Before he could question further she stowed it away, holding out an open hand for a few seconds until Zefaris passed the bottle. She took a swig, passed it to Sigmund, and rose to her feet, walking a few steps and idly stretching as she waited for them to follow. Soon enough they were back on the road, making their way towards the edge of the forest with renewed vigor. Zelsys could feel the edge of the forest approach, as could the others - the trees weren’t getting any less dense, it was something about the way the wind blew.

As they walked, however, Makhus became visibly restless, as if something was gnawing at his mind. Bored by the mind-numbing monotony of trekking through a forest, Zelsys confronted his nervosity.

“C’mon, spit it out,” she poked at him.

Cautious and strangely polite, he asked, “Your breathin’ technique. Who taught you?”

Zelsys was willing to do many things to cover up her own ignorance, but lying about this somehow felt wrong. She didn’t recall what it was, or the exact connotations of it, but for some reason unknown even to her, she understood that this was a touchy subject. Perhaps it was the uncharacteristic caution with which the swordsman asked the question, as if it was something deeply personal.

“I’m afraid I must disappoint you, but Fog-breathing comes naturally to me,” she answered honestly, before adding on a white lie to lead the conversation further.

“Besides, I couldn’t point you to a teacher even if I had learned it from someone. You can figure out why.”

A disappointed, sad chuckle rumbled from the swordsman as he weakly shook his head, as if to dismiss the questions he would’ve asked were her answer different.

“Of course,” he said bitterly. “The war took ‘em, like it did damn-near every Fog-breather. Makes y’wonder what the fuckin’ purpose of this war was.”

“We all know it was a matter of face for the old powers,” Sigmund piped up, stating an observation with surprising clarity, though his words were still somewhat muddled by the mass of rusty wire on his face. “Think about it. A couple city-states suddenly get united by some jackoff that calls himself the Sage of Fog. Not only do they make giant leaps in manufacturing technology enabling them to mass-produce things that take your craftsmen tens of man hours to produce, but they categorically refuse to share this technology and force you into trade deals that, while good on paper, are extortionate when you take manufacturing costs into mind.”

The bearded soldier raised his wizened gaze to meet the others’ befuddled stares, smiling through his facial hair. “What? Not all of us joined the army voluntarily. I used to be a history teacher,” he said.

“So as I was saying,” he continued rambling as they walked, “the old powers needed to put us in our place for the sake of face. So they send a couple Fog-breather led battalions, maybe some golems or what have you, shave a couple kilometers off our borders and take a factory or two.”

“A trade paid in blood and Fog,” recited Zefaris, as if it were some sort of saying. Zelsys made sure to remember it.