Chapter 4

The history of the Iasgairean was a long and complicated affair, and to learn it was even more ridiculous. For Vrraet, it was even odder as even throughout his years and lives, he knew precious little of the events before the Sgnirmah.

In the Iasgairean society, the queen mother serves as the centre of the community, being at the same time both the literal mother and its leader. When her children die, they shall return back to her and be reborn into a new self, a new identity, to start again with the experiences from their past lives. As such, while occasionally new Iasgairean could be born — Iasgaireans that hadn’t undergo rebirth at all — most of the already existing population had been around for at least a century or two.

For the Saighgairs, who were predominantly soldiers, their skills and experience would be passed down to their next incarnation so that they may fight on. This way, their knowledge and martial ability would only compound upon itself, the soldier ever-growing more skilful while not having to fear death. Aside from their ability to wield a trident, they would also retain their memories and understanding of currents, ocean life migratory patterns and other knowledge.

The Bygails, however, were a different sort. While they lack powerful physique — in fact, one could almost describe them as stunted — they boast much better information retainment, minute analysis and other traits that fit a caste made for research and construction. Aside for that, they were also chiefly responsible for tidying the Sanctuary, keeping it clean and repairing faults. Vrraet was glad that he had the age and ability to lift himself above such base activities, and was instead being assigned into researching the… more obscured part of nature.

This kind of idea further compounded the fact that whoever Vrraet thought himself to be, he was definitely not a Saighgair. His memories of his past lives were jumbled, to say the least, without even considering how it could be possible that his preceding lives could have also all been Saighgair.

Simply impossible.

Then, it all came down to what exactly happened on the day of the accident. Did he switch body with someone he once knew? He looked down at his own body many times and couldn’t think of it as anything other than his. In contrary, his fellows only saw a pretender wearing the flesh they once knew, which gave rise to the idea that, perhaps, even if they couldn’t remember the name or identity, they still knew it to be a fellow Iasgairean.

So what had occurred?

If it truly was a magical incident, how did it achieve what it did? How did the memory erasement even matter? How was he even still alive after whatever happened?

That he got absolutely no clue.

The two were in the chamber, one Saighgair and one gargantuan Sgnirmah could be found sitting at the bottom of the sand floor — or at least the close as they could to sitting with a tail. When his sanity returned and he found himself inadvertently taking a closer look, Vrraet noticed that the Sgnirmah was unlike any Iasgairean that he had ever seen before.

The Sgnirmah looked like a giant serpent, usually, modelled after the deep-sea Wutwyrms. Bulbous, finned, and as long as the diameter of the council chamber they were in. Usually, she would stay curled up around the crystal above, sleeping, she could also move surprisingly quickly.

Evidently, she could also transform.

Vrraet was still a bit too shocked to comment much on the thaumaturgical properties of that skill, so he decided to focus on her form. It was… Iasgairean, to say the least. Taller, stronger, it was sinuous in ways that the bulky Saighgair or minute Bygail couldn’t match. In fact, if it weren’t for the definite features such as the mandibles, compound eyes and tendrils, it could have resembled an extremely well-armoured land strider.

Was this her natural form? Or was it the serpentine one that once gave birth to them?

After their brief, one-sided conversation, he was dismissed and freed to return back to his quarters, having been given a task to regain his standing among the colony. On the way back, in sunken corridors that he was familiar with, he couldn’t but help to be confounded by the way the water current forces its way through.

Bygails — their gills couldn’t function if they weren’t moving or if the water weren’t flowing. Vrraet himself had created the runed-collar that allowed them to move and remain active beyond the colony tunnels, giving the Bygails freedom to work on projects outside of the Sanctuary.

The more he thought about it, the more confounded he became. He simply couldn’t quite imagine himself to be a Bygail, to be so confined by paltry physical limitations, but yet as he wandered the halls of his home, it was clear that the designs were made for someone of smaller stature — not to mention that it was squarely located within the Bygail territory.

The Bygails that once served alongside him gave him a wide berth. He could still recognise them, name them, remember having meals and teaching the newer generations how to create carvings but yet it was distant. Alone, he plodded down the tunnel to his residence, passing by those that once treated him with respect.

It was an oddly profound experience, he felt, to lose everything because of a single mistake. Gone was the reverence for his contributions, his arms and armours, his designs of runic collars and weapons, the pride he had for his intellect and position within the colony. Now, all that there was were furtive glances, shying away whenever his own gazes returned.

He couldn’t blame them at all for it, though.

What a disgrace.

How many Iasgaireans were lost because of his mishap?

Ten? Twenty? Thirty?

There weren’t even any corpses to mourn. Their souls, their immortal bits, never made it back to the Sgnirmah, lost. Where were they now? How were they missing?

The answers to that all laid within the little stone in his palm and also within himself.

He could feel its warmth and power, emanating from each word carved upon its surface, seeping through between the cradle of his fingers. Aside from the strange, unknowable mark on its surface, the second piece of experiment material lies in his own flesh.

The body that contained a soul which did not belong.

He made it to his chamber.

The Lystang vines were still lit, casting its dim, orange glow across the chamber, lighting up its concave ceiling of ancient mortar and bricks. His apparels, apparatus and assemblies were still exactly where he had left them. His rack of carving tools, chests full of precious metals and gems remained untouched at his station, sitting idle as the water gently buffeted at it.

It seemed like in his absence, in the period where the person once was known as Vrraet was not present in the world, no one had bothered to check the room. Something ugly threatened to bubble up from his stomach before he managed to force the thought down again, his jaws clenching with tension.

If I was a Bygail, I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts.

He let his fingers hover above the pedestals for a moment above it before withdrawing it. Pausing for a moment, glancing at the stone within his palm, he promptly tossed the stone upon the work station.

All of this felt distinctly dream-like as if it was all a poor joke.

One moment he was about to revolutionize weaponry as they knew it, the next he had been trudging back towards the Sanctuary without a single clue what had occurred. Then, he was captured, tortured and forced into a direct audience with the Sgnirmah herself.

Then, he was supposed to fix it all somehow.

Where to even begin?

The runes? The flesh?

Should he revisit the site where the incident occurred?

He thought deeply, letting his weight settle onto the seat that was two sizes too small.

All three would be good.

The runes themselves and its schematics obviously held some kind of secret, some kind of reason that could explain the effects it had wrought onto this world. Perhaps by reviewing its designs and its possible faults, he could identify the issues and possible causes for the magical turbulence.

Then, himself. Or to say, conduct a series of analysis on his own psyche to identify the discrepancies between his memories and reality. By knowing what had changed and comparing it to the effects of the rune, he could understand how memories, reality and the like was warped by the imperfect rune.

Finally, he would have to return out there to the place where he had initially conducted the experiment, where it all began.

The thought was daunting.

I’m a researcher, not an investigator.

He shook his head, clearing himself of these useless thinking. It would be better to be productive than sitting around, moping.

But before he could begin, he had to clean up. The little wounds and lacerations that remained on his body could inadvertently disturb some of the more volatile materials, not to mention how the numerous sand, dirt and other filth he carried on his scales would make an absolute mess.

After cleaning up by utilizing the slime-like membrane he had installed in the corner of the room, he spent some time suturing up the various cuts with fishbone needles and tendon fibres, slathering it with ointments of his own making before bandaging it all up with fish skin.

There.

It will do.

Even with his administrations, the wounds still felt prickly and every bit that wasn’t carapace ached like he was — well.

Slowly, feeling sufficiently refreshed and presentable, he pulled himself towards the work station, tugging at the vines to coax it to glow brighter.

On the pedestal was the rune-covered stone. He picked it up and fixed it to a clamp in order to view it better. Lying on the table, undisturbed as well, was the original schematic he was working from. From the side of a nearby shelf, he pulled out a long scroll, bound in copper bearings. Unfurling the fish-skin scroll revealed it to be a catalogue — a dictionary of designs, runes, lines and illustrates the links between runes of his own making.

While it was hardly useful as a teaching tool or theory crafting, it was suitable as a reference to make sure every design properly obeys its laws. With that in hand, he began the methodical motions of checking each and every rune on the stone, one by one.

As he had written it, or as much as he could remember, the stone was a mean to store power and to power a specific script on it. That meant it had three different elements to it — one to absorb and store elemental power, one to form it into the desired pattern and a third to prevent backlash or explosions. Obviously, something went wrong with the part that was supposed to regulate the magic.

However, as he meticulously went down the list from top to bottom, tracing each word carefully in order to capture its minute details, he became more and more certain that this was definitely not how he remembered it had been. Hours piled upon hours as he sat in the room, looking through the old manuscripts left by his dozens of past lives in an attempt to gain a foothold in understanding.

Aside from the most obvious anomaly of having that mark taking up almost an entire side, the runes that used to be in its space was seemingly pushed to the side, as if the stone was made of malleable clay that allowed its contents to move about. With that there, the syntax of the entire design was... Shifted.

Instead of it being a self-contained design, now everything was somehow linked into the zig-zag rune that was not of his making. Now that it was beyond his dreams, he could finally spend some more time reading into its meaning. It was a single-line script, twisting into itself in a smooth transition. Runes, by nature, were representatives of Power, an abstract, free-flowing energy that permeates the world. By linking them together with the correct syntax, one could create and maintain effects beyond the physical.

Therefore, this new and strange rune must mean something.

He had never seen it before the day of the incident. It wasn’t in any of the records — he had checked over and over again, searching through his old catalogues, research notes and ideas but came to nothing at all. For all intents and purposes, it seemed like that this rune had spontaneously appeared, forced itself into the words and sentences, twisting them into its own design.

Where’s it from? How it did get here? Why did he see it in his dreams?

He paused, tugging on his facial tendrils in frustration.

Judging from the passage on the stone and its current behaviours, it seemed like the stone was somehow being ‘called’ to an external idea. What that idea was, he had no clue to its history or effects. One thing for certain, however, this was a clue, a noteworthy indication that something beyond his control was happening.

The stone was different. The rune — he knew for sure that he wasn’t the one who carved it. If so, who did? Who would have the time or opportunity to even temper with his work aside from himself? And if he didn’t…

The answer lies in whatever happened in the sand fields.

And if it was only tempering, that would be a blessing. This time, the stone was twisted, runes shoved out of the way to accommodate intruding tune as if they weren’t nearly important. There was a certain alien, ruthless quality to the intruding rune, one that made his fins grow pale in discomfort. Furthermore, the best he could ascertain was that it was somehow inexplicably linked with his recent dreams.

However, the biggest problem wasn’t that the rune had weird origins, but rather he couldn’t be quite sure that the events had happened before or after the incident. Perhaps it was the magical anomaly that produced the mark or enhancing a portion of it somehow, resulting in the event that disappeared most of the Hunting Party, leaving the old Bygail behind. This was incredibly stupid and he knew truly well how the lack of clues was dangerous. Aside from messing around with the rune itself, he had little to be able to discern its power.

With that in mind, he grabbed a piece spare of fish skin from a shelf on the left, clearing it out the table to make room. On the smoother side without the scales, he picked up his fishbone knife and started to precisely copy the strange, aberrant rune from his rune rock.

The overall design was simple.

It was a spiral outward but upon its second loop, it seems to… break. Like a snapped neck or a sudden fissure, the line became jagged and crooked, spiking back and forth in a way that made it distinctively uncomfortable to look at.

Was this meant to signify a broken loop? A malformed pattern?

With a perplexed twitch of his tendrils, he flipped the inscription upside down and looked at it again, seeking a new angle to approach it.

Or perhaps it meant that some broken mess can be reformed in a… pattern?

Either one seemed equally valid.

And how is this supposed to link to my runes?

No matter how much he tried to analyse it, he couldn’t seem to quite understand its meaning. With most runes, it must carry some kind of intrinsic meaning, some kind of seemingly universal language that can convey its message no matter what the view was, be it mere beasts or land striders. Without this quality, a rune couldn’t function.

A rune that signifies heat would give off the impression of heat despite the absence of actual fire. It is abstract in nature, not some literal manifestation until it was powered by actual magic.

That was why Vrraet couldn't even fathom what this rune could even mean.

It merely gave off the idea of… of a cycle. A broken loop? An entity?

It was confusing as it invokes a concept that he wasn’t familiar with. If the viewer fundamentally lacks the understanding to comprehend it, the rune would fail to have any effect on the viewer. This lead to a problem where the viewer couldn’t garner understanding from viewing the rune without actually understanding it in the first place — which, he grudgingly accepted, mimics actual languages.

However, that didn’t help him to understand how it connects to the effects that occurred.

Wait.

My designs weren’t meant to achieve this effect.

He wavered for a moment, his brain churning as he processed the disturbing new thought. Frantic, he scrolled through his design schematic once more, this time focusing on his intended results rather than the functionality of the product.

It had been made for transferring magical energies and to disrupt matter. It shouldn’t even be remotely possible for it to do something as esoteric as changing bodies.

Suddenly lethargic, he tossed his current scroll onto the table, letting it curl away in the water. He watched it with dispassionate eyes, tired and rudderless.

No, my research bore little fruit.

It wasn’t in the records. I saw it in my dreams. It wasn’t present before the incident. It fundamentally changed the way the runes functioned on the stone. It possessed power beyond my imagination.

Vrraet rubbed his face, unsure how to even proceed.

He couldn’t just tell the Sgnirmah that he had absolutely no idea how this came to be. It was a second chance, a penance for the foolhardy decision he thought he made. Now, he couldn’t even be sure that he was the one responsible for the events.

Did the Sgnirmah overestimate his ability?

What happened on the plains? How had he survived and with such strange alterations?

However, he was given the task of unravelling the mystery, not to sit and complain about the lack of information. Clearly, something had occurred on the plains rather than happening in here — though he too couldn’t be sure about it. In order to understand, he would have to return to the site again.

Though, before I could set out, he glanced down at his tattered body and equally shabby chamber, I would need to —

His sudden determination was interrupted at this moment, however, as someone chose this particular moment to introduce himself with a particularly loud knock. Swivelling his head over with more gusto needed for he wasn’t quite expecting a visitor, he turned around to find that a figure was standing at the entrance.

It was a Bygail, and it was one that he couldn’t recognize.

Like all Bygail, he was diminutive, smaller than their Saighgair cousins in a fashion Vrraet felt especially aware of. With a collar around his neck, the Iasgairean strode in with a squint in his eyes, his silhouette highlighted against the glow of the vines.

“Excuse me, who are you and what do you want?” Vrraet found himself saying, squeezing back as the Bygail approached without saying a word. As the figure walked ever closer, Vrraet noticed that not only was the figure small but his carapace was still bleached, showing that he was still within the rapid growth stage that all Iasgairean undergo when emerging from a Vessel.

The not-exactly newly born Bygail stood there, before him, gazing back with an intensity and subdued annoyance that made Vrraet shy away with acute discomfort. Even while sitting he was taller than the Bygail before him, yet the scene made him feel like he was about to be lectured.

“Uh,” Vrraet marvelled at his ability to communicate, “Do I know you?”

“I’ve only been dead for a few dozen days and yet you’ve already landed yourself in a mess,” the Bygail said, looking up and down with visible distaste, “Mind explaining yourself and your… change of fashion?”

Vrraet sat there, mouth agape, not entirely sure what to say.

Eventually, his mind finally finished its stuttering loop and he managed, “Elst?”

“Yes. Now answer,” said the Bygail, arms crossed.

The Bygail before him was Elst, his partner and the only other dedicated researcher that was, frankly, worth a damn and ancient enough to be actually competent. Elst had been one of the few original Iasgaireans that was spawned when the colony was found and Vrraet could remember his past selves working with the Bygail ever since he was sentient, which was a long, long time ago.

Vrraet had been working on the stone when, surprise, surprise, Elst was found dead. Apparently, he suffocated in ash when whatever project he was working on blew up and collapsed a cave. It wasn’t the first time either of them died, mind, as Vrraet had seen the Bygail set out to run some experiment only return as a flopping hatchling, freshly hatched and still dripping mucus.

However, Elst had been one that always seemed to try his luck a little too much to be sane.

In no uncertain terms, Elst believed that as long as results were achieved and no one else dies, dangerous tasks should be pursued. Vrraet didn’t quite agree with that sentiment since death definitely proved to be rather unpleasant, though with Elst’s… uniqueness, he supposed that his fellow researcher proved himself worth the resources to provide a new incarnation.

After all, there are few Iasgaireans who could regain their selves so quickly that they could immediately start questioning results the moment the Vessels open their lids.

It was with that sentiment that Vrraet felt particularly indignant when this careless Bygail suggested he had been the one to mess up, not to mention the now notable size difference between the two.

“Elst, I am highly impressed that those words could ever make it out of you,” Vrraet stated flatly, “Especially from someone that I doubt I had ever seen grown old in all his lives.”

“Yet I had never quite gotten myself locked up, sent the Sanctuary into lockdown or magic away at least thirty Saighgair,” Elst reminded him, dragging a spare seat from some shaded corner, hooking his legs around it so that the current wouldn’t drag him away. Now comfortable, he continued his question, “ Not to mention, the Sanctuary is abuzz with stories of your predicament and some of them, I hope, were highly exaggerated. Therefore, you must have done something incredibly stupid when not even I am allowed to venture outside. Oh, and welcome back.”

As inconspicuously as possible, Vrraet slowly rolled up the piece of fish skin he was drafting on, “... You don’t seem very concerned.”

“Oh, I am,” Elst gestured, pointing his tendrils at the now-hulking mass of the Saighgair before him, “It's not every day that something this monumental happens. Tell me, how exactly did you end up in… this?”

“I have no idea.”

“Should have known. Vrraet never had been one to look at interesting things, and when he does it is always by luck.”

“Elst,” Vrraet snapped sharply, mandibles clapping together, “If you do not have a reason to be here —”

“I do.”

“... Then please talk without all that.”

“I am interested, Vrraet, on how exactly you managed to do whatever you did. While I treat dying as a mere obstacle, I have very little desire to be wiped off existence. Did you know that after I had emerged from the Vessel, there hadn’t been another rebirth?”

“I thought as much,” Vrraet said, not quite liking where the conversation was heading.

“A typical rebirth takes less than a dozen days, Vrraet, and it had been so since your mess happened. That meant that either the missing Saighgairs were still alive or they had been… disconnected from the Sgnirmah. You know what that would mean.”

“Elst!” Vrraet stood up, anger simmering at the surface as the insolent Bygail before him continued to remind him of his grave mistake. If it wasn’t for his memories of being a Bygail and that the Iasgairean before him was just as proficient as a researcher, his now newfound instincts as a Saighgair may have had caused him to lash out.

It's not becoming of a Bygail to let pride overcome rationality.

“Sit down, Vrraet! I am not here to gloat or insult you,” the actual Bygail before him wasn’t too impressed with the outburst, still careless lounging on the seat.

“Apologies,” Vrraet grounded out, “Saighgair emotions and thoughts are… both familiar and unfamiliar.”

“Understandable,” the Bygail nodded sagely, “But we digress. What I was about to say was that the effect capable of changing bodies and altering memories were incredibly complicated. You were working on… something to do with runes, yes?”

“Yes. I have told you before you died.”

Elst’s tendrils curled in a dramatized shudder, “I would never understand your fascination with runes.”

“It is orderly, reusable and most of all, practical,” Vrraet said, now realizing that his chamber was rather messy, “Unlike your work, my discoveries and products can benefit the Sanctuary tangibly, unlike your fits of fancy that ends in death.”

“Do not dismiss my work, Vrraet. It is my firm belief that the need for Iasgairean-based production of metal far outweighs the need for violent raids and — do not change the subject. I am not here to talk about predictions. Instead, do tell me exactly what your rune was meant to do.”

Vrraet took a moment to gather his thoughts at the inquiry, before gradually lapsing into a lecture.

“The main part of the project was the stone itself,” he said, leaning forward. “Firstly, it has the typical complementary magic-gather inscriptions and storage, which was based on gems. The release for the power was through the trident itself, directed with a series of lines that conduct it into a blast.”

“Gold?”

“Yes.”

“Rare,” Elst said, “Especially rare considering our lacking capability to remake them.”

“I recognize your work. Satisfied? Good, now, the magical blasts were purposefully unrefined, meant to infuse into its target directly. That meant whatever it impacted would be highly malleable to change such as, for instance, the secondary blast following the first. The result should be an explosion regardless of the resistance of the target.”

Elst looked at him for a few seconds before asking, “Yes… very violent. And foolishly ambitious, Vrraet. What were you thinking? We do not utilize such brutish power with magic, especially ones that are based upon overloading.”

“Yes, I have realized my mistakes. I do not need to be reminded, much less from you.”

“Then take it from a concerned Bygail,” Elst said pointed, “And what was it meant to do? In more practical terms.”

“It was to be a ranged, thaumatical weapon that can overcome heavy defences by damaging it structurally rather than with… tridents,” the Saighgair said with a wave of his hands, “With that, the raids stand a much better chance since the warriors will no longer need to board the land strider’s crafts.”

“... Vrraet, I must say that your results had widely deviated from your designs.”

“Please tell me something I do not already understand.”

“Well? What had gone wrong? It is rare that something could go so wrong — especially from you.”

Vrraet hesitated.

Should he inform the Bygail before him that he himself had no notion of what occurred that day? That the new and mysterious rune on the stone wasn’t of his making?

“I do not remember,” he finally decided to say, “With the designs on the rune, it shouldn’t be possible for this to occur. My theory was that I had… encountered something in the fields. Maybe some kind of other naturally magical substance or lifeform, and the effect — well, I do not know.”

Elst stared at him for a while, arms still crossed. Eventually, he leaned back, satisfied with whatever he had seen. Vrraet hoped that the Bygail couldn’t see through the now more stoic appearance of a Saighgair and reveal how anxious he felt.

“So, no answers here, no?”

“No, indeed.”

“You will have to go out again, then. Good luck with that, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?”

“The lockdown, Vrraet,” Elst said, “It remains in effect. Unless it is with good reason, we are not to leave.”

“It should be fine. The Sgnirmah —”

“— Blessed be Her.”

“— Knew that the incident was most likely caused by the rune, rather than some strange beast. We should be allowed to leave the Sanctuary by now since I had our… conversation just some while ago.”

“Truly? A private counsel?” Elst asked, apparently intrigued by the idea, “So that is why you are still alive and not, say, still in a pit.”

“Your concern is appreciated.”

“Either way, it is excellent that the situation with the lockdown is resolved. I was wondering if I had to go ask for specific permission to leave somehow.”

“Why?”

“I need to go pick up my materials and notes. I couldn’t find it anywhere in my chamber and I think that no one had bothered to recover them,” Elst made a displeased gesture, “And your grand mishap had prevented me from recovering it myself. Hopefully, by the time I get to them, the fishes hadn’t eaten it all.”

“Great.”

“Well, after you rest up, come find me.”

“And why exactly would I do that?” Vrraet asked, surprised.

“Because I am interested, Vrraet, and I meant it,” Elst spoke, standing up now, “You too must have realized this, or at least glimpsed that whatever you have going on could greatly change how the colony functions as we know it. Also, I may need your help in excavating the cave and the Saighgairs are all busy with the hunt.”

“... I do not do labours, Elst.”

“Good thing I offer to do the same for yours, then. I am sure you could appreciate a second analysis when the time comes. I do not know if you understand your position right now, but I know that whatever that the Sgnirmah was tasking you with,” he pointed upward, a webbed finger sticking out, “It couldn’t be easy. If you need help with… I don’t know what, just ask.”

Vrraet gazed back at the Bygail standing at the entrance, shocked at the sheer audacity from his tiny form. How could he think that he could just-just ask for my work in exchange for something as base as labour? To intrude into my discoveries and duties? A snappy response was quick on his mandibles but he held it back, his hands twitching.

Am I feeling jealous?

And to his surprise, he was.

Bad Vrraet! You are a researcher, jealousy is not becoming of you.

Instead, he gave the Bygail before him a good long look before he cordially answered, “I will think about it.”

It wasn’t that he was fond of shovelling rocks and dirt, but rather he couldn’t afford to pass up an offer the Bygail before him. Despite his faults such as being more dead than alive at any point in time, Elst was still the other most premier researcher in the entire colony.

That, however, didn’t prevent Vrraet from feeling a vague sense of anger whenever he sees the unaging Bygail.

Is this what Sagihgairs deal with all the time? This is quite different from the calmness of a Bygail.

“Please do,” Elst said, seemingly not noticing the inner monologue in his the Saighgair’s mind, “And you need rest. You will not be able to function with such… injuries when you do not allow them to heal, Saighgair or not.”

“You are not a Stjernmah. No need to coddle.”

“Then act like one, would you?” Elst commented as he turned, swimming out, “I have taken enough of your time. You know where to find me after you are done.”

“Before you go, a quick question,” Vrraet called out, suddenly anxious in a way he hadn’t expected.

“... Yes?”

Should he ask this question? Hesitation gripped him as he contemplated whether he should press on. However, he had already begun the question, so he might as well finish it.

“I am… I am Vrraet, yes?”

Elst gave him an odd look.

“Why would you ask that? If you are worried that just because you carry a different body you would become a different Iasgairean,” Elst said snidely, “Remember that unlike you, I care very, very little about the flesh.”

“Just answer the question,” Vrraet begged, “Please.”

“... If we were to talk about the body, no,” Elst answered, “I have died enough to understand the flesh meant little. If you are asking about the soul, well…

“Well, I really don’t have an answer for that,” he paused, hovering just at the edge of the ancient door frame, “Go and rest, Vrraet, and stop asking foolish questions.”

With that, he was gone.

Vrraet watched the space where the Bygail was for a while. Then, with a huff, he turned back towards his station. The vines had gone dim during their conversation, the slime web he had set up in the corner remained clogged, demanding to be changed. Within it all, he remained alone in the dark, little room that suddenly felt too cramped for his liking.

Next day, he thought to himself, we shall see when the next day comes.