It is the morning of the next day.

The cart continues rolling eastward, now at a slow and steady pace. The fun, jovial nature that the trip has had up until now is gone. Rather, everyone seems to sit in awkward silence in their usual spots. Fresh, not wanting to be in the back, had asked Basil if it was okay for her to sit next to her today. The anqa, Thyme, seemed unfond of this prospect, but after some convincing by the priestess and a few extra portions of food, it seemed to be willing to let the subject drop. Though it does shoot an occasional cold glance back towards Fresh.

The odd, bipedal birds really don’t like witches.

The fairies seem to have split themselves up into three groups. Those who think that sacrificing Pentti was the right move in order to save them all and those who disagree, the third group are those who have no opinion either way or are simply unwilling to share it if they do have one. Apparently, while Fresh and Jubilee were out in the forest, there was a violent, heated argument between the two more passionate camps, causing Basil and Shamrock to have to intervene before they blasted themselves and the cart apart with magic.

Now, the occupants of the three fairy-houses have reshuffled themselves. One house, containing the long-distance-combat fairies who had done the deed and some others too, they stand with the bad-thing, in Fresh’s eyes. One side is against it and the third house simply sits full of those few who didn’t want to take a side at all. Just like that, with a single act during a single night, dozens of long-standing friendships have been broken. They don’t seem particularly energetic either, having ceased their flying around the cart and their exploration of the world. Mostly, they just sit inside of their houses or on some ledge, shooting dirty looks at each other from time to time.

Fresh sighs. Basil sighs as well, catching on.

The rest of the day is like this and then the night is equally as silent.

The next day, they continue riding east, encountering some wild slimes on the way that try to ambush them on the road. They are quickly dealt with by Jubilee with particularly precise and quick brutality, the cart never even having to stop on the way. They don’t bother looting the slimes. Nobody wants to stop the cart. Fresh sits next to Shamrock today, leaning herself against his shoulder and napping for most of the day.

The night falls and then comes the next day after that.

The forest is slowly growing sparser. The thick, lush tree-line that had surrounded them on all sides is now thinning out with every passing hour that they ride and as they proceed further and further out of the shelter of the forest, the wind seems to be growing stronger and stronger, now that there is nothing left to restrain its passing. Today, Fresh sits by Jubilee, having squeezed herself into the tiny space between them and the rim of the cart. Honestly, there isn’t enough room for the three of them to sit next to each other and so the two of them are squished side by side, neither of them able to move one of their arms.

Jubilee protests, but makes a point out of not getting up to sit somewhere else and also of certainly not sitting on her lap as she suggests. So instead, the two of them sit there, squished next to each other all day in a spot that is far too small, while the bench across from them is completely free.

The remark about her needing a bath is almost enough to make her leave. But it doesn’t quite manage. Honestly, all of them need a bath. It’s been a long trip.

The night falls and the next day comes.

The forest stops, giving way to what appears to be an endless, rolling, somewhat hilly grassland. But unlike in the west, before the mountain, the grass here isn’t lush and long and green. Rather, it’s shorter, thinner and less flush with dewy wetness. Tall yellow stalks sit in between it all. Fresh recognizes it as wild-wheat.

She grabs some for them to chew on, should they ever find a farmer’s hat and some overalls, maybe they can do the whole ‘farmer thing’ after all. Jubilee grabs the pieces of wheat, throwing them out of the cart.

“No,” they say without emotion in their voice. Fresh cries, reaching after them as they fall to the road behind them.

The next day comes. The grasslands are now entirely wheat. There is nothing but wheat. It doesn’t matter if she looks left, right, straight or back, all there is to see is a sea of waist-high, golden-yellow wheat, basking in the autumn sunlight.

Jubilee can’t stop her from taking a bunch of it this time, there is simply too much and so she sits there now, across from Jubilee with her boots off and her legs kicked up, Basil’s hat on her head and a stalk of wheat pressed out of her mouth, as she holds a lookout for varmints.

Though, she doesn’t actually know what a varmint is. But she’s confident that she’ll know one when she sees it.

The next day comes. They find a pond. It looks to be free of any kind of monsters. It’s just a little body of water, standing in the middle of the wheat. They park the cart beside it as a wall and take turns washing themselves. Basil suggests they splits themselves into two groups. One with the guys and the other with the girls, to take two turns swimming and washing. Jubilee tells the priestess to drown herself and that everyone gets five minutes by themselves, before they’ll keep on moving. This latter suggestion ends up being what happens, minus the drowning.

“We’ll go swimming lots together at the ocean, Basil,” promises Fresh. This seems to cheer Basil up.

“Do you even know how to swim?” asks Jubilee skeptically, listening to Shamrock splash around in the water.

“Uh…” Fresh thinks for a second. She certainly knew how to swim in her old life, so she assumes that she can still do it in this one. That makes sense, right? Yeah, yeah she thinks so. “Yes! I uh… I think.”

“You… think?” asks Jubilee.

“I think,” confirms Fresh, scratching her cheek. The giant man walks around to the cart, water still leaking out of his armor that is sloshing full of it.

“You aren’t getting in the cart like that!” barks Jubilee at him. Shamrock shrugs, standing there, while water leaks out of every crack and gap in his armor.

“Hey! Hey!” asks Tarja, flying over to him. “How come you never take off your armor?”

“It keeps me safe,” he replies.

“From what?” asks Tarja, looking around.

“Monsters.”

“Oh,” replies Tarja.

Jubilee sighs from the side. “Just drop it. You won’t get him out of there.”

Shamrock lifts his thumb over his shoulder, nodding to Jubilee. “Your turn.”

“Pass,” replies Jubilee, waving him off.

“Jubilee! You can’t pass!” argues Fresh.

“Pass,” repeats Jubilee, shrugging. Fresh frowns, looking around.

“Please?”

“I’m good,” they say, shaking their head.

Fresh realizes what the problem is. “I promise I won’t let anyone look,” she says, lifting her pinky-finger.

“The fuck is that?”

“It’s my finger,” says Fresh, looking down at her hand.

“Yeah, no shit, what are you doing?”

Fresh blinks, staring at her extended finger and poking it under Jubilee’s gloved hand, wrapping it around their pinky-finger. “It’s a pinky-promise!”

“There are moments when I strongly question why I’m alive,” says Jubilee, very dryly. “This is one of them.”

“So you’ll get in the water?” asks Fresh, lifting their locked fingers up. “I promise I’ll beat up anyone who tries to look,” she swears, rolling her shoulders. She figures Jubilee will respond better to promised violence than to begging. Jubilee stares at her for a moment, pulling their hand free and getting up without saying anything else.

Fresh, fortunately, does not have to hit anyone. She isn’t sure if she would have it in her. What if Basil tried to peek? Or Shamrock?

After a couple of hours, after everyone has washed up and they all had lunch, they keep on going for the rest of the day.

The next day comes. The wheat is broken by renewed forests. Though, these are just small clumps of trees, dotting the landscape here and there. They’re not really worth being called forests, being simply patches of a few hundred trees. This is apparently where the anqas are from natively, but there aren’t many if any wild ones left. At least around here by the main road.

Another day passes, just like this one. Then another day. Then a third. Occasionally they’ll pass some travelers or another cart, but all of them head the other way.

The wheat eventually stops, returning to grasslands that then also stop, giving way to a hard, somewhat rocky and crumbly terrain. The clumps of forest also begin to wane, becoming rarer and rarer until eventually, there’s not a single tree left in sight anywhere.

By the time the next day comes, the road is surrounded on both sides by sand and Fresh leans back, fanning herself with one of the paper-fans she made just now, following her original design from the north, with some of the stuff from their boxes here. She isn’t sure how, but the further east they go, the warmer it is getting.

Day by day, hour by hour, the longer they travel, the more the autumn chill leaves the air and is replaced instead by a hot dryness.

They have arrived in the desert.