“Looks like a bear to me.”

  Maia’s eyes squint a little at the distant cloud. The sky had been annoyingly clear today for the st few hours, and of course he’d gone and cimed the first cloud the moment one popped up. She was too slow, too lost in her own thoughts.

  “It has four legs, but it doesn’t look rotund enough to be a bear to me.”

  Homer’s hand stroked through his beard as he took in her words, calm expression never even flinching. Hopefully he’d buy it, she really needed to score a point… Maybe she was letting her hope shine through her expression a little too, since he sighed and threw his hands up for a moment.

  “Aye, aye, I concede. Can’t justify it.”

  She could jump for joy, although the steep hill path they were climbing made that unwise. Instead she just pumped her fists in the air and got back to staring out for any more stray clouds. They’d be doing this for a while, as Homer had said- the worst part about the Sawbone Range wasn’t the harpies or the bandits, it was just getting there.

  The valleys and mountains were in sight, but the path to them was littered with craggy hills that no ruling power had ever bothered to pave and build roads through, so hardy travelers had to go through paths trampled by years of human movement instead of proper roads. Of course, whenever a new ruler of a dynasty popped up they spoke of taming the Sawbone, yet they never did.

  So they’d come up with this childish game to pass the time as they trekked along. Whoever spotted a cloud first would decre what it looked like, and then the other had to either agree or disagree. If they agreed, the spotter got the point- if they disagreed and the spotter admitted that they were right, then the answerer would get a point.

  Turns out that Homer had good eyes for an old geezer, spotting vague shapes in the distance and somehow making up just the right expnations for the shapes. Maybe it was due to his upbringing too… Living in a forest hovel had made her more than a little ignorant. Half the time he had to expin what kind of an animal or object he was even describing. A few riveting examples,

  “You’ve never even seen a carriage before, little ss? Mmmrm.”

  “I know what they are, I just… You know…”

  “Haa. They’ve usually got four wheels, aye? Seen one with eight once, back when I was with the army and a real big shot showed up at the HQ. Seen a three wheeler too. Those are becoming more and more common in the capital. More convenient for folks to get around. They’re pulled manually by either the drivers or by a mule or something.”

  That sounded logical enough.

  “... Guess it makes sense you haven’t seen a monkey.” At least he admitted to this one. “They’re not very common. Explorers brought ‘em back from a sea journey some fifteen years ago. Said they found an isnd where the little buggers lived. They’re becoming more and more common ‘round the streets, since they keep escaping and breeding. Chattering little things.”

  Small men of sorts? No, too furry. But they did walk around like men did, although their speed and climbing ability seemed much better… How fascinating. She’d get to see them ter.

  “And they don’t speak, right?”

  “Maybe they do. Then again, do dogs speak through barks, cats through hisses? Some things are not for us to hear, little ss.”

  Suppose that made sense. She didn’t really want to think about what all the crows gathering around her hovel were saying, especially when they started dying and dropping onto her roof mid flight… At least that hasn’t been happening here-

  actually, why is that? Maybe it’s due to her being on the move instead of staying in the same pce? Or maybe the hovel itself was cursed, which would be making this journey pointless-?!

  No, that cannot be it. Her skin is still ghastly and gaunt. If the curse was localized, that should’ve faded too. Whatever she was going through was attached to her and her alone- which is why she had begun to worry for Homer during this little trek. What if he just up and died one night because he’s been hanging around her too much? If her presence killed birds mid flight, what about a man deep in sleep? Oh, now she was concerned…

  But could she voice those concerns? What if he left her in the middle of the journey and she had to make it through the Sawbone all by herself? She wasn’t afraid of death, but she longed for answers.

  “Oy.”Snap, snap. Two rge fingers snap right in her face a few more times.“I said it’s a dog.”

  Ah- She almost startles enough to fall down the side of the hill, but she just barely manages to collect herself, merely blinking and darting her head around to try and find the dog shaped cloud. When she finds it, her mouth hangs open for a bit,

  “... Yeah, okay, you win.”She can’t argue. Looks exactly like one of those hunting breeds she’s seen too, so she can’t cim ignorance of dog breeds. Long legs with a majestic tail and all. For a moment she thinks Homer’s about to jump on his feet just to click his heels together, but instead a sudden seriousness overtakes him.

  She’s grown a little more used to the ebb and flow of it now, the boiling and the calm as he’s described it, but it still shocks her whenever he ‘locks in’ like this. The gentle, somewhat hunched man becomes as straight as a ramrod, heavy build suddenly outright bulging for an inch more muscur, eyes sharpening from gentle circles to more sharp shapes-

  Either he’s boiling, or he’s sensing something. The air around them is utterly devoid of sound, and Maia is about to take a step forwards right when his arm raises in front of her, signaling her to stop.

  The silence continues,on and on,and on and on,and on and on and on-

  And then steel glimmers in the air and the sound of sughter pys out its short concerto. Maia can’t even register it; one moment they’re standing there, the other a harpy has dive-bombed them right from above and Homer has split it in twain with his sb of steel. Cleanly cut too- she can see one half of the bird-woman fall down the hillside, as if still shrieking, while the other gory half has flopped onto the ground in front of them.

  And, of course, the two of them are so covered in blood and viscera her whole field of view might as well be red. She’d never seen someone butchered so brutally yet cleanly. Her mouth hung open- and it closed, ew, blood- and her eyes were open wide- and they closed, ew blood- and she couldn’t even let out a sound-!

  “At my feet, ss. I’m about to start swinging.”

  For someone who worshipped death, accepted her, felt the divine need for her,Maia felt the urge to dive down. All her instincts told her that if she dove now and huddled at his feet, she’d live. And she had to live.To meet death, she had to live.

  By the time she hit the ground, desperately screaming, she can hear it. Wings fpping. Loud screeches. Had they been circling them the whole time?! But the sky was cloudless! Maybe they were flying right above them? But no, Maia had definitely looked right up and they weren’t there. Just how had they-

  Agh, her leg, she can feel one gripping her leg-! Long talons hold her by the ankle, she’s going to die, she’s going to die-! She doesn’t want to-!

  Yet she never does. She hears it all. Violent screeching in a nguage she cannot comprehend, the occasional grunt from Homer, the gory sounds of flesh rent from bones through the creative application of steel and grit, and the sound of blood. You don’t think blood has a sound until you hear it, is the thing. It’s sickeningly thick. Like someone spshed a whole pail of water on an already wet surface.

  Blood smells too.She feels like hurling, but she never does. It takes about ten minutes, but those ten minutes feel like ten millennia. Even when Homer gently nudges her with his foot to try and stir her, she doesn’t move. He has to reach a hand down to help her up… Only for her to stumble right back onto all fours, wheezing and hacking and coughing.

  Homer sighs and sits down next to her. He’s got a thousand cuts and then some, but they all bleed only lightly. As it turns out, his blood boiling wasn’t just metaphorical: she can see steam pouring out the cuts alongside the actual lifeblood. Now that was calming down, she realized the stinging sensation on her ankle wasn’t gone.

  Her head fearfully turns- is- is a severed harpy foot just stuck to her ankle-…no-just… a dead harpy. Not cut in half or cleaved in twain like the ones around them. This one is merely dead. Eyes wide open, mouth stuck in an eternal scream that ended short. No wounds. Just dead.

  “Didn’t pay attention to how that happened. Doesn’t look like an old bird either. Maybe it just died of fear. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She hears him, but doesn’t consider his words. All she can do is stare into those empty eyes. Died mid-thought. Somehow she can just tell. Died mid-life. Ridiculous sounding string of words, but it’s like something grabbed this harpy by the strings and just… Cut them. And left it lying on the floor like a puppet.

  Just like those birds that keep dying above her hovel. Did she do this? She hadn’t wanted to die, but she-… did she want the harpy to die, though?She just didn’t want to die.This is her fault.

  Homer cannot read her thoughts, but her face must’ve been the very picture of distress, for a strong arm wraps around her shoulder, hand gently patting her arm.

  “There, there. It’s alright, ss. You’re alive. You’re alive.”

  A weary voice used to these sorts of ptitudes, clearly. How many recruits had he regaled this litany to? You’re alive, they’re dead. You’re alive, they’re dead.

  Death was a good thing, she thought, a sweet embrace that awaited all. So why did it have to be so violent? And even when it was quick and sweet, such as the harpy still clinging to her foot, why did it have to come uninvited? Death could be sudden, yet…

  Can death really be trusted to be dealt by the hands and thoughts of someone like her?

  The sun is still soaring high in the sky, unblinking eye of Life itself bringing warmth to the world. And it stares at them, basking them and their glory battlefield in light. Ten harpies y dead, two live, and their shadows are cast down the hill and in the direction of the Sawbone proper. Many more would die.

  So many more would live.

  The shadows cast churn for a moment, and take note of the happenings here. ‘ere long, Death itself will hear of all this and she will be pleased. Her follower has chosen her protector well, *and* she seems to be more attuned to the flow of Life and Death than she herself could’ve predicted.

  Such is to be loved by death itself.