Chapter 3.

'Hyah!' Marché bounded to the side as the wolf-like creature that had leapt at him gave a last keening moan before keeling over to the side and expiring, the gladius having scored a nasty wound right down the soft flesh of its stomach. Wolf-like, was about where the similarity ended, however, considering the creatures were a good size bigger, with leopard spots, crimson fur and rather intimidating protruding fangs.

He surveyed the field of battle to check the progress of his companions, who were hanging back and allowing him to take the more physical lead, which made sense considering that he was the only one wielding a close-range weapon. Krjn expertly, and almost with some disdain, shot one of her long arrows through the skull of yet another of the slavering, stinking beasts while Montblanc brought his oversized firearm to bear on another.

Satisfied that they would come to no harm, he shot a withering glare at the cause of the morning's entertainment; a small, ugly looking goblin creature with brownish skin that was currently jumping up and down like a three year old throwing a tantrum. Touching his fingers to the shallow, clawed gash on his face that was currently stinging like mad, Marché bared his teeth at the creature that had set the wolf pack on them, advancing with his sword in hand. It had started off as such a nice day as well, and the boy couldn't help but smirk to himself as he remembered the way that it had begun.

He had woken to the pale hues of the first pre-dawn light seeping through the filmy curtains to tint the room with an almost luminescent glow. A warm weight was pressed intimately against his side, and a large smile made its way to his face as he stared up at the ceiling, disconnected images of the night before revisiting his mind.

The innkeeper's niece, it seemed, was a particularly persistent sort of girl, especially once the whispers and rumours concerning his confrontation with Ba'Gamnan had begun the rounds of the local gossip mongers, no doubt growing more incredulous with every telling. Composure regained once more after his breakdown, he had totalled up the amount of money he had available to him, about five hundred gil before he had paid for his breakfast and room. It wouldn't last him long if he kept staying at an inn every night, but it would serve for a few weeks, even though he sincerely hoped it wouldn't take that long for him to get home.

Setting aside a reasonable amount to buy essentials necessary for an extended journey, he had once again set out into the scorching heat of the day, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the small outpost. Were it not for the fact that he was lost in an unfamiliar world, separated from his family and friends, it would have been an excellent place to take a vacation, the buzz of activity and the new sensations assaulting his senses making him feel truly alive. On a whim, he bought a parcel of ripe dates, savouring the taste and the chewy moisture as he wandered from stall to stall and through crowded streets and marketplaces.

Now that he looked more closely, he could easily identify the occasional non-human traveller, although the majority of the residents of this desert town were relatively normal. Two moogles conversed in high tones in the shade of an alcove, their pompoms shaking wildly as they gesticulated. Elsewhere, a lone viera stretched languorously on a terrace wall as she allowed the warmth of the sun to play over her features while a stocky, grey, pig-like creature with a large horn in the middle of its forehead grunted and squealed as it stumped around on its hind legs, loading heavy crates onto a nearby handcart.

Taking a pointed sniff at one armpit, Marché wisely invested in a bar of rough, crudely made soap, a washcloth and shaving kit, although once he took a look at the wickedly sharp cut-throat blade on the razor he had purchased he was glad that he didn't need to shave all that often yet; the best a man can get it was not. Still, he would have to learn if he didn't want to be both uncomfortable and offend his new companions. Strangely enough the man who sold him his razor also did quite a side business in cheaply forged swords, and his newly acquired knowledge of such things, which seemed to almost bubble under the surface of his conscious thoughts at times, urged him to add some oil and a whetstone to properly care for his new blade.

He helped himself to water from one of the wells as the sun rose higher into the sky, taking long gulps from a communal cup. Two workmen stood nearby, leaning on their tools as they groused in the true traditions of the manual labourer, roundly complaining about their master, the heat, their master, their pay and their master. For all of the strangeness of this new world, it was reassuring to see that there were some universal traits such as complaining about the boss, and their conversation hovered at the edge of his consciousness until a new topic piqued his curiosity.

'Blasted Judges,' the first spat, as if the word itself caused a sour taste in his mouth, 'clanking round town with their thugs like they own the place.'

'Aye, I saw one earlier, dragging in that Ba'Gamnan and his cronies.' The second took a long swill of water from a wineskin at his belt before grunting his answer. 'Not that he didn't deserve it, but I heard they belted the hell out of him; never would have happened when old Zamma was in charge.'

Marché might have been a little biased, but he couldn't help but be grateful for the appearance of the armoured law enforcement officer and his men. While Montblanc had done his part, they had certainly corralled the vicious bangaa before he could cause any more mischief.

'Personally, I was glad he was there,' Marché interjected, feeling the need to defend the man, who at the end of the day had only been doing his job. 'No idea what you heard, but Ba'Gamnan was trying to bite their arms off, and he nearly took my head off, so I don't feel much sympathy for him; besides, I don't see you volunteering to do his job.' It was somewhat uncharacteristic for him, he knew, to step up in such a manner, but the confrontation had shaken him, and he was determined not to allow their comments to go unanswered.

'Bah,' one of the two growled, turning his attention to the interloper in their conversation. 'So you were the one, were you. Wouldn't have expected a clanner to have much to do with that lot, with all those blasted laws the palace keeps spewing lately.'

'Laws are what keep people like him off the streets,' Marché shrugged, although he was starting to get the nagging feeling that he was in slightly over his head. 'If you don't have laws then how do you keep order in town?'

'Too many bloody laws if you ask me,' the other workman retorted, hooking his wineskin back onto his belt. 'Why the hell we taking up with these blasted Archadian ideas anyway; nothing wrong with how we did things before.'

The two shot Marché one last withering glare before stalking off, hefting their tools with them as they returned to work. Marché drained the last of the water from his cup, now slightly lukewarm before resuming his exploration of the town, obtaining a wineskin of his own from a stall that was draped in the off-cuts from various animal hides. The last thing he needed was to pass out from dehydration somewhere on the way to Sprohm. In the same vein, several packets of jerky and other trail rations were added to his growing hoard; he couldn't rely on Montblanc for everything.

As the sun rose to its full afternoon glare, the heat in the desert town became almost unbearable, and Marché retreated into the relative shade of a tavern courtyard, sipping a sweet chai tea made from an assortment of unfamiliar herbs. Life in the outpost continued on, however, with the unabated hustle and bustle of traders passing by with fragrant cargoes of spices, barrels of olives and bolts of shockingly hued cloths. The heat, he determined, was something he would have to get used to.

For the sake of his growling stomach, he once again returned to the stallholder who'd served him breakfast, earning himself a hearty welcome and a heartier lunch. It certainly beat McDonald's, that was for sure. 'So, you find what you needed, young master?' the heavyset man asked as he finished his meal.

'I did, thanks,' Marché smiled, before continuing on his way. It was a tired and happier young man who returned for dinner with Montblanc and Krjn that evening. Not so tired, however, that he couldn't respond when a soft knock on his door revealed the pretty young woman, clad only in a diaphanous nightgown, who immediately covered his lips with her own before pushing him gently towards the bed.

And so it was that he had woken, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against him as he stared at the ceiling, grinning like a lunatic as images and memories from the previous night flitted through his mind; of her lips covering and teasing his body, of her subtle perfume that tugged at his senses, and how she patiently took his inexperience in her stride. Feeling her stir against him, he responded in kind, bringing her to full wakefulness in a most satisfactory manner.

It would be several hours before he would be able to wash, dress and make his way down to breakfast, the young woman giggling as she slipped out of his room to begin her work for the day. Krjn had sniffed suspiciously upon his arrival, as if testing something on the air, before gracing him with an amused gaze that brought a rosy blush to his cheeks, although Montblanc remained oblivious. It would not be until he caught the girl's eye with a shy smile as the three left the inn, fully armed and laden with their supplies that he realised he didn't even know her name.

The terraces full of houses and stallholders gave way to storage warehouses, transit caravans and stables as they approached the main gate of the town; ancient timbers, weathered over countless ages, that looked like they wouldn't keep out a determined goat let alone a hostile force. For all that the vendor he had met had been worried about the Archadian empire, the town clearly wasn't built with defence in mind, or if it was those defences had become lax over a long period of relative peace. Two bored looking guards stood in stone turrets on either side of the gate, their crossbows held loosely in their hands. Marché assumed that they were either simply following the demands of protocol, or that their sole purpose was to fend off the approach of the occasional animal from the wasteland, the rather disturbing descriptions of which, Montblanc and Krjn had regaled him with at dinner.

'What is that?' Marché gasped, although given the things he had seen over the past twenty four hours, he thought that he should have been immune to surprises by now. The 'that' in question was a large yellow bird, as big as a small horse, with a bright orange beak and clawed feet that had greeted them from its stable with a loud 'kweh!', hungrily reaching toward some type of pungent green vegetable offered by Krjn. Although wings did extend from its body, they were far too small to possibly allow them to lift its huge bulk off the ground.

'You really have not traversed this land before,' Krjn's surprise was clearly evident in her normally measured tones. Marché could not help but give her a quizzical look in return, as Montblanc had explained the situation the previous evening. 'My apologies, young one, but I must admit to some scepticism when first I was informed of your origins, however I see the truth now in your gaze.' Her response was just about as cryptic as everything else she had uttered since Marché had met her, and he wasn't sure if it was a trait of her race or just a personal foible.

'That's okay,' Marché grinned back at her, trying to convey that he wasn't in any way offended. 'If someone from Ivalice had dropped into my world, I'd probably think they were crazy too.'

The corners of Krjn's mouth quirked into the resemblance of a smile as she eased the large creature out of the stall, expertly loading saddlebags with their supplies as she did so. In an obviously practiced move, the bird kneeled low to the ground, allowing Montblanc to regally walk up onto its back, keeping his balance as it stood once more with the help of some vigorous flapping of his tiny wings. In truth, the small creature looked utterly ridiculous on his lofty perch, but Marché wisely held his laughter.

'These creatures are known as chocobos, young hume,' Krjn continued, stroking the thing's feathers as it stamped restlessly, shifting two large, empty baskets into a more comfortable position. Marché tried not to get too close as the thing absolutely reeked, and he couldn't understand how his moogle friend could bear to ride on the back of it. 'They are common beasts of burden and mounts in this land.'

'It smelt a lot better when I had it for breakfast yesterday,' Marché wrinkled his nose. A horrible thought crossed his mind as he realised he'd never be able to look at Sesame Street in the same way again; he'd eaten Big Bird!

'Yes, they are versatile creatures, although there are more succulent meats for those who would partake.' Krjn grinned ferally as Montblanc wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'Do not look at us like that revered leader. While you may choose to limit yourself to merely the things that food eats, others may freely enjoy nature's bounty.'

Marché laughed along with the viera as Montblanc looked faintly ill. 'How far do we have to travel to get to Sprohm,' he changed the subject, taking pity on the small creature. In truth, he was already beginning to get something of a sinking feeling as he viewed the amount of supplies being loaded on, and was glad he'd invested in a fair amount of rations himself.

'Thirteen or fourteen days I'm afraid, kupo' Montblanc shook the chocobo's reins, guiding it towards the open gate of the city. 'Sprohm is around two hundred miles away, and we have to stop to complete our mission along the way.'

'Indeed,' Krjn added, anticipating his coming question. 'We have been tasked by the Sprohm healers guild to obtain muscmaloi healing herbs from the fields south of this town while they remain in season.' The reason for the two large baskets that had been added to their beast's back was suddenly apparent.

'Good for fevers, upset stomachs and mild poisons, kupo.' The breathtaking vista of the lands to the south opened up to them as they stepped through the town gate, the roads already dotted with caravans and lone travellers, and Marché prepared himself for a long walk. 'Very common around these parts, but the soil around Sprohm isn't dry enough for it.'

And so it was they had left the arid dwellings of Cyril behind, a warm wind caressing their faces as they set a good pace on the road to the south, eager to reach the muscmaloi fields before the full heat of the day would make harvesting deeply unpleasant. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Montblanc, despite his rather comical appearance on the chocobo's back, had a mount available to him, as there would have been no way for him to keep up with his companion's long strides; even Marché found her pace somewhat trying.

It was the harvesting, of course, that led them to their current predicament, surrounded by rabid beasts under the direction of a leathery little troglodyte. For several hours they had clipped and trimmed the fragrant, oily leaves, that exuded a delightful smell like fresh mint and cinnamon, Marché quickly becoming skilled at divesting the plants of their prize. The first trio of the beasts had surprised them, stealthily slinking up on their bellies until Krjn tilted her head suspiciously, sniffing the air before raising one slender hand, her long fingernails held almost like claws as a blast of scorchingly hot fire roared into existence, the beasts fleeing from their cover amongst the undergrowth, yelping in pain and terror as their fur was incinerated in an instant.

Ten minutes later, although it seemed like far longer, and Marché was panting heavily as he dispatched his last opponent and began advancing on the shrieking goblinoid. It was different, he found, from his fight with Ba'Gamnan, in that he didn't feel anything like the terror and guilt he had felt during and after the confrontation. Perhaps it was because these were just animals, perhaps his mysteriously obtained training was taking over or perhaps he could just rationalise it as being a part of some fantasy novel adventure, but it hardly compared with facing down an actual sentient person, even if that person was a lizard. In fact, there was a certain amount of excitement about it.

Fortunately perhaps, Marché's new-found ability to defeat his opponents without being too bothered about it wasn't put to the test of having to skewer the diminutive demi-human, as the creature took one look the advancing boy before deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, shaking its fist wildly before hurling a small cloth bag in Marché's direction and running as fast as its legs could carry it. The improvised missile burst violently open in front of Marché's feet, spewing a fine cloud of black, pepper-like powder into the air that brought tears to his eyes and sent him into a fit of coughing as he staggered backwards away from the itching, powdery residue of the crude device.

He was still cursing and coughing by the time Montblanc and Krjn had made their way to him, the fight effectively over as they had dealt with the last of their targets, managing only to grunt a response to Montblanc's concerned enquiry as he unhooked the wineskin from his belt, taking several long gulps before using a stream of water from the leather pouch to wash the remaining dust from his eyes.

'Dried peppergrass and powdered bomb-shell,' Krjn commented softly, eyeing up the direction in which the small creature had made his escape. 'Crudely made, but a common alchemic concoction for distracting one's opponent.'

'Next time I'll learn how to dodge,' Marché shook his head in response, before cleaning and sheathing his sword. 'Will he be coming back?'

'The baknamy are vindictive, it is true, but they also prefer to have numbers on their side, so the chances of being harassed further are slim.' Krjn smiled a decidedly feral grin. 'Methinks he was seeking more docile prey than he found today.'

After the brief entertainment provided by the locals, finishing the task of harvesting the muscmaloi herbs was almost tedious in comparison, but finish it they did. Krjn, however, set about the task of skinning the beasts that now littered the fields, efficiently divesting the carcasses of their pelts before scraping them clean and treating them with a pungent smelling oil. She sighed as she moved onto some of the ones killed by Marché.

'I will say to you as I have said to Cerran on many an occasion,' she held up a pelt marred by a ragged two foot long tear down its centre, her gaze landing on him as she looked at him through the hole. 'The pelts are worth barely half if shredded prior to collection.'

'Sorry!' Marché winced as he realised that only one of his wolves had been sent on its way with the kind of strike to the head that wouldn't damage the skin. Honestly, it wasn't something that he'd been thinking of when engaged in a struggle to the death with the beasts, and both Krjn and Montblanc had things a lot easier with their ranged weapons.

'She says that each time also.' The corners of her mouth twitched in amusement, and Marché realised that this particular argument was clearly an ongoing joke between Krjn and the aforementioned Cerran. 'You are quite skilled however, and adapted well to such an unknown situation, although it would be wise for you to improve your endurance.'

'Thanks,' Marché took a long swig from his wineskin. There really wasn't anything else he could say.

The deep baskets they had brought were full to the brim by the time they were sealed and the party moved on. The chocobo, surprisingly enough, didn't seem even remotely phased by the level of its burden, despite the addition of a dozen or so of the thick, crimson pelts from the slaughtered wolves, or worgen as Krjn had helpfully enlightened him. Their pace, however was thankfully slow in the full heat of the afternoon sun and on several occasions they diverted their course to cut through groves of olive trees and date palms, simply to take advantage of the meagre shade they offered. Here and there, agricultural workers harvested their crops from the sprawling plantations, and Marché noticed that many were of the same species as the stocky, pig-like creature he had seen in Cyril.

Roadside wells provided much needed refreshment, and Marché made sure to drink his fill at every opportunity as the heat was so intense that his sweat barely had the chance to form on his brow before it was evaporated away. Irritating beads of moisture rolled down his back underneath his thick leather breastplate, making him decidedly uncomfortable and defying all attempts to wipe them away. The remainder of the trip, Marché realised, would be exceedingly unpleasant if every day was to be the same.

Behind them, the town of Cyril shimmered and vanished under a rolling heat haze, while the road extended into the distance in front of them. Cursing the fact that he hadn't thought to buy a hat, Marché simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, at least thankful of the fact that, while the trek was uncomfortable, he didn't have to put up with the noxious emissions of that foul-smelling chicken as Montblanc was having to do.

It would be hours before they would stop again, conversation virtually non-existent as they trudged onward, each trying to conserve their energy. Interaction was limited to acts such as Marché sharing a ration of jerky with Krjn as he took lunch on the move, while Montblanc occasionally handed out wineskins of water so warm as to be foul to the taste, but which was increasingly necessary as Marché struggled to make his own last between wells. The entire journey, Marché mused, was turning more into a stroll up to the back gate of hell than the kind of fantasy adventure he had so often read about.

They made camp in the shelter of a haphazard pile of rocks, night falling quickly and early on the edge of the desert. To Marché's dismay, the necessary harvesting of the herbs, coupled with the fight against their unlikely guardians, ensured that they managed to cover only ten miles at the most. Taking into account his companions, both Montblanc's size and the fact that Krjn had already begun gathering ingredients for their evening meal from her pack, Marché volunteered to collect the firewood, scouring the surrounding countryside for usable material with some difficulty.

It was worth it, however, once the smells of Krjn's cooking, which largely consisted of a thick soup of potato-like tubers coupled with two generous portions of meat that she had harvested from the worgen and had carried with her wrapped in palm leaves. From the way she expertly and delicately seasoned and salted each of the dishes, it was clear that she was quite skilled in the culinary arts. Montblanc, Marché noted, stayed distinctly upwind of the fireplace once she placed the two cuts into her pan, while Marché's stomach rumbled fiercely from the olfactory sensations they generated. Indeed, the small creature limited himself to a single bowl of the soup and a handful of raw vegetables while his more omnivorous companions feasted. Perhaps it was Krjn's skill, but for all that the stallholder in Cyril had complained about using worgen, Marché couldn't class it as in any way second rate.

The darkness closed in around them as Marché placed more wood on the fire. Once Montblanc had done his share of the camp work in clearing away the bowls and cooking utensils, the three sat in companionable silence while their food digested. Not even realising he was doing it, Marché absently removed his gladius from its scabbard, idly polishing the length of the blade until its edges reflected the firelight, not even noticing his comrades actions as he worked almost entirely on autopilot; Krjn observing him with an unblinking gaze while the moogle seemingly dozed.

'What is magic?' he ventured, sheathing his blade as he stared, pensively into the fire, remembering the almost casual way in which the cryptic viera had set the parched wood ablaze, his mind also flashing back to the more lethal manner in which she had wielded the element earlier in the day. 'I mean, I've seen you do things that shouldn't be possible, and I'm supposed to be tagging along to see this great wizard Ma'kenroh, but magic's only in fairy-tales.'

'Are you not in your own faerie-tale, kupo?' Montblanc seemingly hadn't been dozing at all. His question, however, brought the young boy up short. This whole journey was like some tale from the books he loved to read, so could it be that these things were possible in this strange new world he found himself in. Gandalf, Merlin and Belgarath, could he also add this Ma'kenroh to the list; the thought seemed almost ludicrous. The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound for several moments as Marché pondered the moogle's remark.

'It is the mist.' Krjn's quiet tones carried easily through the night air, her etched features softly illuminated in the flickering light of the campfire. 'It permeates every corner of Ivalice, flowing across the land from wild, ancient places of power.' Marché shivered as a warm desert wind floated through the camp, teasing the hairs on his exposed skin and sending a tingling sensation through his body.

'It churns in the dark and secret places of the world and howls its promises in untamed lands filled with life and death, twisting the souls of those it touches and warping their bodies into beasts.' She breathed deeply as she held her hand out to the fire, the flames rearing up in response to her unseen command as Marché's attention was firmly focused on her. 'One may not see it with their eyes in these barren, arid lands and the crude dwellings of humes and their like, but all are touched, and those so blessed or cursed may grasp its power for good or for ill.'

Marché just stared, transfixed by the display of power, his mind spinning as the sheer truth of his situation was pressed home by the impossibility that had just taken place before him. If the non-human nature of his companions were not enough, this casual shattering of the laws of physics was the final confirmation of what he had, in his heart, known all along. He was no longer in his own world any more, and getting home wouldn't be as simple as making a call from an embassy and being put on a 747 to be delivered back to his worried mother.

He was Lucy, on her first trip into Narnia, filled with wonder at the sights she beheld. Only, the wardrobe door had slammed shut behind him, and instead of a friendly dryad, he had a talking plush toy and a cross between Bugs Bunny's girlfriend and Xena. If this Ma'kenroh couldn't help him, he didn't know what the hell he was going to do. It seemed he was more Robinson Crusoe, truth be told, washed up on his island with only the slimmest, wildest chance of rescue.

'Most of us use it for simple things such as attacking, healing and the like, kupo,' Marché's attention was brought back to the present as he shuddered at the thought that creating a raging inferno with a gesture or bringing lightning bolts down out of a clear sky could be considered simple. 'The nu mou are very wise though, and they're the only ones that really understand the old magics now.'

'There are others,' Krjn's voice was soft as she corrected her friend, but Marché sensed a certain dangerous edge to it in the darkness. 'Forgotten ones best left forgotten in the darker places of the world, but too much has been lost over the uncounted ages, or maybe not enough.'

'There's no magic where I come from,' Marché leaned back on one of the rocks that sheltered their little campsite, staring up at the inky darkness of the night sky, idly wondering why it was that the moon and the constellations were the same, the familiar stars burning brightly overhead, free from the usual ambient light caused by the presence of so many modern towns and cities.

He didn't know how long he talked about life in his world, St. Ivalice, his family, Ritz and Mewt, even the cars that drove through the snow-filled streets, which greatly interested Montblanc, although Marché couldn't quite satisfy the moogle's curiosity as to how they worked. For some reason, alone as he was in this strange new world, he wanted, no needed them to know about what his life was like, although he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Maybe it was because without them he would be all alone in this place, and he desperately needed their help, or maybe it was because deep down he was afraid that he would never see his world again, and that his memories would be all that remained of it.

Either way, the pair proved to be patient listeners and rewarded his tale with ones of their own, Krjn speaking in quiet, reverent tones of the wood that she left behind, and of the leafy glades of Muscadet, many leagues to the south-west, further even than the palace city of Bervenia, where her kind moved like pale ghosts through treetop plazas and walkways sculpted out of the very woods themselves. It stood in great contrast to Montblanc's energetic tales of the great machina city of Goug, yet further still to the west, home to inventors, engineers, eccentrics and tinkerers, where every building seemed to be part structure, part bizarre experiment. Marché couldn't help but be borne along by his small friend's enthusiasm.

Before long, however, he was feeling the effects of the day's exertion and couldn't hold off from yawning as the three settled down for the night. 'I'll take the first watch, kupo,' Marché was somewhat taken aback by the moogle's statement to Krjn and himself as he hadn't even considered that any of them would have to stay awake. Given their confrontation earlier in the day, however, coupled with the horror stories the two of them had told him about some of the nastier beasts known to occasionally roam the wilderness, it made sense though. Three sleeping campers would make a tasty, and defenceless snack for any night-time predator.

'I shall take the mid-watch then,' Krjn rolled herself into a blanket, hoisting another in Marché's direction. 'Viera eyes are more sensitive to the darkness than hume or Moogle, and we are not so troubled by broken sleep.' With one last yawn, Marché confirmed that he would take the last watch before dawn before rolling himself up in his own blanket, watching the dance of the last, flickering embers of the fire for less than a minute before the hypnotic warmth drew him into a deep and pleasant sleep.

Far too deep and pleasant, in fact, to make for a pleasant experience when he was shaken awake for his own turn on guard duty. Although he couldn't tell without a watch, Marché estimated it to be anywhere between three and four in the morning as the first hints of dawn were yet to appear on the horizon, and wiping the sleep from his eyes, he collected his sword before hauling himself to the top of one of the boulders surrounding their camp, wrapped in his blanket with the scabbard in his lap as his eyes slowly adjusted to the eerie half-light of the moon-washed landscape, carefully listening for any signs of approach.

He needn't have worried, however, as it seemed that the hungrier denizens of the wasteland were safe in their dens also, the hours passing slowly as Marché pondered everything that had happened, contemplating his future if the nu mou known as Ma'kenroh wasn't able to help him. After a quick breakfast the three set out again, their meagre water supplies making washing an unnecessary luxury that simply couldn't be afforded. Montblanc and Krjn seemed entirely unconcerned at wearing the same clothes they had slept in, fought in and spent the entirety of the previous day's hellish heat walking in, and Marché guessed that he just wasn't used to travelling in this manner.

This routine set the tone for the rest of the journey, rising early to travel at an easy pace, taking water where they could and avoiding the sweltering heat of the early afternoon in whatever shade they could find or manufacture, cautious not to overtire either themselves or their overburdened pack animal. Their pace would normally have seemed almost like a crawl to Marché, travelling for only six hours every day for the grand total of around fifteen miles, but any faster and he knew they would tire either themselves or their chocobo long before they reached the city of Sprohm. He tried to alternate his tunics where he could, taking the opportunity to wash, shave and do his best to clean his clothes any time their campsite was within a convenient distance of a well. Shaving, in particular, terrified the living hell out of him every time he had to use that lethal implement.

After the entertainment of the first day, they were relatively untroubled by the local wildlife, although the occasional pack of dusky coloured desert wolves snapped and howled at them from a safe distance as they passed. Only on one occasion, stepping away from the road to avoid a particularly large gathering of them, did they have to defend themselves, stumbling into the nesting site of a family of cockatrices, Alsatian-sized birds so fat as to resemble beaked and feathered beach-balls, who found it equally as efficient to tuck their heads and tiny wings into themselves and roll over the landscape as they did to walk.

Once dealt with, Krjn once more displayed her scavenging abilities in harvesting the largest of their tail-feathers, to be sold later as quill-pens of all things. She and Marché dined well on roasted fowl that night, a welcome addition as fresh food was becoming increasingly hard to come by and meals were increasingly reverting to trail rations of dry biscuits, cured meat and dried fruit; an unappetising addition to sore feet and tired legs at the end of the day. By necessity, Marché learned quickly how to ration his water, using every trick he could to conserve what little he could carry.

Slowly but surely the miles were eaten up, however, and more and more greenery and signs of life could be found, the number and size of villages they passed increasing as they went along. The hazy shapes of towering mountains in the distance grew increasingly clearer as they pressed onwards and the balmy breezes that blew across the trail became gradually more refreshing, something that Marché was particularly grateful for.

Eventually, they climbed a steep ridge, passing gnarled trees covered in white and pink blooms to gaze out over a wide, green valley. A great river meandered past vibrant fishing communities, alive with the activities of dozens of boats plying their trade, while farmsteads dotted the lush fields irrigated by the mighty waterway, animals and crops taking up every possible acre of space. Replenishing their waning supplies at one of the local communities, Marché took a welcome opportunity to bathe in the cool waters of the river, letting it gently wash away the filth of the road and leaving him feeling refreshed and revitalised.

Taking the ferry across and continuing their journey, the last few days of the trail rose steeply as the path climbed into the imposing grey mountains, home to the fortified city of Sprohm. Marché couldn't help but think that this place was what they had in mind when inventing the word imposing, as the thick walls of the fortress-like settlement rose above them, constructed almost entirely of massive blocks of basalt hewn from the mountains around them. The iron-bound timbers of the gate, that while not all that welcoming at least stood open to travellers, appeared to be entire trees that had been squared off and riveted into place with bolts as long as his forearm. Vicious-looking bangaa guards, draped in heavy armour and carrying wicked looking halberds and pikes, eyed them suspiciously as they moved into the city, their long trek at last over.

'This is where you live?' Marché's eyebrow rose as he looked over the grey monotony of the mountainous fort, each building crafted with military precision into the same grey, boxy appearance, rigid streets leading inwards towards a central keep.

'It's not all that kupo a city,' Montblanc agreed as he and Krjn made their way through the streets with a familiarity that bespoke a long association with the place. 'It is a fairly central place for a clan to be based though, and the aerodrome allows us to get almost anywhere in Rozarria, from Port Baguba in the north, to Bervenia over the mountains or even as far as Goug and Moorabella in the west or Cadoan to the south-east.'

'Not that we have been able to afford such luxuries recently, may I remind you,' Krjn's voice was slightly chiding as she turned her head from her position holding the chocobo's reins. Finances were clearly a touchy subject amongst the friends, and Marché suddenly understood why the two would accept a job that required a month's hard round trip with only picking herbs at the end of it; they were having to settle for any job they could get. 'Never mind, I will deal with the healers guild and barter what I can for our pelts and the like, so you may return to the clan hall.'

With that, she snapped the chocobo's reins, leading it away through the stone streets without a backward glance, leaving hume and moogle standing in the street staring after her. 'Don't worry about her, kupo,' the moogle sighed as viera and chocobo disappeared round a corner and out of sight. 'She just hoped that we would have achieved far more by now.'

There wasn't much that Marché could say in response, as any one of the phrases that ran through his mind sounded like trite platitudes. Shaking off the uncomfortable nature of Krjn's exit, they made their way through the dreary streets to a small, two-storey building with a crudely made sign tacked outside that Montblanc cheerfully informed him was the emblem of their clan. A sense of building anticipation welled up as they pushed open the door and stepped into the warm, dimly-lit interior. Now he would see whether there was any hope of him returning to his own world again, or whether he would be stranded in Ivalice forever.