Symeon led the way toward the path he had carved through the briar, with Istroama furtively trying to whistle as he followed.

“So the area past the briars-”

Istroama swiftly interrupted. “The Istroama Pepper briars?”

Symeon looked back over his shoulder, but found few words he wouldn’t regret later. Instead he returned his attention back to the path ahead. “The area past the briars is undergrowth. Lots of ostrich ferns, I’m bettin’ lots of moss ‘n mushrooms too, all good foragin’. Ferns ‘n moss will be a big part of our shelter, mushrooms might be edible. Even if we find toxic mushrooms, they might be useful. That said, don’t eat anythin’ ya see without checkin’ with me first.

“Except the Istroama Peppers.”

“Yer workin’ my last good nerve, Istroama.”

“All right, all right, just having a bit of fun. You get to name the next thing. It’s only fair. So. Ferns, moss, and mushrooms. I trust you to point them out to me, because I haven’t the slightest what they might look like.”

"Easy ta fix.” Symeon pulled at a fern as they cleared the briars. “Ostrich fern. Not edible except when it’s just a sprout, but the sprouts ain’t enough food ta be worth the effort. The big ferns will make decent shelter material in a pinch, but I’m really hopin’ for those big leaves from the trees for that.”

The ferns were prolific enough to dominate the undergrowth, but gave way before Symeon’s chopping blade. This exposed more of the forest floor, revealing the previously predicted moss. Symeon felt information swirl into place regarding it, identifying it simply as inedible ‘green moss’. He reached down and pulled up a clump, which he handed back to Istroama. “Green moss. Not food, not dangerous. We’re gonna pull whole sheets of this stuff, it’s our top pick for weatherproofin’ our shelter short-term. Better than the ferns ‘n easier than the leaves.”

“I see. What exactly is this weather that we’ll be proofing against?”

Symeon halted for a moment at this question. “I keep forgettin’ how much of this has ta be new ta ya. Okay. Right now, the sun shining down? Light, heat? That’s a kind of weather. Sunny. The risks with sunny weather are exposure and dehydration, mainly, but I’m more worried about rain.”

“Ah, yes, I recall you mentioning rain before. Deadly water falling from the sky.”

“Well, sorta deadly, if we end up sittin’ around in it. Three hours without shelter means three hours of any really bad weather can do us in, dry or wet, hot or cold.”

Istroama was uncharacteristically silent regarding this point. Symeon didn’t think much of the matter as the riverbank was swiftly coming into view, and looked very promising. They were emerging from the undergrowth into a shady bend where the river ran clean over smooth rocks. A few fallen Lasle nut-pods littered the area. He was graced with the knowledge those seeds held edible innards and some potable water, but the ones fallen here were mostly rotten from being caught in the rocks for too long. In the water beyond the shadow of the trees was an odd collection of squat, round plants that dominated the deepening waters. Symeon pushed onward, stepping lightly from stone to stone, while Istroama stopped at the water’s edge, his attention on movement in the air along the shore.

“Well, that’s not good. Myriads.”

Symeon had a fairly good view of what Istroama was talking about, though it took a moment to connect the word to what he was seeing. The shore was home to a number of flying insects of remarkable girth, cruising lazily around the edge of the squat plants. On occasion one would dart down with unexpected speed to seize wriggling things out of the water, to be devoured by grinding mandibles. The fact that these giant insects could fly at all, yet alone move so quickly seemed unlikely to Symeon, but he could hardly deny the direct evidence of his senses.

One of the things was meandering toward him, and proximity revealed it to be excessively unpleasant. It was similar in shape to a dragonfly, scaled up to the size of his forearm and fist. Beyond the divergence in mass, it was covered in a solid sleeve dark chitin, with trailing tendrils like boneless fingers dangling in a meaty curtain beneath it. Most alarming was the tripartite maw, working mindlessly to reveal a nest of tearing barbs within. “Myriads, huh? Ya already got a name for these nasty things? Ain’t it my turn ta name somethin’?” Symeon was already pulling the machete from his robe as he asked.

“Well, yes, but they already have a name. They’re Myriads, I can see they have the same lines. They’re physically changed from how they were in Oruke, but I take that as a given at this point. I say, you really shouldn’t…”

Istroama got no further with his thought, as Symeon took a long, sweeping cut at the insectoid horror with his machete. To his surprise, the beast exhibited none of the haste it used in feeding from the river. The blow caught it firmly in the side with a wet crunch. The shattered thing tumbled out of the air, striking the top of one of the plants and triggering a spray of blue mist from the cap. Finally, it slowly tumbled down between the plants before rolling into the water. That same water came to a virtual boil as the cousins of the creature he had previously seen preyed upon by the bugs swarmed the carcass. Symeon turned back as he gloated over his kill. “Heh. Ugly freak. Really shouldn’t what?”

Istroama stood, breath held and fists clenched near his mouth, quivering as he scanned the skies over the river. Nothing exceptional occurred, and as whatever Istroama was waiting for failed to materialize he unclenched with a relieved exhalation. “Well! Not how I wanted to test my theories, but I can’t argue with the results! Huzzah, friend Symeon, huzzah!”

“Huz-what now? Test what?”

“Those are Myriad. They’re sacred creatures. Untouchable! Yet you just slaughtered one without reprisal.”

Symeon turned back to where the cloven Myriad was being rapidly disassembled by the needle-like fangs of the eel-squid Implets, the water churning to foam with their efforts. “What would somethin’ that ugly be sacred to?”

“Well, everything. The Myriad are blessed by both order and chaos. Endless repetition and endless variety. I always worried that they were tasked with replacing us poor mortals in the fullness of time.”

“Ya don’t seem real upset that I just walloped a sacred animal.”

“Being sacred doesn’t exempt them from being largely awful. I mean, laying out some poor sentient as a sacrifice is also sacred. Sacred, friend Symeon, is not the same as good. I wouldn’t kill a Myriad myself, but here we are and none the worse for it! It’s rather encouraging, really.”

Symeon’s attention never wavered from the vanishing remains as he listened to Istroama, until the final chunks were pulled under by the aquatic horde. “Encouragin’?”

“Yes. I was actually intending to try some experimental blasphemy when we had a spare moment. I wasn’t looking forward to using myself as a test subject, obviously, but needs must when the powers that be slaughter your kin.”

“Uh, is that a thing that happens for swattin’ a bug?”

“It is a thing that has happened previously. I did say the Oruke was grim and violent. Myself and the other Claimants did not set out to end the world on a whim, friend Symeon. Still! Not the time or the place for further temptation of divine wrath. Maybe later we can work up some really intense heresy and see if anything turns up to smite us.”

“Man, I honestly can’t tell if yer messin’ with me or not.”

A few of the eel-creatures in the water were still scouring the area for scraps, and Symeon noted the lower halves of the eels were sporting squid-like tentacles rather than the expected tail. His consideration caused information to float to the forefront, naming these as Chthonic Implets. “Well, bein’ able ta take the bugs out might mean we just landed dinner. Seems these Implet beasties are edible, ‘n they’re reckless for food. We can probably bait a bunch pretty easy.”

The swirling Implets drew the attention of another Myriad dragonfly, which was languidly cruising toward the aquatic scrum. Symeon lashed out again, carving through the paired wings on one side, sending it into a diving crash among the rocks. Chthonic Implets came pouring out from under the sheltering plants, to flop bonelessly across the stones in savage pursuit of sustenance.

“Argh! Friend Symeon, could we PERHAPS pace ourselves on slaying the Myriads? Just give me a little time to get used to the idea.”

Symeon stepped over and away from the feeding frenzy, clicking his tongue in thought. “Yeah, naw, have ya seen the mouths on those bugs? I’m not gonna risk one gettin’ close enough ta chomp on me. Istroama, we’re gonna have us a fry-up. Get over here ‘n help me snag some of these things.” Symeon pulled his box from the pocket of his robe and turned back to the snapping melee on and around the wounded Myriad. Istroama saw the Implets snapping at Symeon’s fingers as he tried to pinch one from the edge of the scrum, drawing a snarl from the man. “Oh, ya wicked little biter. That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

By the time Istroama was squatting down with his own box out, Istroama had laid his box aside in favor of poking likely targets with the point of his knife. A singular stab seemed thoroughly ruinous to the health of the eel-squids, and was followed up by Symeon scooping the hand-length body with the blade, to be flicked into the waiting box.

“Good stuff! We’ll need a fire ta cook ‘em, ‘n water to clean ‘em properly, but that was gonna be a thing anyway. Just stab ‘em ‘n pop ‘em into the boxes ta start. I’m gonna make sure we don’t miss anythin’ before we head back.”

Istroama pulled his blade and carefully administered a probing stab into the roiling mass, giving a satisfied hum as he levered the stricken Implet to join the one Symeon had taken. As Istroama continued assaulting the Implets with growing enthusiasm, Symeon stood up and stretched. His blade stayed in his hand as he noted more Myriad edging around the area.

“Gotta say, at least the Implets have some fight in ‘em. These bugs of yers,” this thought being interrupted by another lunging swat to strike a Myriad down into the plants. “These bugs of yers must’ve gotten all fat ‘n sassy with no-one willin’ to give ‘em the sharp end. Ha! Maybe we’ll end up beatin’ the stupid outta ‘em.”

“Ha! HA! That’s three, and no reprisal! Nothing! I’m tempted to strike one down myself at this point. Back in the Oruke, slaying even one was a risk. You’ve slaughtered three in short order. If divine attention was forthcoming, three would have drawn it for certain. Oh, this is most joyous, friend Symeon! Once we’re back at camp I’m going to denigrate the gods at length!”

“Well, good ya have a hobby to look forward ta, I guess.” Symeon’s attention left the conversation as facts about the surrounding flora and fauna came to him. The aforementioned Implets seemed to shelter beneath the barrel-like bodies and spreading conical tops of the plants. From Symeon’s pool of knowledge he knew they were not edible, they were unnamed, and to Symeon's delight they apparently contained potable water. Taking care not to step into the deeper water and the gnashing forest of Implet fangs, he hooked one of the plants with the curve of his blade and tore it toward the rocks. The plant came free, but again sprayed blue mist from the top as it did. Symeon finished batting the plant out of the water before examining the substance that clung to his machete.

The blue substance ran like water, but water that was bright and azure. As per his expectations details came to him quickly. ‘Unnamed Plant Spray’, a fluid utilizing the more esoteric aspects of Water magic to stop things in time. Symeon quickly washed the offending substance away in the river. He scooped up the one he had extracted, carefully pointing it away as he began to pry up more. “Well, now there’s proof ta back yer talk about magic. These weird hut-lookin’ plants throw some sorta magic time mojo in that blue stuff. Plus, they’ve got clean water in ‘em! I’m not sayin’ life’s gonna be good, but I will say we’re probably gonna be okay here ‘n now.”

Istroama muttered as he flipped one last dead Implet into his box and slid the lid home. “Of course, my ‘talk about magic’ is without error. It’s just a frustration that I don’t seem to be able to do anything more than see magic.” He waved his blade over a nearby plant and triggered the blue mist. “Yes, most assuredly Water magic. The effect disperses quickly, though. Might be of some use as a reagent, if you’re the sort to use such primitive aids.”

Symeon had torn up three of the plants in total, and laid them upside-down in the shallow water to wash the spray away. “Well, they don’t have a name, so they get ta be named for me.” There was that distinctive click in his head that indicated a change, followed by the plant now being newly dubbed as ‘Symeoncane’.

“There it is. Symeoncanes? I dunno if I’d have picked that, but good enough. Istroama, I’ll need ya take my box and knife when we had out. I’m gonna test a theory of my own.”

“Oh? I don’t mean to sound condescending but you don’t strike me as a man of science. You seem, oh, I don’t know, head down, charge the foe, woe to the first to cry yield!”

Though this, Symeon was stripping out of his robe. It occurred to him he’d been wearing the thing nonstop throughout the whole day’s labors, and yet it was still spotless. “Well, I do my share of thinkin’. See, nearly everythin’ inanimate that I’ve taken a deep look at has a durability value. Those big bones on the beach had eleven ‘n they fell apart with no effort. The only things that haven’t had a score are the Chrysalises, our sandals, our boxers, our knives, ‘n our robes. The robes, sandals and knives actually have a duration value of about a week, which is just weird ta me. Anyway, so far all the things with no durability have taken every bit of mayhem we’ve thrown at ‘em ‘n are still fresh as when we woke up. I mean, look at yer sandals.”

Istroama lifted one foot to inspect the footwear. “Seems normal to me. Assuming they started in a normal state.”

“My point.” Symeon spread his robe out on the stones, and then began stacking nearby rocks in the center of it. “We’ve been all over the place, stompin’ around through sand ‘n briars ‘n rocks, the sandals don’t have a scratch. My theory is, if it doesn’t have a durability score, it’s indestructible. If I’m right, I’ll give out tryin’ ta lug these rocks before my robe does.” With that, he folded up the corners and sleeves into an improvised bag, and lifted the load with both hands and a grunt of effort.

“Not a single thread torn. I’m tellin’ ya, indestructible. Don’t know how or why, but if there’s any way ta abuse this I’m all over it. Oof, this is heavy. Let’s get back to camp.”

The march back to the camp was uneventful, beyond Symeon trying to avoid contacting the remaining thorned greenery that poked out of the wreckage of the path. It was nearly impossible to avoid harm completely with the weight of the rocks inhibiting his movements, but he managed to avoid anything more than a few scrapes on his ankles.

The camp was just as they had left it, the Chrysalis at the center holding their foraged peppers, the wooden detritus drying in the sun, and the sundial sticking up like a middle finger personally directed at Symeon. As soon as they reached the camp edge he dropped the burdensome rocks out of the improvised robe-bag and headed straight to the sundial. “Are ya seein’ this, Istroama? This is what I was talkin’ about!”

The grass-entangled stick was just as he remembered it, including the fact that the shadow laid directly on it as before. Istroama set down his own burden of boxes, knives, and plants before coming to stand beside him, looking down at the pristine sundial. “Seems fine to me. It clearly hasn’t been disturbed.”

“Yeah, well, I’M disturbed. We were gone for at least an hour. There’s no way that shadow should be on the same spot.” Symeon looked around the area with great suspicion. “There’s some serious shenanigans goin’ on, I’m tellin’ ya. Only thing I can think of is ta sit here guardin’ this thing ta be sure, but we don’t have time ta stare at a stick.”

Symeon continued talking as he shifted the rocks out of this robe. “Forget it. I’m gonna get a start on the A-frame. I got a job for ya, if yer up to it.”

“Well, certainly! What did you have in mind?”

“We need some plants from the undergrowth ta put over the A-frame. Big strips of moss, maybe some of the ferns too. I’d say load some more peppers into yer box but we’ve got enough for now. No point pickin’ food when it’s fine on the vine. Just get me moss ‘n ferns, ‘n we’ll build some good cover.”

“Done and done, friend Symeon. Do I need my box and knife?”

With the rocks unloaded, Symeon gave the robe a shake to dislodge a few pieces of grit and put it back on. “Just yer knife. Use it ta cut the moss. Ya good?”

“I believe so. I’ll be back shortly with the plants.”