Mazelton convulsed with erotic peasure as his feet slipped into the soft, clean socks. They were just slightly warm, toasted an extra minute over the hot stone in his tent for that extra bit of comfy. It was good. Too good. He slipped into the underwear. Not quite as nice but Ælfflæd be praised, it was so good to feel really clean.

Mazelton was considered a bit of a neat freak, by the standards of the caravan. It’s not that people liked being dirty, but when you are walking in a caravan with hundreds of aurochs and more than a thousand people- mud, dust and manure are inevitable. Trying to scrub up every day was impossible. He was willing to acknowledge the legitimacy of at least some of that but, counter point, he had unlimited heat and as much water as he cared to carry from the ponds and rivers they camped by. And while soap was expensive, a teensy bit of potash mixed with water worked very well in cleaning off the worst of the gunk. Provided you rinsed completely afterwards. And didn’t use it to scrub anything too sensitive. Best to stick with soap, actually, but she of the clattering wooden rings did mention it as an alternative, and once again, time proved her right.

Mazelton wiggled his toes as he thought about ring-lady. He had probably judged her too harshly. A moral degenerate, no doubt, but all of her advice had proven practical. Maybe she just spent too much time in the woods and not enough time in the city? Ah well. Maybe he would carve a wooden ring and sacrifice it to the Ælfflæd, praying she caught a good spouse. It would be something to do, at least.

Which would make a pleasant change from all the nothing. And boy was there nothing. The spring had been steadily rolling along, and while summer wasn’t quite ready to announce itself, it was pretty visibly standing around and coughing. The fields were dotted with pretty little flowers half hidden in the grass. Mazelton was always a little surprised by the shocks of orange and lavender, powder blue and blinding white. They were quite lovely, but one did grow bored of them day after day.

He thought to go pick himself a bouquet of them, perhaps sketching a still life, and learned the hard way that the “pretty meadows” were actually hellscapes of pointy, scratchy, saw blade grass, biting flies and ticks. The files were easy enough to manage, but the damn ticks could hang in for an uncomfortably long while before the insect core managed to kill them. He dumped an unpleasant amount of heat all over himself just to be sure he got all the little bastards, then had to walk well away from the wagon as he absorbed all of it. Less than fun.

He still got the bouquet though, and stuck them in a cup for later sketching.

The geography of the land bothered him some. The land was wiped clean by successive ice ages, which he could understand, but the land itself didn’t seem to want to be a blank slate. There were little nicks, for lack of a better word, in the landscape. Little runnels and channels dividing up the land into tidy little squares. Invisible, save that the plants in those little runnels tended to grow that little bit greener, that little bit taller. Trees were found most often in those long, long, lines. Mazelton imagined the Ælfflæd working together. One planting a stake in the ground, the next running a string out to the horizon, and the third planting seeds along the string. He smiled. Ælffroads. Well, he had heard of such things, and maybe it was true.

Perhaps there were Ælfflæd Voyageurs, zipping along the continent on their secret roads, portaging blessings and curses to those who needed them. Pioneers would pick a little square of land, build a house, dig a well, and at the intersection of the Ælffroads they would leave offerings of bread, salt and blood. Then all the way from the Cold North Sea, blessings would come on an Ælfflæd’s back, in a bulging skin sack. Crops would ripen, bellies would ripen, and the well water would taste sweet and cool.

He could see the pioneers planting a little cluster of trees along the Ælffroad, encouraging the Ælfflæd to stay, or at least come by often. The families would show their new babies, still anointed with their mother’s blood, to the Ælfflæd and ask for their blessings. When the kids went a courting, they might save a bit of dinner as an offering. Honeyed bread for the Ælfflæd, that they might have honey on their tongues.

Would Danae understand the Ælfflæd? She did say that she was looking for a Dusty, and seemed quite strict about it. Mazelton knew that most Dusties didn’t really understand the Ælfflæd, treating them as mere demons. They weren’t. They had been part of this world far, far longer than humans had. And they weren’t human, not at all. All the bargains and rituals? Just what humans had figured out worked when trying to communicate. Certain narcotics, some special plants and mushrooms, could put one in a better state to see the Ælfflæd, to try and speak with them, but even with medicine it was so, so hard to understand them.

Mazelton kept watching his happy daydream. He could speak with the Ælfflæd better than most, better than almost anyone he knew. Not that he let anyone in the clan know. He didn’t want to be chained to the grate over the grand incense burner, a vessel for prophecy and bargains until the strain of communion burned out your lungs and mind. A very “honorable” job, but one he would gladly leave to his betters.

He watched the mother and the father dance to a time only they could hear, spinning happily through their fields as the kids watched, laughed and pretended to boo. Until the sound of long knives rubbing came, and he saw the delivery driver being beaten to death on the side of the road, saw himself beating the delivery driver to death on the side of the road and he never really escaped Old Radler, not really, because he was still there right now.

One of the teamsters pulled him out of the ditch and put him in his wagon, which he later thought was remarkably decent of them. He only came back to himself some three hours later, shivering convulsively.

A life paid, yes. And he kept the dross. People really didn’t understand the Ælfflæd at all. Duane, bless him, didn’t say a word. Then Mazelton got his shit together well enough to do his evening rounds, because he was still eating carrion. Even if he had forgotten for a minute.

That night he sat in his tent, sketching the wildflowers bunched up in their bark mug. The bark came from an ironwood tree, the strain carefully built by the Second Swabian Empire to be fireproof and drought resistant. The waterproofing lacquer was made by the mixture of the tree’s sap and certain chemicals Mazelton was never bored enough to discover. He just knew that the mug was cheap and you could stick it on your hot stone without fear of scorching it. Kind of an ugly, mottled brown color, but he had never seen a painted version that was still heat proof.

The brown was a nice contrast to the dark green stems and the vivid brightness of the flowers. Right now he was just using a bit of charcoal to sketch the shape of them, but he had some water colors and he figured he could do a nice little picture. Show it to Danae when he got home.

The sketch was fine, relaxing, but he wasn't feeling it. He put the sketch aside and laid down a fresh sheet. He started sketching his parents. He struggled to remember their faces.

Father and mother… wouldn’t be hugging or anything. They didn’t yell at each other, at least not where he could hear them, but they didn’t stand close together if they could help it. He sketched the little table in the apartment. Father and mother would always sit on either side of the table, sometimes with work, or a book, often with wine. They would occasionally say something polite to each other, perhaps passing a bowl of salted beans back and forth as a snack. He could draw the table, chairs, wine, bowl, apartment, books… but their faces?

Father was no raving beauty, but since mother wasn’t either, it seemed fair enough. He could more or less remember the curve of their skulls, the lines of their jaws. Father’s eyebrows always looked like they had been painted on with a thick brush in a quick jerk- one to the left and up, one to the right and up. Mother’s eyebrows were arranged in a straight line, perfectly level, but they tended to move independently of each other. He never dared tell her that her ironic raised eyebrow reminded him of a pallet being hoisted.

He pulled out another sheet and drew Uncle Malelio and Aunt Maleai. They didn’t really get too close to each other either. Their spouses were… not enemies exactly, but not friends either, so it made things a bit awkward. Still, Mazelton had caught them laughing over the odd way that the relationships worked out. Uncle Malelio had a rather unfortunate cranial peak, a sort of faint ridge running along the top of his skull. It had served him well in two clan wars, but it limited his rise. Likewise Aunt Maleai had a jaw just a touch too square for any serious office.

The charcoal stick swept down and out, the bristles of Uncle Malelio’s mustache jutting over gently quirked lips. He could hear his laugh barking, guffawing, chuckling down the hallway as he shook his head at the foolishness of the world around him.

“That is fascinating!” It was practically his catch phrase.

Aunt Maleai was more of a quiet person, but not because she was a wallflower. She was quiet with a focused deliberateness. Mazelton had learned from her the trick of making holes in the air for people to fill with words. She spoke with her eyes, her hands, her posture. Every time she stitched up a cut or iced down bruises, she never said a word but she still soothed Mazelton with her touch, her warmth. The sheer animal comfort that came from being around Aunt Maleai was so precious. She contrasted so sharply with Mother. Father’s anger was furious, turned inward until Uncle Malelio could pull it out. Mother’s anger was cold, focused on the external world that had failed her so badly. When Mother was quiet, she was accumulating acid and waiting for her moment. Except with Aunt Maleai, when she could pour out all the hurt and rest her head on her lap. Mazelton remembered those times when he saw Aunt Maleai sitting, Mother’s head on her lap, as she gently caressed her hair.

Uncle Malelio and Aunt Maleai were far, far too good for his parents. He had no idea what they saw in them. When his attention returned to the paper, he saw that he had managed to draw his parents this time. The real them, that only seemed to exist when they were with their lovers.

He always hoped that, one day, he would be the one to bring out their real selves. Mazelton sighed, and put down his charcoal stick. The pictures were carefully saved. The desk tidied for the morning.

Sleep was a long time coming.

The next morning after breakfast, Polyclitus beat the drum for a quick assembly. They would be going past the ruins of another settlement, a small town this time. The town was about two kilometers south of the road, and by no accounts could be considered big, but it may still have remnants worth discovering. The caravan would be passing by it a bit after lunch, so it made exploration easier. At the very least, prospectors wouldn’t have to travel far to catch up.

Polyclitus coughed slightly. He could understand why the word “Remnant” wouldn’t be popular right now, but he knew plenty of folk had lost supplies during the fight. Picking up some valuable trade goods could be a big win. Still, entirely up to you.

Mazelton already had his stall set up before Polyclitus finished his spiel. Trade was still slow, but there were more purchasers, this time. Mazelton could literally smell the fear on some of them. Lots of practice. He did have one new item for sale, though, and it sold like candied plums in winter. Detector medallions.

The day was about average in it’s tedium, the grass was perhaps a hair lighter in color. Perhaps not. The twenty or so prospectors split off after lunch, and it said something about his need for stimulation that Mazelton watched them walk until they vanished from his sight.

Dinner that night was pretty decent, all things considered. The cook had secreted some root vegetables- radishes? At the back of the chuck wagon, and had roasted them off for dinner. They were spicy little beggars, and chewy. Still, they were a pretty decent change on just rice and beans, or beans and bread, so they were very welcome. Polyclitus blessed them with a few drops of his precious hot sauce, and what greater tribute could there be than that?

Mazelton went with a pinch of salt. It’s not that he didn’t like mustard and hot sauce, but he actually wanted to taste this. Chew, chew, chew.

Belly nicely full, Mazelton settled into the warmth of the campfire. Not talking much, just letting the warmth of other humans being around melt some of the chill he was carrying. It was kind of hypnotic, the fire and the constant low level drone- the fixation on the flame letting him empty his mind and relax.

“Hey! Where’s the polisher at? We need the polisher!”

Well that was never good. Mazelton stayed low and quiet, hand drifting to his belt knife.

“What do you need him for?” Polyclitus intercepted the emigrant, more out of a sense of decorum than anything else, Mazelton thought.

“The detectors- they turned solid blue, and the edges of Pam’s started turning black!”