t be in too much trouble. He made himself comfortable, sprawled on his back, using one of his softer pouches for a pillow. He didn’t care if he was in the middle of the street -- there was no one around anyway.
She nudged it again, but instead of tickling it tried to pick it up. It cocked its head and rolled onto its legs and started toddling away, then stopped and looked back.
Murfle?
Thistlepouch reached into her pouches and pulled out some dried fruit. It scuffled back. A long, thin tongue snaked out to explore the fruit, found it satisfactory, wrapped around it, and pulled it back to its mouth. Murfle!
A long, thin tongue explored her pouches for more.
“It’s a kita dragon!” she cried in delight. “C’mon!”
Murfle?
Thistlepouch held out a piece of fruit and started walking.
Murfle. . .
It didn’t follow. Each time she held out the fruit its tongue went out to an amazing extension and fluttered there. Thistlepouch made a leash like she’d seen with dogs on the street. It didn’t object to wearing it. She tugged a little.
It looked at her.
She offered a pickle -- it decided it liked pickles, too.
“Yah! Don’t choke!”
It belched.
Murfle?
If it liked dried fruit and pickles, it couldn’t be all bad. She got behind it to give it a push.
It sat down, looked at her puzzled. Murfle?
Thistlepouch pondered what she would want if she was a dragon. More fruit, likely, but that hadn’t worked. She braced her back against it and pushed. It was nearly as big as her, though, so she didn’t make any progress. She walked around in front of it. “Murfle?” She tugged.
It bit through the leash. Murfle.
Thistlepouch frowned. “You wanted me to come back here so badly, and I’m not leaving Tusit. You can come with us -- I’ll give you more fruit.”
It looked at her.
“Or you can stay here and be very cold and lonely.”
It didn’t appear to care. How infuriating. If he couldn’t be tempted with food (she suddenly decided it must be a he-dragon as a she-dragon wouldn’t be giving her this much trouble). . . she pulled out a broach, showed it to him. He cocked his head. “Come on,” she coaxed, backing up a couple steps but still holding it out. His nostrils flared slightly. He plopped down.
Tusit, meanwhile, decided this was all a very twisted, cruel dream that he couldn’t wake up from.
The ball approached.
As soon as it got an inch closer, Tusit spun around to a crouch.
It moved three inches in the direction it had gone before.
“I’m not leaving the kita,” he informed it, and sat back down.
It moved closer.
Tusit tensed.
It continued to approach.
He stepped back.
It grew as it advanced.
He cast Flaming Hands and swept his hands around.
“Whoa, boy! Down! Calm!” The voice came from behind, close, completely caught off guard. The world flashed, and suddenly the sky was blue, clouds overhead, people walking by -- and dodging way out of the way of his flailing -- and then the ball was back, everything dingy again.
Tusit ignored the voice and continued sweeping. Everywhere the flame hit the ball, sparks of red appeared and stayed. Everywhere he overshot, streaks of blue sky or daylit cobblestone appeared. It was as if he looked at the world through a dirty mirror, and everywhere the flame touched cleaned away a streak of grime. He made grander gestures, backing up faster, trying to create more clear spots. Through the spots he could see a ring of people gathered to watch. He made a sweep towards the alleyway and bolted for the clean spot, hoping it would have a portal effect. His back went numb as the ball caught it. He kept running. It was night and dark again in the alley; evidently the flame cleaned a spot instead of opening a window. Tusit glanced back; the ball was following, but not right on his tail or gaining. He saw a bright patch down the alley that looked like Thistlepouch’s shirt. He did a quick pirouette and saw that when the ball passed through a clean spot, it didn’t change, but neither did it recorrupt the clean spot. He started yelling Thistlepouch’s name.
Suddenly the dragon looked up at the kita, lunged forward, grabbed the front of her shirt, and yanked. Thistlepouch, unbalanced, fell forward. The dragon flipped her onto his back and scrabbled away, barely managing to carry her.
“Um. . . Tusit! I think I’m going this way!”
Tusit saw the bright patch slowly moving away, as if blown by the wind. He grabbed it, felt resistance, reversed direction, and dragged the struggling shirt toward the ball.
Thistlepouch felt something snag the collar of her shirt and yank forward, then haul backwards, unseating her. She flailed for a handhold and missed.
Tusit cut off the flame and used both hands to drag her.
The ball stopped and backed up as they advanced.
Murfle? Murfle!
“Come back!” Thistlepouch yelled, struggling.
Tusit dropped his hold and cast sleep at the shirt.
Though the kita did not know it, her shirt suddenly became very sleepy. She only knew she was free and ran towards the dragon -- then realized it had been coming after her. Tusit was in the street, if the dragon would come to her. . . . she stopped and waited.
Tusit saw the shirt drift off a little way and then stop. Figuring he’d put it out, he grabbed it and started dragging again.
Thistlepouch, while she didn’t like being dragged, knew it was in a direction she wanted to go anyway, and it looked like the dragon was still following, so she let herself be hauled.
The ball led Tusit (and Thistlepouch, by default) out of the alley and in the direction it had originally floated. Tusit kept glancing back at the shirt, but didn’t see a kita. Though still following the ball, Tusit headed toward a clean spot. Once there, he stopped and suddenly saw the kita, a bright sunny day, and people walking back and forth -- it looked like a normal day except for the glowing ball and the dragon chasing the kita. The dragon grabbed the front of her shirt and yanked.
Tusit cast Magick Missile.
The dragon flipped backwards. Thistlepouch cried out and struggled until she freed herself. She knelt over her dragon to check him for damage.
Tusit saw this as well as passers-by giving them odd looks. Since the kita obviously couldn’t see him, Tusit could only think of one thing that would identify himself to her. He walked over, grabbed her by the back of the shirt, and clapped his hand over her mouth.
“Trufit?” she murphled, eyes wide.
Tusit walked back to the clean spot.
Thistlepouch grabbed the dragon.
The dragon pulled the other way.
The dragon stayed put -- Tusit moved a little more towards the clean spot -- Thistlepouch lost her grip on the dragon. The dragon grabbed her shirt.
Tusit looked over to see what the ball was doing -- nothing special.
Thistlepouch’s shirt began to tear. Progress stopped.
Tusit let go of the shirt, put his arm around the kita’s neck, unclamped his hand from over her mouth, and rapid-fired Magick Missile at the dragon.
The first shot knocked the dragon’s head to the side. The bottom of Thistlepouch’s shirt ripped off to her bellybutton. The next hit sent the dragon in a half-barrel roll back. Tusit was getting worn down by the third, but the dragon took it right on the chin, knocking his head back. When he regained his bearings, he gave Tusit the meanest look the gnome had seen in a while -- not that Tusit cared.
Thistlepouch held her arms out. “Murfle?” she tried, confusing the hades out of the gnome.
The dragon pursed his lips and drew breath just as Tusit got another shot out. It caught the dragon on the chest, knocking him off kilter. A miniature tongue of flame arced over the gnome’s head and, unbeknownst to kita or gnome, hit the huffyball square on. Tusit’s next missile bopped the dragon on the butt, and the last caught him on the chin as he was looking back up. His head cracked against the cobblestones. He stopped moving. Tusit watched to see what would happen.
“Tusit, leggo!” Thistlepouch cried. “I wanna go to my dragon!”
The arm tightened.
Thistlepouch looked up to see the huge ball -- twice her size in diameter -- glowing bright red and advancing. Her eyes widened. Tusit followed her gaze. He released his grip, grabbed her hand, and bolted to the side. Thistlepouch, unbalanced, scrabbled after. Though they’d left the clean spot, they could still see one another -- but not the dragon. Thistlepouch noticed Tusit’s back rotting.
“Ah, Tusit?”
The ball continued to move past them, rolling in the direction they last saw the dragon.
Seeing it no longer tracking on them, Tusit bolted. Thistlepouch hesitated.
“Do you wanna die, or do you wanna run?” Tusit demanded, and kept pulling.
Thistlepouch frowned. The poor little dragon never tried to hurt her -- in fact, it tried to protect her -- it wasn’t the dragon’s fault he didn’t know Tusit was a friend and wasn’t attacking her. The dragon had tried to get her away from the ball, so it was probably a smart dragon. . . and it was smaller than even Thistlepouch! (Kind of.) The kita stopped dead and bolted the other way, staff brandished.
Tusit, with both hands free, cast sleep. It hit her, then dissipated -- he didn’t know how that happened. “Thistlepouch, I’m not following you! You can’t stop it!” he yelled, and kept running.
Thistlepouch stumbled forward, looked up, and saw her dragon with the menacing ball looming over him.
“I’ve seen kids playing with scarier balls!” she taunted out of reflex and desparation.
The ball paused, rotated, and shot straight at her. She hoped Tusit would find the rest of the party, as she had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t be around to keep him company, and she didn’t want him to get lonely. She dodged to the side, tripped, fell forward through the ball. . . and into a bright sunny day with the bruised dragon lying on the cobblestones in front of her and no sign of Tusit. Her staff looked normal again. At a loss for the right thing to do, she pulled out some dried fruit from her pouch and murfled at the dragon. After a bit, he half-opened his eyes and looked up at her.
Murf?
Thistlepouch offered the fruit.
The dragon’s tongue snaked around, grabbed it, consumed it. He belched.
Thistlepouch spotted her gnomish friend at the end of the street. “Come on, we’ve got to go save Tusit!” she coaxed, helping the dragon up.
He rolled to his feet and shook his head, dazed.
“Come on, let’s go get you taken care of.”
He staggered after -- just barely fast enough that Thistlepouch could keep Tusit in view.
The gnome heard a scream of agony that sounded like Thistlepouch, and a roaring sound, and suddenly the ball flew over his head and shot in front of him, matching his pace again. He got to the end of the street. It tracked to one side. He stopped, looked behind, and saw a small rotting corpse. He followed with a beaten pace, spent.
The ball led Tusit to the low-class part of town and turned to a house, shrunk small enough to pass through the door, and did so. Tusit opened the door -- the ball waited on the other side. He followed it down a hallway and to a room at the end. A body -- human male, about thirty years old, naked, strong, well-built, with a few marks and scars -- lay on a table in the room’s center, the first being Tusit had seen aside from when he was in the clean spots. Against one wall stood a suit of plate mail like Thistlepouch had described. The ball shrunk to its original size and hovered over the body. It shrunk even smaller and moved towards Tusit, hovered a moment near the pouch he had put his papers in, then back over to the body.
Thistlepouch followed Tusit into the building and saw him standing in a room with a dead body on the table, a suit of the dreaded armor opposite him. His back didn’t look rotting anymore, a good sign. She snuck closer and noticed a man all in black robes in the far corner of the room, watching Tusit with an interested posture.
Tusit looked at the ball. “Why should I care?”
The ball got a little larger and gains sparks of black.
Thistlepouch did not see the ball.
“After what you did to the kita, this dead body is causing you trouble? Do you want me to dispatch of the nasty dead body?” He slowly pulled a dagger. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
Thistlepouch watched Tusit insult the mage -- but the mage didn’t seem to take it ill. She snuck up behind the gnome.
Tusit held the dagger clumsily, swinging the tip back and forth, staring at the body. At his offer to dispatch the body, more black spots appeared in the ball.
“What? You fried the kita back there -”
Thistlepouch, with a mischievous grin, opened one of Tusit’s back pouches, hoping he’d notice.
Tusit felt one of his back pouches open and something get pulled out.
The mage’s head shot back; his arm raised in Thistlepouch’s direction. She ducked. What felt like a lump of hot coals hit her square in the chest. She cried out and stumbled back.
Tusit saw a bolt he recognized as Magick Missile shoot from the back corner -- for a moment the ball disappeared, sunlight streamed in the window, and a mage appeared in the corner. Tusit made the incantation for Flaming Hands and released the dagger.
Thistlepouch looked up and saw Tusit throw a dagger straight towards the mage’s chest. It lodged in a crackling barrier. Tusit’s fingers shot jets of flame that raked across the barrier, creating burning spots in their wake. The mage waved his hands.
The ball was gone -- Tusit saw the mage.
“Tusit, that was fantastic!” Thistlepouch cried out in awe and delight.
Tusit stepped forward.
Thistlepouch stayed the hades out of the way.
“Kill the body! Take its heart out!” the gnome commanded.
Thistlepouch pulled out a dagger and wrinkled her nose. If Bob had said it she would’ve balked, but she figured Tusit had a good reason for telling her to do something that disgusting. She climbed onto the table and began her task. The good thing about dead bodies is that they don’t spurt blood when you stab them. The ribs were hard to break, but with considerable grunting and cussing she managed to snap enough of them to carve out the heart -- though she flatly refused to reach in after it. She hurried as much as she could -- a duel between two mages when one of them is your friend is much more interesting than a dead body.
Tusit focused on the mage, drawing his attention. The mage motioned his right hand in a spell Tusit didn’t recognize while the other one moved in synch with the dagger and the glowing spots. Tusit gestured wildly with the flame, trying to distract and ignite his adversary, but only succeeded in igniting the wall behind the mage. Tusit advanced, trying to back him into the flame. The mage gestured with his right hand and threw it at Tusit; he saw a bolt of energy zing forward and hit him on the left shoulder, thankfully not the one he used for spellcasting. His shoulder burned painfully as he recognized the spell.
Tusit guessed the shield at about eight foot by eight foot -- not much chance of hitting him. Tusit concentrated the spurts from his fingers into one stream and aimed it near the dagger so he’d keep hitting the same spot. The shield flared red radiating from the contact point. The mage frantically tried to dodge his shield with his left hand.
Tusit smiled sadistically. “Are -- you -- prepared -- to -- burn!? Do you think this is all I’m capable of? Die!”
The mage grabbed inside his pouch and was about to pull his hand out when Tusit’s flames got though his shield and burned into his shoulder. Flesh smoking and burning, he dropped to his knees in agony. His robes caught. Tusit spread his flame out and heard the mage cry out a word he didn’t recognize as Tusit's flames engulfed his body. Though all the mage’s flesh was burning, Tusit kept up his torch -- he wanted the mage’s soul to burn. The mage’s body faded away and disappeared. Somewhere, the gnome knew, there must be a smoldering pile of body. No one could survive that. Tusit smiled grimly. Good. . . I just sent a message!
Thistlepouch had gotten a few ribs out of the way and the heart carved around. “Tusit, if you want it, you can grab it.”
“Clear!”
Thistlepouch scrambled out of the way; Tusit used the last of his spell on the body. The table became a pyre and the spot the mage had occupied was completely in flames, but the corner the armor occupied was relatively untouched. Tusit turned to the armor -- the crest on the breastplate matched one of the ones from the papers the kita gave him. He clambered up the armor and tossed the helmet to the kita, who caught it.
“C’mon, Tusit, let’s get out of here before we burn.”
Tusit nodded, drew a dagger, and tried to cut through he straps holding on the breastplate, but they were too thick. The flames encroached. Kita and gnome made a dash for the door. Once outside, Tusit found an alleyway and collapsed against a wall near some crates.
“You okay, Tusit?” Thistlepouch asked hesitantly.
“I could ask the same of you,” Tusit replied, exhausted, as he turned his head to gaze at her.
“Little beat up, worse for wear, but basically all right. Can I get you some water?”
“No, I’m fine right now. . . just grateful to see that you’re not dead.” His voice was quiet and intent. He closed his eyes.
Thistlepouch stood stunned for a moment, then decided it was not a good time to ask him about the dragon. She found a little dried fruit and handed it to the dragon -- Tusit didn’t look like he was in any shape to eat anything.
Shouting and calls of “fire!” had begun to go up; people had spotted the smoke. Villagers with buckets ran to the communal well.
Thistlepouch unstrapped her waterskin and handed it to Tusit, who doused his shoulder -- it felt a lot better. He took a swig, thanked her, and passed it back.
Thistlepouch decided he had the right idea and poured the rest of it down her front. She turned crimson to her hairline at the condition of her shirt -- or lack thereof. She pulled an apron from one of her pouches and tied it over herself, guiltily thankful Tusit was too out of it to have taken notice of her shameful state.
“Sit close,” he instructed, gesturing next to him.
Thistlepouch did. She patted the ground next to her. The dragon wandered over, curled up next to her with its head up against her side, whuffled a couple times, and went to sleep. She pet it on the head.
Tusit surrounded them with a copy of the crate next to them and watched the door of the building. People ran towards the building with buckets of water; cries of surprise and disgust emitted from the building’s interior. Slowly but surely enough people showed up to form a bucket brigade. After a while the last of the flames died and smoke stopped billowing out. Villagers wandered away. A few guardsmen poked around. Two of them exited the building carrying the armor and looking at it confusedly. They left. . . people went back to their daily routines. Eventually a man pulled up with a wagon behind him and a shovel over his shoulder. He walked into the house, back out again, grabbed a sack from his cart, reentered, came back with the sack full, dropped it into the cart, and headed out.
Tusit found it harder and harder to keep the spell up; an excruciating headache had snuck up on him. When there weren’t too many people around, he let the illusion fade away. Immediately all the spellcasting he’d done in the previous day hit him. He passed out.
Thistlepouch bit her underlip, concerned, but couldn’t bring herself to leave him, and help was too far away. She rested her staff across her lap and watched for trouble, ready to defend the gnome and the dragon if she had to, but really hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. After about three hours the sky darkened, and Thistlepouch wondered if anyone would ever find them. Just when she had begun to despair of ever sleeping in a soft bed again, she heard a voice, low and slightly confused, but searching. “Thistle. . . Tusit. . . ?”
Her eyes lit with hope. “Grog?”
“Thistle?”
“Over here!”
“Kee.”
Grog rounded the corner, took one look at them, and stopped dead.
“He’s had a rough day,” Thistlepouch explained in a tired voice.
“You too,” he observed. He couldn’t see the burned spot, but she still looked beat to hades.
“Yeah, me too. Hard day.”
Grog reached down and picked Tusit up with one hand.
“Careful.”
Grog rested him on one shoulder. He picked up Thistlepouch and started to do the same, but the kita noticed her dragon was still asleep.
“Um, down for a minute, Grog?”
“Kee.”
Thistlepouch went over and shook her dragon gently -- Grog looked at her weird.
Murfle?
“Time to go home.”
Murfle.
“Yup. You follow?”
The dragon sighed.
Murfle.
“Okay.” She turned back to her human friend. “I can walk, Grog.”
“No. Me should carry. You look bad.”
“But it hurts more when you carry because I got burned,” she dodged.
“Sit on shoulder.”
“But my dragon!” she protested, out of excuses.
Grog looked dumbfounded. “Dragon?”
“Yeah. He’s right there. He’s hurt too, and he’s gonna have a hard time keeping up.”
“Grog. . . carry. . . dragon?” he offered, sounding doubtful.
“Okay!”
Pause. “Where dragon?”
“Right here!” She pointed.
Grog reached down and picked up whatever she’d just indicated, surprised at actual weight. He draped the dragon around the back of his neck. The dragon wrapped his tail around the front to hold on and fell asleep.
“Up!” Thistlepouch held out her arms.
Grog situated her up on his shoulder. She balanced herself on the dragon. Grog turned and headed up to Antonio’s.
“Melissanna help,” Grog assured her. “She patch up nice.”
“Yeah. Melissanna’s good with healing.” She paused. “Are you in love with her?”
“Think so.”
Thistlepouch would’ve pursued the topic further, but she was too tired. She hurt. She’d been dragged around, hurled, grabbed, burned, tripped, fallen through a ball of evil, used as a living tug-of-war rope, and sliced by an undead warrior along her arm. It had been a long day.
***
Disclaimer: Yet another building was burned during the creation of this chapter.