That week on the road was a time of bonding, and it brought the travelling crew around to sights as strange as a yellow earth hill, with what appeared to be a river flowing up it; all due to the hard work of a pod of flying jellyfish, who moved like salmon–with a water magic potent enough to allow them to travel from lake to lake in the expansive forest.

To a vast meadow of wild poppy that had insect tribes vying for supremacy amidst the potent, but low-level Natural Treasures.

And soon enough a familiar field of apple trees with their fallen fruits fermenting in the heat, one that now had an overwhelming amount of rodents gathered to party on the fallen refuse.

All the while Mr Beard was gathering data points.

Algernon scouted their way, and feasted like a king during his breaks, when Roldy and Hyde took over. They’d been out here for over a week, but there was no rush. The expedition had plenty of provisions, and if they moved in a straight line they could be back in Sandall within 48 hours, provided they don’t stop to rest.

Nicklas eventually mustered the courage to reveal to Livia that he’d broken their agreement about discussing any potential Class options before committing, thereby losing them the flexibility of one of their Aspirants; but only once he’d taken a few days to figure his new Class out.

What he explained was that he’d turned nearly inexhaustible on the march, that he could carry fair heavier loads without tiring: provided he locked his joints, which meant he had to move a bit stiffly, but once he worked up some momentum it really worked, even if it looked funny. And Nicklas desperately promised he could work twice as hard over the course of the season to make up for it.

Sigh. A combat Class was the last thing they’d expected out of him, and they’d rejected a load of them back at the recruitment centre, for good reason.

At least it seemed like he’d stumbled across a rare one.

Livia let the question sit for a second.

[Don’t recognise it at all, sorry no.]

So, unlikely to be a local innovation, wonder what the trigger was? Livia kept her face stern despite her curiosity. “You better make that thrice as hard, I don’t want a single complaint out of you if we make you work out in the cold this coming winter, when you’ve got a Class like that. That’s still months off, so you may go ahead and trust that we’re gonna make you pay," She winked to soften the blow. "You feel free to put your cousin to work too, alright Matthias?

His now lonesome, Class-less cousin gave Livia a grateful nod before narrowing his eyes at the culprit of his predicament.

They had spent a lot of time exploring the areas close by the road, at times getting sidetracked for hours whenever they spotted something interesting. Even if not every place was fit for settling, it might still hold interesting resources worth mapping out, nothing was out of the realm of possibility in this richer land. You could literally stumble across anything.

Redd was keeping a careful watch, and insisted they stay vigilant and not tire themselves too much during sparring.

They were each and all coming into their own again, several after recently reaching their first capstones, and despite their tiresome marching they always made time for honing their Skills after dinner. The newer members took heed and refused to slack off, but they were still lower level so Livia put her foot down once they started letting it affect their pace the following day.

They met some fellow travellers, including trading caravans from the coast, and came across the occasional farmstead, but after a while there was mostly all wilderness out here.

The road had started leaning in the wrong direction about a day or so ago, and they knew they would need to pick a direction of their own, sooner rather than later.

Before they could make the decision, their companion Hyde encountered something none of them had planned for, despite how a certain [Druid] probably should have at some point, to some degree.

Their mosswolf scout gained a whiff of his brethren.

His howling folk.

Jahfrir looked around at this strange, green world where they had been forced to manifest. They were sticking out like sore thumbs, even the insects could tell they did not belong.

These strange, shelled creatures buzzed and swarmed around them. Only by dipping into the thicker air that flowed across the ground could they rid themselves of the pests; but that came with its own danger. Some parts of the earth within the thickness was slimy, crawling and it wanted their blood.

This world was strange. They did not belong.

Not least because the world was so green; Jahfrir looked around at the survivors of his tribe. They hefted their runic axes. Their skin was red and their lower fangs jutting, ever since they stepped out of that portal. They surely did not belong.

Yet they must find a way to persist; to keep surviving.

They had been proud and plentiful spirits back in their homeworld. Worshipped by the simpler beings; manifesting only at great need.

Now they were forced into warforms on a permanent basis; with no lever for changing back, not remaining in reach.

Jahfrir repeated himself, although it had been a week since he spoke last. “We must seek guidance from natives; in some land where we have not yet killed, where they do not make war on sight,”

His tribe’s folk nodded. They were tired.

If something significant did not change soon, they would nod no longer. They would ignore him, and soon after their leadership would change.

As their homeworld burned up in heavy smoke, they had finally accepted their lot; escaping to the slaver’s world.

Yet they had not expected a world so rich, and so abundant in magical variety, including competing magical forces, and despite it all being so fully manifested.

This world was poor only in spirit. This could be forgiven; it was clearly still young. They would have much to teach these lands, if they could find a place here.

They had islands of materia back home as well, even a continent at one point. But the spirits always ruled and the Seaward could be traversed freely; until the new chaos spread.

Sensation.

It had been a thing of baser creatures, while they remained proudly out of reach for the longest time, until a certain plant mutated.

They were not made for it. It ruled them quickly, and the source had manifested in the form of plants far too similar to these: Jahfrir swung his flaming katar at another bushel of blooming poppy.

This poisonous plant which had seduced his people, and covered his world in thick, acrid smoke, making dreams and manifesting vast tracts of materia from his fallen brethren’s willing sacrifice; only the ascetics escaped.

Yet it existed here too.

They had not found these cursed plants growing further south, except for one smaller pocket. These cultivated fields across the river; it was clearly purposeful. This was a travesty.

His people set everything aflame until the fields burned of their own accord; but by now the smoke had spread and they could hear horns in the distance.

They shouldered their runic axes, their traditional manifestations of war, and sped further along their journey; away from the Cloven horns that now began hunting them.

The crops they had ruined was a summer’s worth of work. The local denizens did not take kindly to these foreign intruders; and their direction of travel was marked well.

The last of the Loc’Cerise sped their thunderous steps, and left chaos behind with a smile.

Baslov was staring out at the southern fields, and his hoof was tapping. A quarter of a season’s work, up in smoke within hours. While his guard force was still waking up for breakfast. Who would dare?

Not the Humans. That much is for damn sure. Someone will pay.

That was equally sure.

The southern plantations of Wapiti were some of the poorest lands in all the Cloven realms; simply on account of their distance to Olympos Mons. They still turned a tremendous profit; they simply had to work harder than every other Cloven. Range further.

Now this.

His forces had assembled swiftly, once the alarm rang, but this smoke was making it impossible to see anything; or smell anything. Not to mention how they had to be careful not to ingest the drug–although most of them had quite the tolerance.

Baslov grabbed his staff and turned to his 2nd. “Heading west with haste, not Human but they cannot tell what it is, they keep catching glimpses, red,”

Could be the Foxkin. The most common tricky opponents. Yet why would they make the trip, and for a poorer target? Has word gotten out, or have our cousins simply grown so vigilant?

Baslov had no time nor room to consider matters properly, his forces were baying and demanding satisfaction.

His 2nd had a useful Class, [Beast Master Druid], which allowed him to employ crows to scout. As long as they had a direction, their hunting party would not relent.

Arrows flew and fell short, toxins going to waste in the earth. Yet again the axe of the strange, discoloured and too-skinny-Ogre cleaved through the limb off of one of their finest close-range [Warriors], before quickly turning around and leaving their main force in the dust.

Six hours later they just about had enough. Each time when they had expended enough Spells to get their vanguard near enough to strike and force an engagement, their warriors were torn through and left bleeding with cursed wounds that turned necrotic within moments, despite heavy ranged support.

A large portion of their forces also remained busy recovering what could be saved from their fields, saving the few plants that could be coaxed back to life for one last bloom, so for now there remained more important considerations. This was a waste, and the toll of the attack was simply growing larger from their efforts.

Baslov needed a win.

For now he called the retreat.

Fire was the bane of the forest, despite how much growth was sped up in its wake. Some [Arborists] advocated for its commercial use, in limited means: Foolishness.

Or rather the vanity of the richer realms, where one could always afford to invest in the long-game. Wapiti farmers could afford no such luxury, most of them lived the borderlife.

The life where one often had to roam past the safer zones to collect the most valuable resources; at times a risky business, when those very zones were populated and technically off limits, for the sake of keeping the peace. Baslov farted.

Limits were out the window when tragedy struck at this scale.

They would not fully recover in years, if ever.

Thankfully, someone was always watching. Always considering their plight, foremost.

You see, they were blessed.

*******************************

[Punish the southerners for sending troublesome interlopers your way: Chaos caused will result in bonus Exp.]

*******************************

They’d all gotten it. The digital papyrus scroll hovering in their vision, enticingly. His 2nd spoke up first. “Re-equip and reform, if you are too tired to move swiftly you stay behind,”

Baslov finally smiled. The smoke was clearing.

“Release the hounds,” —