Istroama made a robust roll of a few sheets of cut moss, along with many fern fronds and a few fallen Lasle leaves, and emerged back into the sunlight. “I’m back. How’s this for a start?”

Symeon considered the delivery with seriousness. “Might need more moss, but we’re sure set for ferns. Now set it all down ‘n get a look at this.” Symeon picked up a stone he had separated from the rest. It was pale grey and rough looking on the surface, but a small portion had been broken away to reveal a glassy grey-green interior.

“I see no exceptional lines, but it appears to be a variant of Earth.”

“Earth? Flint, friend Istroama, flint! Oh, look at this beauty!” With that, Symeon laid a wet kiss on the side of the stone.

“Are you trying to consume that flint-thing? Seems rather solid for such an endeavour. Oh, I say, I believe that’s the first time you’ve called me friend!”

“Naw, yeah, I’m feelin’ pretty good right now. Tell ya what. I’m gonna carve up some wood ta start the fire, ya just hunker down ‘n relax. We’ve done some good work today, don’t think I haven’t noticed ya goin’ above ‘n beyond either. We’ll have fire, I’ll gut those Implets, clean ‘em with the water in one of the extra Symeoncanes, ‘n we’ll have us one fine fry-up.”

With little else to do without direction, Istroama sat near the wooden A-frame Symeon had constructed in his absence. A straight branch with a sturdy fork had been driven into the ground and bracketed by a collection of stones, the branch poking upward much like the gnomon of the previously constructed sundial. A second, longer branch was elevated on one end by way of resting in the fork of the first, with the end on the ground again being bracketed with stone. This second branch bore the burden of an array of more sticks on both sides, running up the length of it. All together it formed a pyramid of wood that was open on one side.

Istroama gently prodded one of the sticks on the side, observing how the structure reacted. It seemed it relied on constant gravity for what little stability it had. Istroama pondered this while Symeon carved thin slices from a large piece of wood.

“So that moss substance you had me gather will be added to this construction of yours?”

“Yep. We’ll lay it on top ta proof it against the elements n’ help hold the whole mess together. The ferns go inside so we’re not just roughin’ it on the bare ground. It’s a temporary fix, but it’ll do until we can whip up somethin’ better.”

“And you cutting bits off of that piece of wood is in aid of?”

“Fire. Between this knife ‘n the flint we’re in a pretty good spot, but I’m not fool enough ta try ta light up a whole log. Some kindlin’ is just what we need.”

“This would all be so much easier with my magic. Just about any power could be used to cut through those plants, perhaps Air or Absence to move them in bulk. Fire, obviously, for your current task.”

“Naw, yeah, we got what we got, we do what we DAMNIT!” The knife went tumbling from Symeon’s hand as he clutched at his thumb. The blade had slipped while he was unfocused and notched him. Symeon turned his hand to inspect the injury, signing with relief at the shallowness of the wound. The slip had resulted in a patch of skin being torn, leaving a spot damp with plasma, but no actual blood. “Man, that was close. Would’ve been real bad news if I’d really opened myself up. Hey, are ya alright?”

Symenon was reacting to Istroama’s posture. Istroama had gone from sitting with his legs sprawled out in front of him to having scrambled back a couple of meters. He was now crouched on the far side of the shelter, vaguely warding unseen danger away from his face with his hands. After a few seconds Istroama relaxed a little, venturing a question with a slight quaver in his voice. “Oh. Well. When you were pronouncing that curse, did you have a particular deity in mind? Or a specific target?”

“What? Man, I just jabbed myself is all. I was just, ya know, expressin’ myself. That was a hair from bein' a bad slice.”

“Interesting. The sample set is small, but the evidence has all pointed one way thus far. Would you mind if I did an experiment? There may be some danger if my theory is incorrect.”

“I dunno what yer talkin’ about, man. What theory? What danger?”

“I believe the gods are no longer willing or able to strike at will. There are signs they may still be present, as evidenced by the recurrence of the number three and the presence of the Myriad. However, you were able to brutalize those same Myriads without reprisal three times! In the Oruke, such an act would have seen you pulverized by divine wrath. Just now you invoked damnation, with no result. Based on the available evidence I intend to proceed with my aforementioned experimental blasphemy. I’ll see myself away from the immediate area in case this goes poorly, of course.”

Symeon stammered in alarm through his response, trying to process all Istroama had said. “What? That’s not really a thing, is it? Are threes really a sign? I mean, if ya gotta do this then ya gotta do this, but it’s not really a thing, gettin’ pulverized, right?”

Istroama smiled gently and he stood up. “I’m sure it’ll all be fine. I’ll just be over by the trees for a moment.” He turned toward the treeline, and marched away with his chin high. Symeon stood up to watch, mouth agape as Istroama moved away from the camp.

Istroama picked a spot near the path that had been cut into the thicket. There, he took a deep breath as he steeled his will. How strange, he thought, that revelation would take place amidst such alien beauty. There were hints of how the Oruke was in it, but all rendered static. It was like a still image of what once was, somehow fully alive despite being still. This world was horrifying and wonderful and strange and new, and it was time to find out if it was a world his people could live in.

He took another deep breath, struck what he felt was a suitably heroic pose with his fist raised defiantly against the skies, and shouted. “Drain and decrease to the Last!”

The wind blew gently past, the leaves of the trees swayed in the breeze, and the murmur of the river continued on. Istroama’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the area for approaching threats that failed to materialize. Istroama took another breath and shouted again. “Curses upon the First, most hated vanguard of filth!”

The calm of the area continued unchanged as Istroama’s visage broke into a wild grin. This was interrupted by Istroama scrambling madly when Symeon yelled from back at the camp. “HAVE YA DONE THE THING YET?”

“BLAST IT SYMEON! I’M HAVING A MOMENT HERE!”

There was a pause before the reply came. “SORRY!”

Istroama pulled himself up off the ground and brushed off some clinging detritus while he tried to recover his dignity. He struck the hopefully heroic pose again, fist once more menacing the skies. “I damn you thrice, Long Reach! I damn you as a tyrant, a monster and a coward! Damn you, Long Reach!”

Again, no change, no reaction. Istroama couldn’t help himself at this point, practically jumping as he ran while waving his arms. “Symeon! SYMEON! I WAS RIGHT, SYMEON!” He charged back into the camp, cackling like a madman. “Oh, this is glorious! Nothing! All that and not the least hint of a smiting! I stand before you thoroughly unsmote! Quickly, do you know any good swears or rude gestures?”

“Uh, ya could stick up your middle finger like this,” and Symeon demonstrated the gesture, “or you could use your index finger too. They’re both disrespectful, though I can’t rightly recall why..”

“Fantastic!” Istroama began waving his middle fingers about, spinning around to confront all directions. “Be ruined, you unwanted divine malignancies!”

“Huh. Well, glad yer havin’ a good time, I guess. Uh, tell ya what, when yer done, you wanna take over shavin’ strips off the wood? I wanna get the shelter done. If it’s gonna come crashin’ down I want it to be because I botched it, not because I half-assed it.”

Istroama kept making rude gestures for a minute before settling down. “Cutting the wood. Yes, yes, I can do that. As you were doing before, I assume, but without the self-harm?”

“Ha ha. Yeah,'as I was doing before but without the self-harm'. I’m fine by the way.” Symeon began unrolling the moss, inspecting the various pieces before laying them gently over the sticks that made up the A-frame. “So yer experiment went well?”

“Oh yes, friend Symeon. I cannot prove the presence or absence of the gods, but that in itself is an addition to my evidence they are not in a position to bring punishment against heretics. Do you understand how… immense this is? No more living in fear! This can be a world for humanity! And the dwarves, too, of course.”

“Wait, ain’t there more races than that? I learned about some bunch called the Maddish early on.”

Istroama hadn’t settled down to the task of whittling wood, instead pacing around the camp and gesturing animatedly with every sentence. “The Maddish? Yes. They’re the soldiers of Chaos. Not a bad bunch, really, compared to Ornians or Elves. Still, they can all get ruined as far as I’m concerned. It would have been us Humans and the Dwarves for the chop if me and Angrosid hadn’t ended the world. Ha! Well it’s our world now! HA! And it’s my turn to name something.”

Symeon was too busy processing new information that came to him with the mention of Elves and Ornians to object. While Symeon was flooded with images of glamorous fae and massive lizard-men, Istroama stood with his arms outstretched and a wide stance as if to encompass everything around him. “I name this place Alsualsu, in honor of that which once was. We shall raise the City of Spheres to glory again!”

“Oh, come ON. Seriously? What, anything we build here is called Alsualsu? That doesn’t count, does it? Oh no.” Symeon felt something shift in his knowledge, and knew the new name to be true. “Well, fine. Anything we build here is called Alsualsu. Might as well put up a sign or somethin’. Alsualsu, population two.”

“That’s the spirit! Soon to be population twenty-one, once we get the others out.”

“Yeah, well, we gotta talk about how that’s gonna go before then. Gotta balance havin’ extra hands against how many people we can actually keep alive. Speakin’ of which, get to carvin’. Fire isn’t gonna light itself, and we’re wastin’ daylight. I think.” Symeon looked over at the sundial again, the shadow still locked in the same place. “Seriously, I can’t even be mad about that anymore. It’s just too weird ta stress about.”

Istroama began to carefully work the wood with his knife while Symeon finished draping moss over the shelter, followed by placing the ferns inside as a token cover over the ground. Symeon stood back to examine his work. “Naw, yeah, that’ll do. It’ll be for one of us at a time, but I want us keepin’ a watch anyway.”

Symeon sorted through the various remaining stones from the load he had carried in his robe. Having come from the river they were largely smooth and flat, which worked well for him as he placed them in a circle a couple meters from the shelter. He was not entirely pleased with the result, and used more stones to stack a second level on top of the first. This was followed by a long sigh.

“This is gonna be a risk, but I think we can manage it. We’re gonna need more of a firebreak or we’re likely ta torch everythin’ ta the horizon.” With that, he gathered up one of the Symeoncanes and carefully began sawing to separate the top of the plant. With a little effort the top came away to reveal the barrel-like interior and the water within.

“There it is, drinkin’ water. Half each, and then we’ll go get some more stuff from the river. Watch me now, it’s kinda like with the peppers.”

“The Istroama Peppers.”

“I’m never gonna hear the end of that one, am I? Just watch.” Symeon did his best to demonstrate how to drink water with exaggerated actions and slowness, nearly choking in the process. The stuff out of the Symeoncane was by no means pure water, imbued heavily with the arboreal flavor of the plant itself, but it quenched a thirst Symeon hadn’t realized he had. “Right. Yer up. Take it slow, take it easy, little sips ta start.”

He handed the opened Symeoncane to Istroama, who after a few sputtering attempts successfully managed to get a mouthful down. “Ugh. I think I like the peppers better.”

“Naw, yeah, not a taste sensation, is it? But it’s safer than unboiled, it'll do for now. Grab some peppers ta munch on the march, we’re goin’ back ta the river. I want more of these Symeoncanes, and we’re gonna use some to haul muck.”

The walk to the river was uneventful, and the Myriads were conspicuous by their absence when they arrived. Symeon began using his blade to pry up more of the strange barrel-like reeds, taking care to avoid the blue mist they would cloud the area with. Istroama joined him, and soon they had a dozen of the things on shore. Symeon opened a pair of the larger ones up, and used them to scoop mud and gravel from the river’s shore. Immediately the water in the mix began to drain away through the holes. He handed the pair to Istroama before removing his robe to use as a bag for the remainder. “Yer gonna carry the muck, I got the water. We’ll probably need a couple more trips worth for the muck, but we’ll do that together. I want ya with me ta learn when I make the fire n’ I shouldn’t get that goin’ until we do something’ ta keep it from spreadin’.”

Istroama was rather quiet through all this. The shadows of the forest still unnerved him, though the presence of Symeon quelled the worst of it. Symeon broke the silence on the way back. “Okay, so before ya went ahead ‘n called our camp Alsualsu, ya mentioned Elves and Ornians. I got more information off of that, so lemme see if I got it right. The Ornians are reptile-men and work for Order?”

The question brought Istroama out of his fugue. “I’ve no idea what a reptile might be. In the Oruke they were kin to the Dragons, so if that is what you meant then you have the right of it. Nasty creatures. Powerful, but thankfully few in number. They hate everything that isn’t Ornian, but at least it’s an honest hate.” Istroama practically began snarling after that. “It’s the Elves you have to watch for. Rotten, oath-breaking scavengers of misery! If an Elf isn’t stabbing you in the back on first sight it’s because she thinks there’s more to be gained by doing it tomorrow..”

Symeon was once more somewhat alarmed by Istroama’s sudden fervor. Before, it had been in regard to biting a foe to death, and now a similar sort of violent passion was in his attitude toward Elves. It didn’t quite match the rather attractive image of Elves that was in Symeon’s head.

“Okay, so Maddish are for Chaos, Ornians for Order. Humans are...?”

“Borne of Chaos, devoted to freedom. Much like our Dwarven cousins, borne of Order, seeking justice.”

“...and the Elves?”

“Parasitic, opportunistic filth.”

“Yeah, naw, I mean what were they about? Order or chaos?”

They had reached the campsite by this point. Istroama didn’t respond to the question as they unloaded the water-filled Symeoncanes, and quietly observed as Symeon carefully dumped the two filled with gravel and muck around the perimeter of the stone circle. Much of the water had spilled off, resulting in fairly solid clumps that formed a bulwark around part of the construction.

“C’mon, Istroama. One more trip and we’re set.”

They began the march toward the shadowy undergrowth once more, and silence reigned until Istroama was before that dim forest. He found himself unsure if he could bear the absence of Grandfather Chaos without a distraction.

“Elves.” Istroama muttered quietly, then continued with growing vehemence. “To understand Elves, you have to understand magic.”