Nations of Rothel:

Chrona: The nation of Amiel, Savior of Time. Her Mark grants the ability to reset one's condition and position in space minimally, transporting to where it had been in the not-so-distant past; the power is closer to a short reset of the self than proper time travel. All potential additional conduits are related to this ability in some manner. The people of Chrona are known for their reckless antics.

He decided against being turned in. It may have been an easy decision, but I was still a little proud - of both of us, really. It was one simple, easy choice. It still mattered. Just as in a journey of one thousand steps, the decision to take the first was one of the most important.

He still seemed a bit uneasy, though; much of the blame for that was probably on me. My years of isolation hadn’t left me entirely...normal. It was a work in progress.

Despite that, I could tell that my new friend - were we friends now? - was starting to relax. Enough, at least, to let us exchange proper introductions.

Roy was a bit unhappy when I told him we needed to walk back to where I stashed my damaged Risen and pack before appearing in front of him. Unfortunately, neither of them had been able to make the journey with me due to the limitations of [Swap]. He didn’t argue much about it, though that changed when I tried to use [Woundshift] to move my crow-self’s wounds onto his own Risen.

As it turns out, unlike normal Risen, a Unified Risen actually has a choice on whether or not injuries are transferred onto it; in a manner of speaking, at least. It was actually the mind that piloted it making the final decision, but that was just semantics in the end.

Regardless, it took a bit of wheedling to get him to agree. I pointed out that he was the one who injured my Risen, so it was only natural that he took responsibility for its rejuvenation. That, plus the indisputable fact that the mangled rodent would probably have to be destroyed and reconstituted anyway helped convince him. He still managed to barter for a future healing off of me in return for his cooperation, but I wasn’t too bothered by the deal. I was willing to help. What else would friends do?

I felt the flesh of my wing reconstitute while Roy’s bedraggled Risen took equivalent damage of its own; an altogether strange experience. Judging from his look of brief discomfort, I gathered that it felt just as strange on the other side of the ability.

A short time later, my pack had found its way back across my shoulders and my crow-self perched upon a leather strap. Roy, meanwhile, had ordered his newly-revived Risen to scurry along directly behind him. According to the snatches of semi-disgruntled mutterings that I could pick up, he had already emptied his [Unity] conduit today and would have to wait until it refreshed the next day to reapply it.

As part of my pseudo-mentorship, I had decided to help the youth with obtaining a revenue stream that was of a less criminal nature. Though I was unaware of the realities of the youth’s situation - and was less than eager to pry - I more than understood that not all lawbreakers did so entirely of their own volition. Hopefully, increased options would make such choices unnecessary in the future. Either way, I would need a way to make money of my own in the meantime. I still had no idea where I could find ‘Uncle Gil’, nor how long that might take. Thus, we agreed on a destination and found ourselves navigating through the streets and alleyways of the Low District together. According to him, we could earn some quick coin at a place called The Pits. The name was a bit ominous, but I decided to give it a chance.

The silence was stifling.

I was used to silence, sure - but that was the silence of the dead. It was the silence of empty streets, of vacant homes. It was silent because it could not be anything but.

The silence of the living was...something I was less accustomed to. More lonely, somehow.

I awkwardly cleared my throat, the sound forcing a startled jolt out of my companion. “So, how old are you?” I asked in an attempt to break the silence.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye before quickly averting his gaze. That had been a common theme, really. Earlier, I had come to the conclusion that he was uncomfortable with eye contact. That was fine. Everyone had their peculiarities. I had tried to account for that by staring at the empty space past his shoulder when I spoke to him, but doing that seemed to make him even more jumpy, if anything.

“Seventeen,” he finally replied.

I frowned. “Do your parents know about the stealing?”

The question received more of a reaction than I was expecting. The youth halted, jaw clenched and veritably stewing in his own anger.

“Why, plan on snitching?” he spat with an acerbic tone. His eyes met my own, a challenging steel creeping in.

I forced a blink. “Not really, just making conversation.”

He chewed on that for a while; I whiled the time away by paying a bit more attention to my other selves. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because he eventually began to speak again. I dispelled the fog that had seeped in during the wait and gave him my attention once more.

“Never really knew my mom. She died a bit after I was born. Got depressed, hurt herself. Think she tried to kill me, too. Supposedly, Woundshifters at the hospital took a look at both of us and fixed the worst of it. They can’t fix the mind, though, and practice makes perfect I guess. Second attempt took for her, though in the end I was still kicking. Either way, it kind of prevents any heart-to-hearts about my life choices.”

“Poor thing,” I heard Mel whisper.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, taken aback.

He shrugged.

“It was a long time ago, and I don’t remember it anyway.”

“What about your dad?” I asked, desperately trying to shift the topic.

“I don’t want to talk about him.” The anger was back.

I was terrible at this.

The silence of the living had crept its way back in.

The Low District was a mess of labyrinthine alleyways, nooks, and crannies - each cramped and crowded with wonderful, teeming humanity. My new comrade didn’t seem to share my opinion on the matter, handing out wary looks left and right. Every once in a while, an expression of disgust flashed across his face, but never long enough for me to find the sources.

It wasn’t long before I began to lose hope in my ability to remember the path we had taken; the identical nature of the surrounding buildings’ construction did not lend themselves towards easy memorization. The buildings themselves were of decent quality, if one ignored the tinge of yellowed age that crept into many of their faces. Each was made of the same bone or bone-like material that seemed to encase the whole of the city itself - from the walls, to the streets, to the buildings. Wondering where it all came from, I finally broke the silence to ask.

Roy gave me an odd look.

“What’s next? Going to ask me what the weather’s like outside? Everyone knows where it comes from.“ His tone was more aggressive than I would prefer, but at least he wasn’t flinching as much anymore. I wasn’t sure whether that was due to managing my mannerisms in a more, well, living manner or if it was a result of our earlier conversation. Regardless, I’d count it as a tentative win.

“No, I’m serious. I...don’t get out much.”

The former thief gave my sun-kissed skin a pointed, exaggerated once-over. He shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss.”

After a bit more prodding, he explained the material was created with another of the conduits that Neladrie’s Marked could receive: [Bone Transmutation]. I got the impression that he still thought I was messing with him, but at least it quelled the tension somewhat.

More importantly, it ended the silence.

It changed, after that. The quiet was still there, of course - but it was no longer the creeping quiet of disquiet. Instead, it was just...quiet. A sort of companionable hush, intermixed with brief spouts of conversation and stories. I had missed that. It was nice to talk with someone after so long.

“...really?” Roy asked, interrupting my most recent anecdote.

“Really.”

“Huh.” He let out a small chuckle. It was progress. “Didn’t take you for the sort.”

“What do you take me for, then?” I asked.

He eyed me again, carefully gauging his response. “You want me to be honest?”

“Of course.”

“Crazy. The well-meaning kind of crazy, I guess.”

Happiness burbled at the words. I smiled; this time he didn’t flinch. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me in a long, long time.”

I rode that high for the majority of the remaining walk. It wasn’t until Roy grew yet another expression of distaste that it was broken. This time, though, he gave voice to his thoughts.

“Fucking Dusters,” Roy spat out.

I followed his gaze to a pair of men resting in a nearby alcove. Their skin was filthy, coated in a mix of sweat and grime that suggested either a lack of means or an extreme distaste for cleanliness. Possibly both. More prominent, though, were the intermittent patches of gray-tinted skin that mottled much of their flesh.

Despite their otherwise poor condition, there was a focused intensity in their eyes; they held a predatory look that couldn’t be denied.

Noting my wordless question, the youth explained tersely.

“Haven’t seen them before? Bunch of addicts, brutes, and thieves. Worst of the worst.”

“You’re a thief, too,” I couldn’t help but point out.

“That’s a different story,” he muttered.

I decided not to press the matter, asking for more information about the two instead; he was more than happy to oblige. I figured I might need a second opinion, though. He could have been biased, if his clear disgust was anything to go by. Then again, some people were deserving of distaste. His next words made me decidedly less empathetic towards them.

“They’re named after the drug that they’re addicted to: gray dust. There’s not many of them around, fortunately, and I have a feeling gray dust is in pretty short supply. It’s dangerous, though - for them and everyone around them. I’m not sure where it came from or how they get it, but they’d murder their own mother for a fix; they start to get real antsy if it’s been a week or two after their last hit.”

“Why take it, then?”

He shrugged. “Why take any drug? It probably feels good. Not to mention, it makes Dusters stupidly strong and aggressive for nearly a day before they come down from its effects. Extremely resistant, too. Rumor is that the Guard has suspicions it’s not entirely natural either, if you know what I mean. Lets them commit a whole bunch of crimes they otherwise wouldn’t. I’ve heard the Guard’s trying to crack down on it hard, but you can still find them here and there.”

It was tempting to look into the matter further, but I decided to leave them be for now. I would have to look into them later. I still made sure to keep my eyes on them, though - at least until he told me that the endless staring was even worse than the Dusters themselves.

Soon afterwards, we arrived at the endpoint of our journey: The Pits. Contrary to the name, it wasn’t just your traditional crater. Then again, that only made sense. If the place was as potentially lucrative as Roy had earlier made it out to be, it would have to be much nicer than the name implied.

Instead, The Pits were found in a building that belied the structural sameness that had filled our travel. Where the buildings that appeared to populate the Low District tended towards crude tenements and squat houses that were lacking in both greenery and splendor, The Pits held an unexpected degree of grandeur.

The mammoth of a building stood apart from its neighbors. A well-maintained courtyard, festooned in greenery and surrounded by an intricately carved fence of bone, pressed against the street. Despite that, the gates were wide open, and a stream of passerby passed through in both directions.

The inside was much the same: rife with life and excitement. For a moment, the noise was nigh-overwhelming; the roars of a crowd, the hawking of food vendors, and the din of conversation all interwoven to form a deafening cacophony.

As we walked, Roy indicated points of interest with practiced familiarity. Near the entrance was a variety of food vendors and sources of entertainment. To the left was a number of small meeting and training rooms, many of which had been indefinitely rented by various mercenary groups for the purpose of holding a locale for prospective employers to seek them out. Meanwhile, the right side featured a few practice rings for the purpose of general sparring - a strange addition if one did not consider the primary purpose of the building: the pits themselves.

We followed the roar of the crowd, passing through a set of massive - honestly needlessly so - doors and a large row of tellers who, according to Roy, served the purpose of taking and tracking bets and odds.

As we grew closer, an altogether different roar echoed across the walls of The Pits. Deep. Bestial. Violent.

The crowd only grew louder in response.

Roy grinned, making a grand gesture.

“Welcome to The Pits.”