Síocháin opened the door to the brothel and a cold air rolled in. The street was cold and bright. A perfect day as they went in Spéirbaile. While she was sad to leave such supple fruit unplucked, the idea of leaving the city had sparked a dozen others in her mind. She would have to thank Mion later for his words, though he likely hadn’t the slightest idea what it had triggered in her mind.
“I’ve decided.”
Síocháin sighed audibly.
“Have the heads of the colleges called to a meeting in the Bastion and ready transport for the morning. I intend to upset someone.”
U
Aile
Nearly an hour had passed since the sound of awkward fumbling around the fire pit had pulled Aile out of a reasonable sleep. The cot would not have been her first choice of bedding, but it served well enough and the satyr-hair down was comfortable and warm beyond what she had expected. It had still been dark out when Ilkea’s clumsy attempts at cooking started. The sun was above the horizon now and had begun to make the air inside the tent warmer than she felt was worth dealing with to avoid interaction with the giddy moron outside the flaps.
“Aile.”
The voice was as shrill and painful as it had been for the two weeks since they’d begun traveling together. The young satyr pulled the flap aside and pushed her head into the tent.
“We should take our leave soon. I have prepared for us some breakfast.”
She had expected to get used to the strained sound of a satyr’s speech but it was no less arresting now that she lived with it daily than she remembered it being at any point in her life. Ilkea, for what it was worth, spoke the elf tongue better than any satyr she had ever heard attempt it, but the sound still proved more annoying than anything she might have said. This might have been forgivable if the girl did not insist on speaking nearly constantly.
Aile pulled herself up out of the cot and stretched. It was not so cold yet that she needed to sleep clothed and so she took the opportunity while it was still available.
“I have heard you, satyr. Leave.”
The satyr left and Aile moved to a small, foldable stand that held up her leathers. They had been something of a gift to herself as she made her way south out of Spéirbaile. They were somewhat stiff still, and not nearly tinged so red as her old leathers had been with use, but she liked the fit of them. She pulled them on and admired the curves as they fit to her body. Even her blades seemed to hold in the sheaths with a more satisfying fit than they had before.
She exited the tent and saw an awkward mash of potatoes and peppers coated with dark spices to the point that the entire dish trended a deep red-brown. Aile had not known a single thing about hippocamp food when she had taken the work with Ilkea, but she did now. The knowledge was that all hippocamp food was disgusting. She could not imagine how anything intelligent enough to forge a blade, ever how shoddy it might be, could be so entirely awful when it came to matters of taste. It was as though their tongues barely worked the way they spiced things.
Still, the food was all there was to eat and so Aile forced down as much of it as she thought would be needed to keep her alive until the next terrible meal. While she endured the food, Ilkea broke down her tent and packed the pieces to put onto the backs of the horses. They were packed down with supplies and attached to chariots. It was considered a great offense to ride upon the back of a horse among the hippocamps. It made sense, in a way, considering the centaur were the ones in charge of making such rules. She could not imagine the massive horsemen took kindly to being mounted in any way. She had been a bit surprised to find that Ilkea was also quite adamant that riding a horse in the traditional way— well, traditional to elves and Drow— was deeply offensive. She had said that they must all honor their ancestors and that the blood of the far ancestors of the horsefolk still pumped through the veins of modern horses. She went on to offer that she firmly believed the old horse gods would return one day to raise up the horses that still had no words of their own.
Aile decided that she had pretended not to be disgusted by the food for long enough and she stood.
“Is my tent the last of it?” Aile asked, though the camp was empty except for her tent and the horses were fully laden.
“It is.”
“Then we go when you have it loaded.”
Aile moved for her chariot and sat on the edge in the shade of the large umbrella that sat above it. The umbrellas were stiff and thick. In the warmer seasons, they were likely a great boon to a rider in the open sands of Fásachbaile. In the colder months, the sun would be welcome, even in the wind of horseback travel. None of it bothered Aile overmuch and she’d gladly trade the extra supplies for blistering wind and improved maneuverability. The chariots moved decently enough over the various terrains she had ridden them across, but they made the horse slow to turn and threatened to tip too often for her liking.
Ilkea finished packing the tent and was strapping it to the horse at the head of Aile’s chariot. Aile rose and looked around. They were near no discernible road. This had been a feature of her travel with the satyr that she had not bothered to question. It made enough sense. Elves used roads and elves were not fond of satyrs. To the southwest, a
