Chapter 147: Foreign Exchange

It didn’t take long, subjectively, to get the not a prisoner before this Chief Orin fellow, not with Ulric having an entirely new tribe of people to gawk at. This place was loaded with history, with cultures unseen. Everything pointed to the M’rakur being tough sonsofbitches.

Not to say that the M’rakur didn’t have their comforts, primarily a robust manufacture of distilled spirits. They also had plenty of material wealth, in the form of the gifts of the wild lands surrounding the Jaggeds, the fruits of the prairies, sea, and surrounding hills. Furs, clothing mostly leather, spun plant fibers, rugs, everything was layered in a quilt or draping or fur that turned the stark purple-black glass that made up their structures into vibrantly colorful and rather cozy civilization. Children ran around clothed in the same garb as their elders, if frequently oversized to allow them to grow into the attire.

Everywhere, Ulric saw carpenters and craftsmen working with odd colored woods, mostly a form of red cedar, pale, creamy basswood or a close approximation, and a whole lot of something trending more orange than brown, sort of like an oversaturated rosewood, its tight whirling grains exotic and catching to his eye. Wood chips swept by apprentices went to wheelbarrows, carted off for some other need.

Unapologetically nosy, Ulric observed that these folk were stingy with their lumber, which was a logical practice, given the difficulty it must have cost them to get the raw material all the damned way down here, unless they had a trick to getting resources down to this vast hidden hold that they hadn’t shown him.

The weavers at their looms didn’t interest him so much, the Aesir had been far more proficient at textiles, everything here was linen, he saw big vats of soaking flax reeds. The only interesting aspect to the clothing industry here was a tendency to coat the fibers in beeswax before weaving, making it a bitch of a material to handle, but producing fantastically durable canvas.

Mostly, as usual, the former metallurgist was most interested in the men of his former trade. Ulric watched, as he was escorted through the M’rakur hold, smiths working that same metal that had been on the tips of the thief taker’s weapons, though mostly for mundane functions: hinges, nails, brackets, tools, that sort of thing. There was less evident craftsmanship than amongst the Iriel’en smithies Ulric had seen, less interest in the artistic filigree and fine touches that made even a hanging rack beautiful. The reason why was clear before he’d been guided half a dozen levels in the form of adolescent youths with sweat soaked faces, screwed in concentration as they held hands toward the glowing heart of the forges, the harmonies of Incendere strongly focused.

No charcoal fueled the forges, the M’rakur powered their civilization with raw magic.

Holy hell, the Reforged man whispered to himself. He would have to revise his estimation of this people. Constant working of the aether in their cores would produce adults with higher mana reserves and greater control. If that were turned towards martial practice, even if not true magecraft, these stout lads would become potent warriors. No wonder the Barbarians of the Outer Reaches were given wide birth. The fire imbuement that had scorched his nose and very much impressed him might not even be uncommon for these men and women.

“You watch with great interest, cousin, are these not the ways of your kin?” questioned Harlan.

Ulric grinned and shook his head negative, there was no point even disputing that and he shared the truth of his upbringing, “The similarities make all the differences stand stark in contrast. To offer no insult, your craftsmen are rough and their skills less refined than my people’s. They are also slower and have less accumulated knowledge with regard to technique and tooling. In spite of that, they are efficient with material, far more so than my own people ever were.”

Pointing to a gaggle of children, perhaps eight or nine, sparring with wooden sticks, the age old diversion of hominid juveniles since thumbs existed, he told his cross world cousins, “Our children by that age are in lecture halls, schools, receiving training to underscore whatever path in life they choose. I have been told by the Aesir that our upbringing is more akin to the learnings of mature wizards than most.”

He shrugged, conversations with Shor and Gother had consistently indicated that Ulric’s fundamental approach to magic was alien to standard mage practice upon Varda, “The differences in how I wield my core’s strength is born out by that. I suspect now that your folk have a different secret to their might, judging by the forges, and, now I look for it, the constant use of magic by the apprentices in every trade and task.”

The men leading him didn’t bother to hide their pride in their kin. Hulk stated the obvious, “The M’rakur push themselves hard in the exercise of their bodies, inside and out, we grow strong and early in life. Not soft, like the cattle in Prosper’s pens.”

A question occurred to him, one that had been rattling around in his mind since he’d heard of the tattooing and met the exiles, made more intense for seeing the wide array of body marking displayed in the heart of this tribe’s population.

“Your markings, tattoos my people call them, but seals is the word you give them, are they as I see them, designation of status, achievement, and honor to family?”

“Aye, that’s the short of it,” replied Beerguy, “From the day of manhood, or womanhood, as I say that, an M’rakur is master of their fate, an’ all that they are, do, and have done, is worn upon their flesh with pride. Begging pardon, but since we’re here sharing our ways with each other, how exactly in all hells did you get those seals?” the man asked, unable to stop his curiosity.

Ulric laughed, remembering the event, knowing he’d remember all his life. He decided now, amongst these wild people, he’d find out more regarding the truth of his awakening’s particulars.

With a storytelling tone, Ulric narrated, “When my core came to crisis I went out to the wilderness, to complete its Awakening. I am strong in the manafield, my nexus is unusually potent. Hence the crisis was more dire than my trainers expected. When my core called the storm to claim Ceraun as its attunement, Ceraun itself took notice. I experienced the touch of the Prime Elemental, almost died, and, when I came back to myself, the area was a lightning blasted hellscape, and I wore these markings on me.”

“Ye’re shitting me, is what ye’re doing.” Beerguy told him, obviously not amused at the joke.

“Nope,” Ulric replied, dead serious, “Not in the slightest. I came a frog’s hair away from being an elemental, washed away in the flow of the lightning’s touch. My instructor said it was best not to speak on the matter, and you here are the first I’ve shared the happening with. Call it a show of trust between distant kin.”

“That explains how he did away with those murdering fucks.” Padfoot told the group, scrubbing his beard thoughtfully.

They walked past a slightly wider ramp that descended to a recessed roofed area holding many, many stalls, a dedicated trade or mercantile area. The variety of goods surprised him, for being so out of the way, these lads got around.

“How do you lot acquire so many trade-stuffs? I recognize many of these wares from travel through Orlethrem, particularly those silver crafts that have to be from Celestin, which is a fair hike from this place.”

Harlan told him with a little sarcasm, “Same way ye’re kind do. In wagons. We send out traders, with wagons just like the one ye parked back at the entrance, an’ we cross Prespang to carry out trade with the Beastkin tribes an’, some of us, go all the way to the Legranel, them what can make out some of that garble they call speech.”

Recalling the experience, the seasoned warrior exclaimed with a small boast, “Hells, I went along a few times and rode down the Zelas, all the long way to the sea, to the very damned docks of Aktinian seaports, once. M’rakur are happy to trade and make fair exchange. So long as it is fair and none give offense, all is calm as a morning rain.”

That explained a lot.

“Huh. So, all that about you people being savage bastards making war at the drop of a hat is ignorance spewed by those who have had no dealings with you?” Ulric said, more than asked, surprised at how much misinformation had gotten around.

His suspicions were corrected post haste.

Hulk interjected, “Oh no, thas’ true too. Any what comes to M’rakur land without our say or permit gets killed to death.” He said, ticking off an index finger,

“Any that offers insult gets to find its cost absent delay.” He added raising the middle finger to join the first.

“An’ if Prosper sends a Magister to our lands to try to strong arm our kin for tax or to demand a tithe of lads for their armies, we send him back to his masters absent his hide to remind them we honor not the Gilded Thrones or the fuckers that sit them.” The burly warrior added, extending a thumb to finish his count.

The silence that followed seemed to weigh a little heavy.

“Aaaaallriiighty then,” Ulric commented, feeling like he didn’t really have anything useful to add, but compelled to say something to fill the gap after a statement like that, “Shall we see the Chief, before I land myself in trouble?”

Beerguy whispered, “Ah, don’t mind Retorhic back there, a lass he was fond of caught an arrow two years back from a patrol sent to ‘remind us of our place’. Don’t rightly know what that place was, ‘cept stacking what was left of the men sent to do the remindin’ an’ burnin’em. Anyhow, the great mule ain’t over it yet. Normally we’ll at least talk things over before any dying needs to happen. Speaking o’ which, we’re here. Chief’s up this ramp in the Hall o’ Hearings.”

Said ramp was a curving number, wide and a bit steep that met a set of iron bound doors, made of that vibrantly orange timber. No carvings, no symbols, just a big set of double doors and a couple of men standing outside them that didn’t look like they remembered what fun was. Ulric was led up to it before the men guarding it saw who was approaching and gave a salute to the thief takers.

“’Bout fucking time you lads got back, Orin was fearing he’d have to send someone to drag ye’re rotting meat back to pyre.” Said the left one, who Ulric now realized was identical in appearance to the one on the right.

“Are the bastards dead?” Asked Righty.

Harlan rolled his eyes at the pair and pointed a thumb at Ulric, “Aye, they’re dead, this gamecock here left’em for the condors. He was ready to do us the same ‘cept we begged pardon for disturbing his sleep and he was kind enough to feed us and keep a watch while we napped. Seemed like a good enough reason to bring him to meet Orin. I sent Hasro and Ficht to collect the heads so Orin can spit on’em one last time, they ought be here tomorrow.”

The two twin gatekeepers were familiar enough with the older man’s sarcasm to make no note of it. They turned and banged on the door, yelling, “Audience for the Chief!” in perfectly matched cadence, which caused somebody inside to audibly lift a bar from the other side and start throwing latches.

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Huh, security wasn’t lax, in spite of how far the hell out of the way this joint was, Ulric had to respect that kind of discipline.

“Alright you useless fucks!” Harlan addressed his stalwart crew of trusted warriors, “Get ye gone to find something to fill yer time, I’m tired of sniffing yer farts! Next we’re due to rove out, I’ll find ye and let ye know.” Harlan declared, formally relieving his men of duty for the time being.

They cheered briefly before vowing to find the bottom of a barrel of something that would catch fire and woe to the wench that gave them time of day. Some real salt of the earth folks, these Barbarians. In a way, they reminded him of the Iriel’en, only less pretty and a lot more casual profanity.

Great doors opened, the hinges squealing a bit as they held the weight of the barriers, absent sufficient grease or appropriate balancing to prevent the noise. Squinting against the piercing sound, Ulric followed Harlan forward.

The men who had held the door from the inside weren’t. Men that is, they were very female. Highly female, with prominent bits to prove it, the leather jerkins taught over…Odin’s balls, he’d been alone for a long time, huh?

“Sorry.” Ulric said, making the Elf hand sign, waving himself toward the floor to indicate he didn’t mean anything by it.

A bosom pushed outward toward his lowered gaze, “I did not say to stop looking, now, did I?” responded the lass warmly.

Ahh, how long had it been since he’d heard the fond come thee hither from a lady? Prenya, probably. How long since it hadn’t been an Elf? Gods, Ulric couldn’t remember. Wait! There’d been a girl he’d worked with, recently divorced and she’d worked him over until he couldn’t see straight. That had been, what, six years ago? Godsdamn.

“Ohhh don’t get me started, you vixen you, my wife is too far away to hear you scream.” Ulric warned the girl, joking.

“Ehem,” interrupted a stout voice, calling Ulric’s attention away from the pale softness that tried to lure him into temptation. Sweet bouncy smooth…okay, okay. Shit, maybe he needed a few minutes alone to…you know…work out the situation.

“I know they’re nice lad, she knows they’re nice too, blind her roaming eyes, but I’m not thinking Harlan brought a young Warlord for schlepping a gawk on my niece’s tits.”

Ulric had to pause a moment. The fuck? He distinctly heard a translation for what he had thought had to be an old Earth idiomatic turn of phrase. It shocked him enough to break his attention away from the shuddering bits of oh, wait, no he was back again. The apparent niece of this very warlike tribe’s Chief was turned sideways, presenting her profile. Her partner at the gate was swaying back and forth with seeming innocence. Gods’ blessing on the both of these lasses, the former engineer and currently hard up bastard begged on behalf of the two mid-twenties pictures of health.

With an effort, Ulric managed to pull his attention to the voice that had freed him from his capture, finding the Chief Orin of the M’rakur to be an impressive man, if not a tall one. Huh. So size wasn’t everything to these folk, how very interesting. Matter of fact, Chief Orin wasn’t physically very large at all. His seals were dense though, the patterns whirling and knotting across his skin more intricate than any Ulric had seen. If the tattoos born by these barbarian tribesmen told a story, then Orin had a girthy tale indeed.

“Aye, they’re fine, and no mistake.” Ulric said, with a parting look that earned him a wink from their owner, “And, no, your footman Harlan didn’t bring me here to gander at them, but I’m going to say he should have at least mentioned them, hell of a thing to spring on a man so long in the wilds.” Ulric said, sardonically.

Chief Orin of the M’rakur laughed loudly at that observation and directed an approving gaze on Harlan.

“I like this one, Harlan, he’s not shy. Let’s get on with it then, sit, break bread, grab a drink, just try not to trip my niece in front of me, my brother’s wife would throw a fit if I let her out of sight.” The head man of the Barbarians said, indicating the table and its bounty before continuing with a slightly worn tone directed at the pair of women, “Half the reason she an’ her cousin are here is to keep’em out of trouble till he gets back with his caravan.” Chief Orin said, descending from a sensibly sized chair that actually looked pretty comfortable, not at all an ornate throne made for looking at.

There was something to be said for a ruler who made a point to have a comfortable chair to sit while hearing his supplicants. It meant he was inclined to keep his attention on things that mattered, instead of waving his prick in their faces, as if they didn’t know who was in charge around these parts.

This wasn’t how he thought things were going to go, but Varda liked to keep the old knuckle ball handy. Best he could do was keep his head on a swivel.

Following Harlan’s lead, Ulric took a chair, putting the succubi behind him. Orin, ignoring the rude tongue stuck out in annoyance toward him, got comfortable to see what the strange tribesman in front of him had to say.

“Guess I’ll start with the big thing,” Ulric said, swallowing a refreshing drink of fruit juice, tart apple by flavor, “Prosper used the Aesir Bane to try to assassinate Bald’rt Iriel. They failed, the Bloodmoon lives. Iriel has marshalled Orlethrem to answer that crime and the murder of the Legranel ruling family.”

Rich red liquid spattered across the table top as Chief Orin choked on his wine, hacking fiercely. The man’s niece went to his aid immediately, delivering sound thumps against his back to help free up the inhaled beverage.

Orin eyeballed Ulric in disbelief, still unable to speak through the coughing. He waved his hand in a circle, indicating that Ulric should continue in spite of the gagging.

“The fuckers had an artifact that let them break Orlethrem’s scrying defenses, gone now and the wards reestablished. They also sicced a fire mage on me and tried to take my home for a forward base, but that’s not anything much to you, still it’s part of why I’m here so I bring it up. Last thing, Prosper tried for a raid on the Elven sanctuaries, and I don’t know how that played out, all I know is I sent word with the Bloodmoon’s daughter to let them know, and if anyone got there in time to prevent the raid it was her.” Ulric said, giving the ruler of these tribesmen the cliff notes.

Harlen sighed and rubbed his eyes hard, trying to massage the implications for what he was hearing into his brain faster.

Rallying through the choking, Chief Orin summarized his position succinctly, “We’re *cough* all properly *cough* *cough* fucked!”

It was a pretty accurate assessment, assuming the Elves decided to hold all of Prespang to account. Ulric had never seen the Aesir at war but he’d trained with their Royal Guard, had been taught basics of magic by some of the best they had to offer, Bald’rt’s wives personally and a retired Archmage. All signs pointed to it being bad news when they decided to stop playing nice.

Business like, as if he were giving a project report, the former engineer finished his presentation, “Yeah. So, anyhow, that’s why Harlan insisted I come and tell you myself. You’re welcome, by the by, I killed some folk who tried to ambush me while I slept. Turns out they were the ones Harlan here was looking for. All things considered, I’ll take no payment for that, improving the breed is reward enough, that and your hospitality here.”

“I have reconsidered, my knickers don’t need a storm rolling through them an’ ye’ve got more trouble following ye than most.” Niece the Perky told him, dooming infantile fantasies born of deprivation to always remain fantasies.

Salvation came from the other side of the table, from Othergirl, who was also a tall glass of water in the desert.

“Well, I wasn’t planning marriage, just a bit o’ the slap an’ tickle, an’ send’em off on his way. No harm in that.” She reported.

Chief Orin, finally able to compose himself, called the room to order thusly, “Shut it ye manslayers, there’s reason I gotta keep ye this side o’ the doors. Last thing I need is sending off another visiting Chief’s son with his heart in his boots.”

“Right. Now then.” The M’rakur declared, saying nothing much while he wrapped his brain around the news.

Harlan, having stayed quiet during this whole time, prompted his leader, “Have ye any thoughts on our course?”

Orin looked up from the table, whose complex grains may have held the secret to his troubles, from the way he was staring at its surface, and barked, “You hush too, I’m thinking!”

The M’rakur Chief rose to stand and paced around, grumbling and gesticulating, his fine fur cloak whipping around as he did, “We’ve our manhoods in a wasps’ nest right now, an’ I can’t figure how to get out of it with our bits an’ bobs with you filling my ears with shite.” He chastised, not even looking at his warrior as he pondered.

“We’re gointa have to run for it.” The warlord decided, after a few minutes striding across the Hearing Hall.

“All there is to do,” said the Chief of Barbarians wearily, “We can’t stay here an’ wait to see if the Knife Ears decide to try to tell Prespanger from Prosper. The Bane’s been used, an’ I won’t trust the Blood Moon’s mercy.”

That thought made the swarthy Chieftain pale and he whispered, “Gods’ blood the Elf razed Golden Thrones down to bedrock, way story goes, an’ that for the life of his son. What’ll he do for the Soul Poison?”

Ulric threw the beleaguered leader a bone, “It is not Bald’rt sitting in the ruling seat, at the moment. His son Lumyt’seit is Crown, until he is recovered from the worst of the effects of the Bane.”

Orin looked at Ulric like he on drugs, “I need ye to listen to the madness ye spout!”

The man looked to the skies as if pleading that they save him from idiots.

“Until he’s recovered from the Bane ye say? Firstly, that’s supposed to be no short an intervention of the gods, an’ secondly, it don’t matter. The son carries the father’s blood, an’ that whole line has a mean streak deeper than this hold.” Judged the Barbarian.

True enough. The men of the Outer Reaches weren’t ignorant then, of the doings abroad, or the movements and habits of their rivals in the world.

“Granted,” Ulric conceded, “But I have spoken with the young lad and he is aimed true as an Elven shaft toward Prosper, and only Prosper. The Orlethrem have decided to sweep the border free of fortification and settlement, to create a buffer region, but have no designs on extermination of the Valin generally.”

All the humans in the room goggled at him. Harlan shaking his head wonderingly, the Chief going distant behind his eyes, while this new information clicked into place in the tapestry woven of his knowledge.

Chief Orin’s attention sharpened and he sat down, dark blue eyes boring holes through Ulric’s head while he leaned forward on the ropy muscle of his forearms. Small wasn’t weak, and the Chief of the M’rakur was a strong man, without doubt.

“Ye sat with the Elf an’ had this from his own mouth?” the M’rakur verified.

“I did, yes. Several times and with the same stated intent from the boy and his advisors.” Ulric confirmed.

The Barbarian Chieftain sat back and breathed a sigh of relief, before snatching Harlan’s mug and emptying it in a single, long swallow.

“Figh! Ye should have led with that, ye loon! Had me sweating through my socks.” Grumbled Orin.

“We do not need to flee then, Uncle. If the Aesir say a thing without misdirection, then it is true as rain water. Prosper has made its bed and the M’rakur are well outside this conflict.” Assessed the young woman, even while she poured her kin a fresh mug from a tapped barrel at the end of the room.

At that, Orin of the Outer Reaches laughed boisterously, his belly laugh echoing through the Hall.

“Outside of it?! Hells!” shouted the ruler, joy coloring his face now.

“This is what we’ve waited for, near two hundred years an’ more! Prosper has reached too far, they’ve got the tiger by the tail. Now they marshal their armies to fend off the Orlethrem, who aren’t going to be content to simply sit back and strangle them in their forests. They’ll bleed those silver collared dogs, bleed them badly.” Predicted Orin.

“What we are going to do, is to call the other tribes and drive those bastards a hundred leagues back, all the way to Vatyn’s shores.” Decided the Chief of the M’rakur.

“Last I knew, you weren’t on speaking terms with Chief Echardt right now, an’ we still haven’t settled agreements with that upstart brat leading the Tol’ged, not after his old man got himself eaten by an [Necrotic Bear].” Chimed in Harlan again.

“So, I’ll send ye to start speaking with them then!” Orin ordered, grinning at his man’s wince, “They know you Harlan, ye’ve got cousins that have Echardt’s ear, even if we can’t stand each other, he’ll listen to reason, especially when it sings opportunity to him.”

“Shoulda kept my fucking mouth shut,” grumbled the older man into his cup.

“Aye, shoulda kept yer fucking mouth shut!” Echoed Chief Orin gleefully.

Ulric sat through all that, grateful to be ignored. The last thing he wanted was to get hustled into some kind of grand tour of Varda’s wide, and no doubt extremely dangerous, northern reaches, meeting extremely dangerous Tribals, with dispositions he’d rather not have to navigate. He had a date in Prosper, damnit!

He wasn’t forgotten long, Othergirl said, with more than a little suggestion, “Our guest has brought tidings most favorable, and done the tribe a boon. He is owed a recompense, is he not?”

The girl rocked her hip and laid a challenging stare on him, as if demanding that he ask for a very specific reward. Not today, Temptress! Ulric told himself. Granny Einar hadn’t spent her time teaching him the wisdom of the ages for him to ignore the signs of a changeling in this girl. She’d eat him alive and chew the bones, he knew it.

“I’m good, really!” He burst out, “A bath, a chance to resupply my wagons, maybe sell off the tradestuffs I managed to harvest on my way through Orlethrem and the prairies, and I’ll be on my way. I was bound for Bartala when I met with your men.”

Orin wondered how much trouble his niece’s partner in crime would make if he let her loose on the odd kinsman before him. Probably more than a little. Best to keep the lad safe from her attentions, he wasn’t ready to face her like, by the look of him. A bit reserved the lad was, if he were being honest, but that was just a first impression. Harlan was a good judge of character, the old salt, so there was little concern letting this clansman run free.

“That’s fair, especially since you did my man’s job for him.” Judged Orin, “Ye’ll find yer wagons stocked with supply to get to Bartala, aye, an anywhere ye care to drive inside a cycle of the Coven. Trader’s markets are open, feel free to hawk whatever ye can, it's busy season, but nothing like what comes end o’ summer harvest.”

“Men of the Reach are welcome here in my hold, but hold to the ways, an’ don’t think any are going to stand for ye, if it comes to it. Ye’ve yer own honor to hold while yer here.” The Chieftain told him, with a note of warning in his tone, but clearly dismissing him to his own devices.

Harlan rose, indicating that Ulric should join him, and added, “Any that are crazy enough to bother a man with seals like yours probably deserves what happens, I wouldn’t take over much caution. Just don’t offer insult an’ I reckon all’s well.”

With that, the both of them exited absent ceremony. Ulric very studiously ignored the call of “Find me later, an’ I’ll make sure ye sleep sound.” That rang out behind him. He was most certainly not going to find her. Absent Taipan’s company it just didn’t feel right. He’d wager his Elf lass would have the girl boneless as a jellyfish within the hour though, he mused with pride in his absent consort.

That reminder of her absence left a surprisingly hollow place behind his breastbone. It really had been a long time since he’d had anyone to care about like that. Maybe ever? Long enough, that’s all Ulric knew for certain.

Grizzled veteran that he was, Harlan left off to go to his own family, departing with the advice, “Don’t talk too much, an’ don’t get too drunk to fight.” That seemed sage enough.

Just like that, he found himself staring down the sides of a massive ant colony of a Barbarian tribal homeland, with as much clue where to go and how to get there as Mr. Magoo. Funny how you can feel just as lost in a foreign city as you can in the middle of the wilderness. Welp, Ulric, time to get walking.

He retraced steps back toward the entrance to the city. Probably the first thing he wanted to accomplish is see if he couldn’t unload some of the items he’d gathered since leaving the Legranel Moot. Particularly Taipan’s practical joke of [Azure Cedar] lumber, a staple of Iriel’en trade. These wild men had something of a need for quality timber, perhaps that prank would pay dividends now. [Azure Cedar] was prized for its durability, resistance to rot, and a host of purposes that refining the stuff could allow it to be put to. Wonder of Wonders, Gother’s instructional lessons with the Elf children was actually useful to him.

This second life of his took strange turns, betimes.

It only took getting lost in the warrens of stairways, winding ramps, and mazelike passages through solid obsidian corridors to find his way back to the entrance. A few rude suggestions to try jumping, met his requests for directions so he quickly abandoned that track, lest he get salty and cause a ruckus. Soon enough, though, he managed to find his wagon, TMF1 and TMF2 right where he’d left the bastards.

Looking down now upon the vast sinkhole, rimmed by volcanic glass that had resisted whatever cataclysm that dropped the rest of the rock below, he was astonished again by the sheer improbability of the vista. Umberholdt, the city had been dubbed, and well-named. As descriptive as the Jaggeds.

M’rakur didn’t jack around with poetics when it came to calling a thing what it was.