I smiled as my new general helped Gneil to his feet and brushed dirt off his toga, though the warm fuzzies were somewhat dampened by the constantly blinking timer in the corner of my vision.
Time remaining for Exodus: 20 days, 9 hours, 35 minutes
I pushed it from my mind and tried to continue basking in the glow of our little victories, but a sudden burst of flame several meters away had the gnomes jumping and reaching fearfully for their weapons.
Damn it, Benin.
True to his word, the mage only left my Sphere after asking my permission. Each day he and Bekkit would go off on their own, ostensibly to train. I still didn’t quite trust them, but Benin did seem to be mastering quite a few new abilities, and they rarely went far enough away that we couldn’t still see or hear them most of the time.
My denizens quickly recognized that the fire was no cause for concern, but my good mood was ruined. Another burst of flame stoked the uneasiness I’d been feeling ever since the dire badger incident. Though the creatures were now firmly part of our tribe, the memory of their earlier behavior still unnerved me. Something had been driving them, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. And Benin’s fireworks would only make us easier to track.
Am I being paranoid?
It was impossible not to worry, especially with so much at stake. We were now over halfway through the exodus—officially past the point of no return. Not only had we yet to reach the forest’s edge and sight the mountains that supposedly housed our destination, we’d also failed to find an alternative refuge en route. Though the forest held animal burrows aplenty, it was surprisingly lacking in the extensive-tunnel-systems-with-cozy-caves department. Without having found a backup option, the pressure to reach our new home was weighing more heavily than ever.
20 days, 9 hours, 20 minutes…
20 days, 9 hours, 19 minutes…
Even the forest itself seemed to conspire against us. The undergrowth grasped at wheels, paws and booted feet alike; the surrounding plants and trees were growing thicker and spikier, and the gradually sloping ground was definitely getting damper, almost marshy in places. I hoped the wagon upgrades—not to mention the gnomes’ morale—would be strong enough to withstand whatever new challenges awaited us.
20 days, 9 hours, 4 minutes…
It shouldn’t get much rougher than this. We’ll be out on the other side any day.
20 days, 9 hours, 3 minutes…
We’re through the worst of it now.
20 days, 9 hours, 2 minutes…
Right?
Forty-One
Stay on Topic, Old Man
Tiri
In Search of Immortality: A Treatise on Elves and the Art of Soul-Shifting by Ar’bek Kitt.
Of all the books Tiri had browsed up till now, this one definitely had the most encouraging title. Who better to consult about God Cores than the race that purportedly invented them?
After discovering Varnell’s secret study, Tiri had decided to make the best of her time trapped in the underground Librarinth while she waited for the Guildmaster’s return. Once an entire day passed, though, she was forced to acknowledge that she needed a new plan.
Slowly, painstakingly, she’d retraced her steps, unraveling thread from her jacket to map her route and guide her back here. There was no assassin waiting for her when she emerged in the burned-out office of the late Professor Knox. The hallway outside had been roped off, and Tiri was able to use the secret passage to return to the Librarinth again and again. She’d have been a fool not to. With such a wealth of knowledge surrounding her, who knew what sort of lost lore she might uncover?
However, despite her current book’s promising title, it soon became apparent that its writer—this ‘Ar’bek Kitt’—was fixated upon some ancient conspiracy theory surrounding the death of an elven deity. Tiri sighed as she turned the page to find yet more pointless equivocating.
“Naturally, we are all aware of the tales of the night elves’ ‘wickedness’—a trait believed by many to be racially inherent, and embodied in the figure of their deity: Garim R’ok, the Tyrant of Darkness. Yet in spite of the innumerable accounts by (no doubt prejudiced) elvish historians convinced of precisely the opposite, this humble dragon is of the opinion—”
Tiri frowned down at the page, thinking the weak light of her chemsphere had conspired with the tiredness of her own eyes to play tricks on her. But no, the scholar really had just referred to himself as a dragon.
After a moment’s consideration, she shrugged wearily. Eccentricity was something of a requisite for becoming a noted scholar, after all, along with age and obsession. The three together had produced… interesting results over the centuries, and it appeared Ar’bek Kitt was no different.
“—this humble dragon is of the opinion that the Lord of Light’s disappearance was not, in fact, a consequence of betrayal by his night elf allies—”
She stopped again, this time narrowing her eyes at the word “allies.” Light elves and dark elves – or night elves, as this old scholar called them – were the bitterest of enemies; even the densest novice in the guild knew that, and Tiri was neither dense nor a novice.
Shaking her head at this outlandish—and, she was beginning to suspect, senile—writer, she skeptically read on.
“—the Lord of Light’s disappearance was not, in fact, a consequence of betrayal by his night elf allies (though such an act would certainly suit the prevailing narrative around that reclusive and much-maligned sub-race). Archaeological excavations of the site known as Bone Gorge reveal a very different picture: a cluster of night elf skeletons (identifiable by their size, obviously, as well as their low bone density, a result of their sunless existence) surrounded by the remains of several hundred
