“I think this could happen nowhere but here,” Sengfield said.

“In Jackson, you mean?” Vekanson asked.

“It’s not Jackson. If you’ve read Ancient history, you’d know,” Cartagh added, sounding exasperated.

Sengfield frowned, surprised by the snipping. The bark-skinned humanoid always seemed unflappable and composed, with an unreadable composure, matching a vaguely female figure. Most of the company assembled knew her to be actually female since no one but another Dryad would know without asking, and most of the time, they didn’t elaborate anyway.

“So many different people, I mean,” Sengfield added anyway.

“Don’t change the topic. I asked a question,” Cartagh interrupted.

“Didn’t know it was one,” Sengfield replied.

“Not to you. To the Dwarf,” Cartagh said.

“Hey. I bow to your superior scholarship. There, happy?” Vekanson replied.

“When you grow hair, I’ll be,” the Dryad snipped, but she got only a laugh from the bald diminutive humanoid.

Sengfield sighed, looking at the other two members of the society seated. By the looks, neither seemed to be inclined to intervene in the random ramblings of a Dryad, a Dwarf, or even a Thirster, so he slumped in his seat, trying to find refuge in his drink. Everybody always acted funny when he ordered mead as if someone like him couldn’t appreciate properly fermented honeyed drinks.

Even if you can digest that easily, blood is an acquired taste.

His mother would probably be disappointed.

“He’s right you know,” Kartmann said.

Sengfield’s straightened, surprised by the Minotaur’s unexpected support.

“You couldn’t find a more diverse grouping except here,” the hulking horned humanoid said.

“Maybe the Union Capital,” Sethek-eshes said.

“Puffed up Nashvillers,” Cartagh countered.

The Incubus shrugged, agreeing to disagree. It was funny, Sengfield thought. Where Dryads always looked vaguely female, Incubus always looked mostly male, usually from the cultivated facial hair – which he himself lacked, much to his dismay. The best was a bare whisp on his chin. Any proper Thirster man had to have at least a good goatee. Another disappointment for his mother.

Unfortunately for the curious – including himself, once – the Incubi were also the only known hermaphroditic Changed species. Every single Incubus not only had both “classic” features, but liked to use both, and could both fertilize and bear children. At least among the members of the species; like all Changed, they were completely infertile outside of their own, leaving only "fun".

“You know, we’re almost all of the possible people from the Americas,” Kartmann said.

“Except ‘baseline’ humans, you mean,” Vekanson replied.

“Okay, civilized ones,” Kartmann replied.

“As if you’d invite a Troll or a Wendigo…” Vekanson laughed.

“Actually...” Kartmann replied.

“You didn’t? Really?”

“I draw the line at Trolls. Bloody Caribes can claim innocence all they want, everyone knows who they really are,” the Dwarf said.

“No, of course, not. But don’t listen to northern propaganda,” the Minotaur said. “I met this young hunter last year, up there. And he’d be a good addition to the team.”

“So... Getting a Wendigo to come down this south. Good luck,” Cartagh laughed.

“Aren’t they hunters that barely keep houses?” Sethek-eshes asked, ignoring the Dryad.

“Young hunter. Eager for wider experiences,” Kartmann said.

“So… you want to get someone who’s going to faint from overheating once we’re in the Huntsville ruins. Nice,” Vekanson sighed in disbelief.

“He would be bringing in good stuff for going into the ruins.”

“Good stuff. Define good stuff.”

“His family got an artifact that lets him see mana. Artifact.”

“Wait, what?”

“Heirloom handed to him for his 21st birthday. Proving himself worthy of the ancient – not Ancient – heroes in his family. You’ll see. Good kid. A bit wild, but then, you said it, it’s a wendigo.”