The map of the world is drawn by travelers and nomads.

Pre-Fall wisdom

“So, walk through the city?” Johanna asked after the shower.

“Why not. Don’t know if Laura and Peter will do anything,” Tom replied.

“We’ll be back in time for dinner. Good dinner,” she said.

They found themselves on the porch of the inn, looking around. The street was still busy, even in the late afternoon. Johanna glanced at the sky, estimating the time. Valetta had some public lighting in its main streets, but not as much as Anasta, although home had the advantage of being much, much smaller. It didn’t take too many people hanging an oil lamp to get enough light everywhere. Although, in August, you had ample time before sunset this up north.

They followed the street, arriving at the marketplace. Most of the stalls had already closed and folded, leaving only a handful of merchants still hawking varied wares.

The near-empty market reminded her about what Norman Grievar had said, about the caravan that had arrived yesterday.

“I wonder what those southern merchants sold?”

“Probably overpriced luxuries,” Tom replied.

“Yea. We can’t afford that stuff. Next year, maybe…”

“Want to check?” he offered.

“Sure. Why not? Let’s pass through the alley first,” she replied.

The Alley was unnamed, like most such in the city. The newer slice of Valetta, where a handful of houses had sprung during the last decade, as the city slowly filled its walls.

What brought them there was The House. The dream house the four of them were striving for, the first step of their journey as full individuals in their own right. The one they’d been saving for the last year and a half. The owner liked the idea of out-of-city immigrants scrounging to make a life in Valetta, and if they could raise the capital within three years, they had priority on it.

Hence the continuous ruins delving. It was the closest to a good home they could expect to find, and they’d share it until they had their own children, and needed expanding. By then, hopefully, they’d have saved enough for a second house, hopefully not too far from each other.

The traveler’s parking area, called a caravanserai for some reason, was to the side, not too far from the main entrance. The area was mostly building-free, hence its use for caravans supplying seafood on the east-west road and local visiting carriages. That was where she’d remembered her father parking his carriage once he’d delivered supplies on the market.

Outside of what was obviously a number of local traffic, she could see a whopping five large ornate wagons parked there, their horses train being tethered further away. The vehicles looked large enough to host entire families and their belongings. She had no idea if the caravanners would sleep in their wagons or the nearest inn. Maybe both.

She wasn’t the only one to come and get a look at it, for curiosity. A few people were around, mostly youngsters like themselves, ignoring the more common vehicles from the local area, and gawping at the huge wagons of the caravan.

“They can probably carry a lot of merchandise in those,” Tom remarked.

“Yes. No bet. I wonder how much money they make if Grievar’s cleaned by his purchases.”

“Probably enough to hire lots of guards. Remember when we talked about how that was a nice job.”

“For you, maybe. I know I can use a crossbow, but I’d be hopeless in combat against bandit bands,” she replied.

“Maybe not now.”

Johanna startled. Of course, Tom was right. She had her fire. Heck, worse to come, she could douse herself with oil, light herself on fire, and run at the bandits screaming. She doubted any sane bandit would stand their ground against that kind of assault.

She made a mental note to test oil fire. She knew wood campfires were burning hotter than oil, and it took some time before she started to feel the heat burning in the former. Maybe she’d be permanently immune to the latter?

Then she blinked. Because she was seeing something that shouldn’t be there.

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There was some light swirling around a wagon. Not simple light, a colorless light that streaked in and out of the wagon, without casting any light or shadow on the wagon itself or its surroundings.

Just like the strange light show that she’d seen – her, and not anyone else – around the skeletal form that had granted them their abilities. And now, she realized what that meant. She was seeing the presence of mana. There was some form of major magic operating, or being drawn into that particular wagon.

Without meaning to, she started forward to see exactly what was happening. She made less than five paces when someone came out of between two of the wagons to stand in her path.

He was the smallest person she’d ever seen outside of kids. Maybe four feet five? Despite his size, he was an obvious guard or something, with a massive muscular frame. His shaved head glared at her in half-disguised hostility, and she stopped immediately in her tracks.

Moore not-blinked. Because that was a dwarf. A fucking, real dwarf. As told by whatever System that was in place, which listed him as “level 5 dwarf.” Not human, not some specialization name – he’d immediately checked if it had appeared in his interface list – but an actual dwarf racial denomination.

Well, not entirely a classic dwarf. The guy was bald, beardless, and even his eyebrows seemed to be missing, which was hard to reconcile with the classic vision, inherited from JRRT himself through countless retellings. But he was well under 5 feet and looked like someone had kept the same muscle and bone mass as a normal-sized person, and just squeezed it downward.

And the System labeled him a dwarf, which made him a legit one, no matter what pictures Moore might have in his preconceptions.

Fuck it, Welter, Milton. Greet him. Shake his hand to test his grip or something. I want to see what makes him tick!

But no, of course. The two stayed politely outside of personal space and obviously talked animatedly. Of which he heard nothing, yet again.

I need to teach myself how to read lips. Somehow.

“And where are you going, miss?” the man asked.

“Oops. I’m sorry. I wanted to see what your wagons looked like from up close. I mean… we don’t have those types around here.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure lots of people want to see those. And what’s inside. And if it fits in your pockets, maybe?”

“Oh no. We’re not thieves. Just curious. It’s natural.”

“Well, just look. From afar.”

“Are you a guard?” Tom asked, to deflect the conversation.

“Me, guard? Nah, Nirvar Toigsson is no guard. Although I aim a mean bow when necessary. I’m general maintenance, and that means those wagons are my kids. No touching my kids.”

“You must be good despite your…”

“Never seen a Changed, have you?” Toigsson interrupted, half-chuckling.

“You’re a Changed?” Johanna blurted.

“Yes, and if you have a problem with that, well, that’s your problem.”

Tom tried again to defuse the obvious hostility.

“It’s just that, well, no one’s seen Changestorms for a very long time.”

The Changed person laughed.

“Do you want to know how I got to be a Changed? I screamed. A lot, and loudly.”

“Oh.”

“And then everyone congratulated mom on the size of my lungs and how a good omen it was, and that was it.”

Johanna blinked in surprise.

“Girl, the way people are Changed ones is simple. My parents were Dwarves, my grand-parents were Dwarves, my great-grandparents were, and so on. And before you ask, my kin lives up in the southern Rockies, where nobody else wanted to live back when the first ones got Changed and we had to run away because everyone thought we’d monsterized or something. That’s our country now, up in the Sawatch. We hunt, we trap, and nobody bothers us anymore.”

“I hadn’t realized. You just look… exotic?”

“Well, if you like exotic, I’ve got everything working. What’s even best is that it’s no danger – it would be sterile. No risks, no sheepskin to soften the touch. The big guy can even watch if he gets his kicks that way.”

Johanna gasped and did a half-step back in shock. Tom moved forward, before she put her hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Then if your interest is concluded, bugger off,” Toigsson concluded.

“Boss?”

“Yes, Nir?”

“Spotted a pair of yokels looking funny at one of our wagons.”

“All the locals look at the wagons funnily, Nir.”

“Yea, but she was very, very interested by the one.”

Dominik Piturca looked down at his underling, frowning.

“As in, the one where we have that shield artifact right now?”

“That one.”

“I thought we moved it every day while in town so no one can guess easily where we keep it, even if they know we have it.”

“That’s the thing, boss. She was looking around, then she spotted the wagon, and immediately tried to approach it. Not even checking any other. Just the right one.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Went straight to the goods, no hesitation. And played innocent when I intercepted her, of course.”

Piturca crossed his arms, pondering.

“Any problems?”

“No. Talked to her and her friend, while making it very obvious she wasn’t coming any further. I’m guessing she might be a country bumpkin though. I mean, I’ve been on this run for, what, nine years now. If she was local, no way she wouldn’t have seen me at least once when we come through, but neither she nor her boyfriend seemed to have ever seen a Dwarf before.”

“She probably didn’t get the best impression of the Changed races with you,” he joked.

“Well, if she’s got a problem, she can try to suck my not-tiny dick. I’ve got enough problems when you go through some of those bigoted towns around here, I’m not going to softball those bumpkins just because you fleece them.”

“Hey. You know me, as far as I think, they can hassle you the day they can repair a wagon faster and better than you.”

“Gee, thanks. I’ll make the springs extra oiled for you when we head northwest.”

They both shared a laugh. People feared the Changed everywhere, because, in their minds, they associated the Changed with the Change-strength Manastorms of legend, as if a Changed was a magnet for the magical storms that sometimes warped places, beasts… or men. There hadn’t been any rumors of people being Changed to a new race in over a century, but that did not stop superstition from running rampant, notably in less-than civilized areas, like the North.

“Okay, what does she look like?”

Toigsson started to describe Johanna to his boss in detail. General appearance, demeanor, clothing.

“Ancient neckerchief? She’s wealthy?”

“Didn’t think so from the rest. Possibly a family heirloom,” the Dwarf speculated.

“Well, that makes her slightly easier to recognize. Assuming that, of course, she keeps it. That’s the kind of thing you tend to leave behind, so nobody notices it’s you again – all they remember is the extra cloth.”

“Not flashy enough,” Toigsson replied.

“I’ll keep an eye for her, if I spot her.”

“Go get her. And sic Boris on her, if she’s thinking of burglarizing us.”

The guardsman snorted from his position just behind his boss.