The Legend of Randidly Ghosthound

Moish and Tenectoil, now introduced to each other and building a bridge of friendship between the two of them which had a strong foundation of long near-anonymous association, sat on one of the low, horizontal shoots that spread out from the life-giving vines running through the slums and ate corned ostrich sandwiches on unleavened bread.

Despite the day before, today was good. For now, that was enough. Both chewed in near bliss.

Ostriches were a pest that filled the badlands, but their presence near the slum was a recent development the locals were busily exploiting. The greedy birds had discovered the berries that grew on the new vine system and now periodically returned for a meal. And a new source of meat was exactly the sort of boost the refugees around Homewell needed right now.

Each bite was a struggle; the cheap bird meat was stringy and the bread was rough. Yet each felt like a triumph. For one more day, they bad both managed to survive. Tenectoil’s arm healed slowly and Moish now had an ache he couldn’t pinpoint in the knuckles of his right hand, but they lived.

Both bit into their sandwiches and tore off another chunk of sustenance. Their chewing was nearly synchronized.

The horrid grey clouds loomed on the horizon, a reminder of the Nether force waiting outside their gates. Part of a larger offensive, slowly constricting around the Aetherlands. But Moish had learned long ago to focus only on the now.

His attention remained in only those moments you were guaranteed, the present.

“Raddeus going to pull through?” Tenectoil asked between massive bites, dragging the mood down somewhat. Bits of ostrich meat were stuck between his tiny and sharp teeth as he spoke.

However, Moish offered a cautious nod. He reached over and patted the warm body of the thick main branch of the vine. “They said the Nether Warrior’s energy infected the wound, that it would be impossible to do anything. That he would slowly rot away, one organ at a time. And I thought, his daughter- well. We were just trying to make him comfortable, feeding him water from the vine. Giving him a few small fruits. And… the Nether is dissipating.”

Moish could only nod. It was hard not to feel a fierce pride when he looked at the plant, the ancestral crop of the Homid people, now swelled to almost deific proportions. But he still looked furtively around before answering. “I… don’t know what else to think. And apparently others have noticed too, although no one wants to talk about it to publicly. In case…”

Tenectoil gave a knowing nod of his own. Both understood that if the knowledge became too widespread, the Turtlelines would come out and begin draining all the liquid out of the vine for their own purposes. It was impossible to hide the truth from the rulers of Homewell forever, but for as long as possible, they wanted to let them believe the vines were just a strange, and perhaps convenient, mess in the slums.

Moish leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the vine, feeling its warmth. He loved reminding Raddeus’s daughter, to distract her while her father’s pain was at its worse, this plant had been his gift to her, a rare bit of Homid history. And now it had expanded and provided so much for the slums.

The main branches of the vine were about a meter off the ground, thick enough for a surefooted individual to walk along the top without fearing a fall. Rigid, almost cage-like protrusions grew out from the bottom, mostly horizontal before they dipped down at the end. It was on one of these that Moish and Tenectoil now sat. But also, compared to the ramshackle hovels which had populated the slum previously, it was much easier to dig under a main branch of the vine and lay materials across the lower offshoots, creating a sinuous, partially underground length of dwellings separated by curtains.

A more fernlike series of growths sprouted up from the tops, now several meters long and constantly waving in the wind blowing off of the badlands. Fruits grew on these ferns and the people of the slums were just figuring out their secrets. Because the fruits started small, only the size of a coin, but being on the ferns they would rapidly accumulate dirt blown in from the West. At first the Homids had frantically cleaned the dirt off the fruits, harvesting the sour berries as soon as they were spotted, but accidentally some were missed on the Southern fringe of the slum, which had been hit harder by the Nether attacks.

The berries down there, covered in a casing of mud, had continued to swell until they were the size of apples. At first, people had assumed it was just the mud had become disgustingly thick upon the berry, but when they broke it open, almost three-fourths was rich and sweet fruit.

When blocked from the sun, the berries began growing to ridiculous sizes. Now, the vine areas at the edges of the slums became the most popular, because the berries there were covered in mud even more quickly. With how quickly berries repopulated themselves, a few enterprising individuals were attempting to brew their own mead.

For now, the people of the slums had hope. And after seeing the massive life-giving tree Nether King Hungry Eye had created, how could anyone not know who was responsible for this boon?

After finishing his sandwich, Tenectoil licked his fingers. When he spoke, he revealed his thoughts were traveling along similar tracks to Moish’s. “...did you hear about the confrontation between Nether King Hungry Eye and Lord Cerulean? Apparently, Hungry Eye was so furious that the other had stolen his opponent that he snapped his fingers and brought night down upon Cerulean’s forces for a full day. Several individuals suffocated and a whole company is crippled due to injuries.”

Moish clicked his tongue. “It hasn’t even been two days since we were attacked. When was this supposed to happen?”

“You know how rumors grow,” Tenectoil shrugged. “But still… what are we going to do? Another attack will come. And our strongest warriors do not appear to be cooperating.”

Moish scratched his cheek. The words felt heavy in his mouth, even as he said them. “...Obviously, you can make your own decision. But I’ve considered volunteering for the hyper-training program the top brass is recruiting for. They say that there is a small chance of experiencing a mental breakdown while under the influence of temporal acceleration… but I feel it too. In times of chaos, you cannot always count on being saved.”

“You will be gone for a while if you choose to go. Too many of our reliable companions were lost in the attack. And if they are asking for volunteers from us…” The Lizakh leader grimaced. Both understood the risks were likely understated.

Both understood how poorly prepared the younger generation was not to have them at the helm of the slums.

Before their discussion could continue, Moish felt several firm vibrations through the fibrous central vine. He pressed a delicate foot against the surface, to better feet the vibrations. The message repeated, transferred out through the whole of the slums. The messages were basic, as they figured out a systematic method to utilize this resource, but Moish quickly decoded it: soldiers, return.

“A call for a return. Wonder what they want this time,” Moish hopped down off the vine. “If they use the term soldiers, it can only be our generous benefactors.”

A bleak smile crossed Tenectoil’s face. “The same thing they want every day: to know how cheaply they can buy our lives.”

When they arrived at the parade ground outside of Homewell’s Western gate, most of the other surviving slum garrison were already there; if nothing else, the communication through the vines proved extremely efficient. The transfer occurred, even if quite a deep divet had been cut into the vine to extract its water. Another point in the favor of Nether King Hungry Eye.

As expected, representatives from Homewell had come to speak to the group. The blue-haired Colonel Matteo stood with his arms crossed behind his back, with two unfamiliar individuals standing behind him.

“Not soldiers,” Tenectoil muttered under his breath and Moish agreed. These two didn’t possess the rigid attention or prowling confidence of soldiers. If anything, they looked bored. Despite their slow gait, the soldiers moved aside and gave them space to head to the front, giving Moish a better look at the two. The one on the right had a constantly stormy expression and a rippling grey robe. Obvious rich Aether beings loved their robes, but this one took it to the extreme; Moish had never seen a busier cloth surface.

Every inch was covered in dense network of stitchings that flashed and glittered. Obviously this figure considered himself an expert of Engraving, although even an Engraving amateur like Moish wondered whether the robe was functional, or just an ostentatious brag without any merit. It was impossible to see anything of the wearer’s identity in the robe, just the constant gleam of vanity.

The figure on the other side of the Colonel was a great deal more professional looking, with a well-kept goatee and sharp eyes. Something about the way this man considered the dirty-looking soldiers made Moish uneasy.

Not a soldier at all. Perhaps a merchant?

A few minutes later, the Colonel cleared his throat. “...I believe this is everyone if your reports about casualties amongst your unit is correct. My condolences, by the way. We understand you had to hold the line until Nether King Hungry Eye arrived. And now you remain afflicted by… a remnant image of his, in the form of the vine. Please know that Homewell is aware this invasive plant has dislodged and destroyed many of your homes. When the Nether threat has passed, we promise we will dedicate resources to restoring the pristine condition of your… neighborhood.”

None of the soldiers said a word, just simply looked at the Colonel and waited for him to continue. Their faces were blank. All had learned the lesson of what happened when a more powerful being realized how valuable one of your possessions was.

“Still, we wish to assist with your current situation as much as possible. We’ve brought supplies, mostly cornmeal and armor, to reinforce you in this trying time.”

With an elaborate gesture, the Colonel produced a series of crates from an interspatial ring. To be fair to the Allied Aether Military, they had not skimped on crates. They were stacked as high as two of their ornate, multi-floor houses within Homewell, several tons worth of materials. When the Colonel remained there, waiting for a response, Tenectoil gave Moish a glance and strolled forward.

The Lizakh leader had been awarded several honorary Turtleline medals, for holding the center of the line during the Nether charge. Which meant he was likely the most official individual in the slums. So the Lizakh walked up to the crates and opened a couple. He made admiring noises, bowed toward the Colonel, then returned to his place in line.

But as he did so, he rapped his knuckles against his leg. At first, Moish didn’t realize what was going on, but then on the repetition of the noises caught the message, the same code they were developing to travel through the vines.

Edible.

The group of soldiers rustled, softly repeating the message against their own armor so it spread through the group. Obviously, the soldiers were less interested in armor and more in cornmeal. And hearing edible made them realize it was definitely usable to feed their families. However, even the arrival of a ragged ostrich looking for berries was announced through the vines as ‘a feast’.

The cornmeal had been damned with faint praise in comparison.

Not that any of the soldiers were surprised; they lifted their heads and waited. Because after a meager gift came the ask.

“I should introduce you to a very esteemed individual: This is the Master,” The Colonel gestured to the individual with the overly embroidered robe. “He has come to assist in the defense of Western Homewell, by attempting to replicate your own variety of a Lifeseal. I hope you all will do your utmost to assist him.”

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