53 Harvest, 385 - Reishada, Ograkill, Charan

The season of harvest was waning, mornings were gaining a chill. Afternoons were often brisk, that crisp scent that is so specifically fall filling the air. The brisk scent of fall and the acrid tang of the oil he was using to clean his revolvers. The very ritual of cleaning his weapons was soothing to the restlessness that had settled in Clark’s soul since they had arrived in Reishada. This purportedly urgent quest that they were on sure was taking an awfully long time to get started.

It had only been a few days in the caravansary, gathering the necessary personnel and supplies, but a strange restlessness had taken root in Clark and the longer they waited, the deeper it sunk into him. So he cleaned his revolvers. He cleaned his revolvers and he practiced with the spear.

He was beginning to feel comfortable with the weapon, like it was a part of him. If he was being honest with himself, he was no spear prodigy, he could hold his own against the younger soldiers but against the veterans, he was useless. So he cared for his weapons and he bided his time and he watched the others.

He watched Amien, but not the same way Howard watched the farspeaker. She moved with the easy grace of a large cat, fluid and dangerous. It was easy to forget that she was a hunter, as deadly as a cougar and as fierce as a mother bear. She had settled into the role of camp cook without complaint and she tolerated no complaints about her cooking.

Vail, the shadairian scout, moved with a quieter grace. She walked on the toes of her bare feet, the soft pads making no sound on the concrete. Her striped tail swayed behind her, its motions often betraying her emotions. Nearly as often as the black ears that emerged from her red hair. She was friendly, outgoing. Her muzzle, filled with sharp teeth, was often in a wide grin.

The orckin, Tamesh, was taciturn. He was tall, large boned and covered with dense muscle. His face was often serious and with the large, almost elephant-like tusks that framed his jaw, even the faintest stern expression would make him look murderous.

It was the core of the group that would be going into the Outlands. These three, along with Clark and his brother, were going to be going through the Wild Weaves and into a place filled with dangers both known and unknown. They were gathering horses, oxen, wagons, supplies, and more people. The caravansary was slowly filling, more tents going up, wagons filled with supplies taking up space.

The core of the expedition was expanding by leaps and bounds as more and more individuals joined. By the end of the week, four dozen others had joined the encampment. There were more orckin than anything else, but there were shadairian and even a few elfkin that had joined up. The group was boisterous in the evenings, over the dinner the farspeaker prepared. They were loud, but not truly unruly. There were dice games and friendly arguments, drinking and laughter. Commander Ulresh had chosen only the best of those available and it was obvious by their behavior. They were calm, experienced soldiers and hunters. Explorers and adventures who had traveled extensively in the Eastlands. They were grizzled veterans and brilliant young men and women.

As the week wore on, Clark became more and more restless. There were things to do around the camp, but none of it was Clark’s job. There was organization to be done, but none of it was his responsibility.

60 Harvest, 385 - Reishada, Ogrekill, Charan

Thought it seemed to drag out into something far longer than the ten day week that the people of this world kept. The caravansary had become crowded, numerous carts and animals, supplies and tents. All told, eighty people were gathered on the sixtieth day of Harvest, preparing to depart on a journey into a wilderness that hadn’t been touched in centuries. There were a dozen experienced handlers for the horses and oxen in the party, there was a dedicated healer and her handful of apprentices. Beyond that there were warriors, archers, and scouts. Trackers and botanists, craftspeople and drivers. Dozens of people swarmed through the camp, ltering down the tents and loading them in the wagons with the last of the supplies. It was a bustle, with more confusion than absolutely necessary, but as with any company the confusion would fade with time.

It was a couple of hours of loading and packing before everyone was ready. It was a long column of horses and carts that slowly snaked its way out of the caravansary. They headed West. The Franklins had been heading West when they had stumbled through the Rift. Now they were heading West again in a whole other world. Not to be Pinkertons this time, but to forge a path deep into the Outlands, to the site of the First Tear. Who knew what they would find out there. Who knew what the Outlands were even like at this point. According to the locals nobody went into the Outlands and nothing good came out of it.

Howard and Clark rode together near the front of the line. It was both like and unlike their time with the army. They were surrounded by other soldiers, but there wasn’t that instant sense of camaraderie there had been with the soldiers. There was a line between the Franklins and the others, those from elseworld and those from here. Those who were human and those who were not. Clark had grown used to the Others, used to seeing green skin, fangs, and fur. He had grown used to it, in the way you grew used to a beard you just didn’t have time to shave. It might irritate a little, but more than anything it felt strange.

They traveled over the beautiful bridge and out onto the prairie. It was so similar to home, to Iowa. Long rolling hills of tall grasses that tickled the horses’ bellies and yielded only reluctantly to the oxen and the carts. It, like everything else, was like and not like the familiar world he had lived in for most of his life. Just like the people the world was so close to his own and yet so different. The differences were small in some cases and inconceivably large in others.

As they walked deeper into the grasslands, the scouts ranged ahead and a rearguard dropped back. The caravan moved at an easy pace, making steady progress. It was the guards and the scouts and the flanking patrols that made it so terribly different. This place was dangerous. There were creatures and bandits in the grasslands and who knew what dangers lurked in the Outlands. Even in the relative safety of Ograkill, there were dangers in the wilderness. Wild animals were a thing in the frontiers, even the occasional bear or cougar near the Franklin Homestead. Here they seemed to fear something much more dangerous than a cougar or a bear. The scout spoke with Tamesh, who was the leader of the expedition.