Drowning Your Sorrows

Chapter 2: Ebb and Flow

"I've never talked to a Burmy before," the Mayor's boy said as he walked along at Freya's side. "I've only seen 'em from far away."

"Oh?" Freya replied. "Do Burmecians come to Dali very often?"

"Nah," the boy said. "Burmies might show up for the Pumpkin Festival, but they don't come here much besides." The boy raised his hand and pointed a finger towards a muddy path that cut across a low, grassy hill. "Corn's over that way."

As Freya turned her feet aside to follow in the direction of the boy's gesture, her ears began to perceive the papery rustle of dry leaves being rubbed together by the wind. She panned her muzzle from side to side as she walked, letting all her senses drink in information about the environment that surrounded her. Although Freya knew that she and her companion were very close to the cornfield where the Hound of Tindalos had slaughtered a hapless cart driver just two nights before, her nose couldn't detect any lingering trace of the beast's scent.

Freya glanced at the boy walking next to her. His hands were slapping against the sides of his ill-fitting brown trousers with each step he took. A bulky green tunic hung across his shoulders and sagged down to his waist, where the excess material was carelessly bunched up and tied beneath a belt made from a loop of rope. The boy seemed tall for his age, with the crown of his head coming up to the level of Freya's shoulder. Tangled locks of curly yellow hair hung down in front of his eyes, which seemed to be staring down at the ground ahead of him. Satisfied that she wasn't being watched, Freya let her tongue dart out to sweep across the pink pad of her nose. The smear of moisture began to swiftly evaporate, further sharpening her already keen sense of smell. I don't like doing that in front of humans, Freya thought. They might think I'm like an animal, or even worse, that I'm picking my nose with my tongue.

While Freya's nose searched the wind for the scent of her nemesis, the rustle she'd been hearing began to be accompanied by a hollow rattle.The fur on her forehead wrinkled as the velvety shells of her ears dipped and swiveled to determine the nature of the sound. It took her only a second to identify the noise. Just cornstalks tapping together in the breeze. Nothing to be concerned with.

I do, however, need to be concerned with the youth of the boy I'm walking with. I can't understand why the Mayor sent such a young kid out with me. This isn't a pleasant errand, and I'm starting to smell blood in the field ahead of us. I need to ask the boy to stay behind.

Freya turned her head to speak with her companion and discovered that he was looking straight at her with an expression of unabashed wonder on his face. "Your ears are neat!" he said.

Reflexively, Freya's ears snapped straight forward in a friendly expression, and the boy immediately began to laugh. "That was a smile!" Freya said. A bright, bubbling undercurrent of cheerfulness began to flow through her voice. "We 'Burmies' can smile with our ears. And look at this…" Freya paused in her stride and gently took the boy's elbow in her hand. She pointed her muzzle down and made her ears cut capers, flagging them, perking them, and flicking them one at a time as if she were trying to shake off a fly. The boy's laughter burgeoned into gales of mirth that were beyond his control, and Freya watched with amusement as he stood on one foot, shaking and hugging his ribs with both arms. He looks so funny, she thought, but I'd better let him calm down and try to get him back on business before he gets too excited. Human kids can be kind of rambunctious.

"You know," Freya said, as the boy beside her began to gain control over his joyful spasms, "you haven't told me your name."

"I wasn't sure if I wanted to," the boy replied. "You looked mean at first. And my name is Herrick."

"Herrick! That's a nice name."

"Freya's a nice name, too," the young man said, looking down and digging the toe of one of his sandals into the soft grass of the hillside.

"My full name and title is Lady Freya Alston-Marie Crescent of Whitefork, Dragon Knight of the Royal House of Burmecia!" Freya said. She closed one green eye and tapped the side of her nose with a finger, dropping her jaw and pursing her lips to make the blow resonate through her mouth with an impressive pop. "But you need a big muzzle like mine to say all that!"

"Wow," the boy replied. "I'm just Herrick."

"Perhaps your name will grow along with you, as you get older," Freya replied soothingly. She looked down at the boy to make certain that no trace of laughter remained simmering behind his attentive eyes. He looked as serious as Bahamut. "Now then," Freya said, "could you answer me a question, Herrick? It's a tough question."

The boy nodded.

"Why has your father allowed you to come with me to a place where a man has just been killed?"

"My father?" Herrick said. He stood still as if he'd suddenly grown roots like those of the plants in the field ahead of him.

"His Honor Tasco Aldridge," Freya replied, "the Mayor of Dali."

"Oh!" Herrick exclaimed. "That guy isn't my father! My parents are gone. Tasco's just a big fartface. He's always makin' me do stupid stuff…" Herrick paused and studied Freya's face. "I like walking with you, though," he added.

"I see," Freya said, although she was beginning to become confused. No parents? Are they away? Are they dead? Does Herrick work for the Mayor, at such a young age? He can't be more than ten years old. As Freya stood and watched, a scowl began to spread its way across the boy's face, and she became aware of the awkwardness that her inquiry had created. After a moment of thought, she spoke again. "Herrick, would you mind waiting here while I go into the corn? It would make me feel sad and worried if I took you someplace where someone had died."

"It's okay," Herrick replied. "I can wait here."

Thanks," Freya said. She gave Herrick another little ear-smile before she turned towards the cornfield. He smiled in return, then he crouched down suddenly to grab a green grasshopper from a blade of grass near his feet. The frightened insect kicked its legs as Herrick brought it up to his face to study. As Freya walked towards the rows of corn, she glanced back and saw the boy was turning his catch over and over, holding it by its folded wings and watching it with fascination. I wonder what he would say if he knew that I sometimes eat grasshoppers? Freya thought.

The tan stalks of corn parted easily as Freya entered between them and wedged them apart with her shoulders. Her nose told her that the ground somewhere ahead had recently been disturbed, and she smelled exposed roots and wormcast. Immediately around her, the corn itself gave off a dry and waxy scent, causing Freya's mind to drift towards thoughts of journey cake and other delicious foods. Too bad it isn't summertime, she thought. If this were summer corn, I'd eat a few ears. I love the way the raw kernels snap when I bite into them. It's like a poor man's caviar! Freya champed her jaws as she imagined the taste and texture of sweet corn filling her mouthShe was just raising a hand to wipe a little bead of saliva from her lower lip when she detected a scent that was very different from corn. I smell blood again, but I can't focus in on the direction. It's as if it…

Freya's left foot stepped out from between the cornstalks and into open air. A shot of adrenaline tingled through her body as she tumbled forward. Her hands lashed out, swiping at the stalks of corn next to her for support, but the plants tore and crumbed between her fingers. For one terrible moment, she expected to find herself plummeting headlong down a well or smashing her bones in the bottom of a jagged pit, but her feet immediately struck ground and sank down into a bed of soft, sun-warmed earth.

She was standing in a shallow rut at the edge of a vast circle of torn ground. Stalks of corn, shredded and broken, lay strewn atop the ragged earth. The roots of the upturned stalks protruded from the black soil like clutching hands. All of the plants within Freya's field of vision seemed unnaturally gray, as if every bit of color in them had been washed away. As she stepped forward into the clearing, the broken stalks of corn beneath her feet crumbled away into something that felt dry, powdery and clinging.

What on Gaia? The plants here are all crushed and soft as ashes! That hound must have bored right through this field like a charging zaghnol! Gods, sweet Gods of Rain and Thunder what in the Cold Hells have I signed myself up for? The Mayor wasn't exaggerating when he said that the man killed had been 'strewn over an acre'. This clearing is far larger than an acre! My nose can't discern any one spot where blood's been spilt. This whole section of field's been showered with blood!

Freya stepped further into the clearing, glimpsing a wide, flattened swath of corn that led into the open space next to where she'd stumbled in. As far down that path as she could see, the broken cornstalks appeared as gray and lifeless as the plants beneath her feet. The mere presence of the beast has affected this corn? Dragons above, I wonder what happens to a person who comes too close to the Hound? Look at how the earth is rent! That poor cart driver. The Hound must've shaken him to pieces! Even for a robber, that's a horrible way to die.

Freya's feet led her in a stunned circle as she tried to comprehend the scene around her. The scent of blood licked at her flaring nostrils, wafting in from every direction. Tiny dots of brown stained the faded foliage on the ground and at the edges of the clearing, as if a sanguine rain had recently fallen. The atmosphere was silent, thick and still. Freya instinctively burrowed a fingertip into one of her ears, pumping the digit to see if something was wrong with her hearing. A strange sense of vertigo began to wash over her, as if the torn earth beneath her feet were slowly turning. Her head felt as if were being wrapped in swaths of the wispy gray silk from the bent cornstalks that slouched around her like silent observers. Her guts turned cold as fear began to grip her. She felt the pulse in her neck hammering away behind the angle of her jaw.

It's silent here! The plants move, but they don't make a sound! No insects buzzing, no birds calling, no life. Everything in this clearing is dead!

A faint scent wormed its way into Freya's nostrils. Her breath spilled out in a ragged rush and her eyes widened as the scent grew into a choking stink that filled her nose and throat. The odor surged in from everywhere around her, all at once and without a source, as if the air itself had suddenly turned rancid. Freya dropped to her knees and doubled over with an arm hugged against her stomach. The smell kept growing more intense, going from oppressive to agonizing to unbearable. Freya's muzzle twisted up into a snarl as she spat and spat onto the black ground, trying to keep herself from tasting the sickening stench that thickened the air around her.

It was the stench of a charnel house.

When Herrick saw Freya emerge from between the rows of corn, he didn't ask her why she was shaking. He didn't mention the little triangle of yellow bile staining the brilliant white fur at one corner of her muzzle, or the streamer of saliva that was drying on her chin. He just took Freya's hand and led her back across the fields into town. They stopped at a well, so Freya could take a dipper full of water from a bucket to cleanse her mouth. She drank a second ladle, and then a third and fourth. When the two travelers reached the stoop of the public house, they parted ways. Freya whispered her goodbye to Herrick as she bent down to rub her cheek against his.

As she stepped into the lobby of the inn, Freya's body was still trembling. She walked slowly across the scratched yellow planks of the inn's floor, placing her feet down deliberately as she headed towards the front desk. The innkeeper was behind his counter, reading a book about practical carpentry. Freya took a deep breath to steady herself as she approached him. The inside of her mouth still tasted like sour vomit.

"I need my hab…my hauberk… I need my hauberk and trident from safe storage," Freya said. Her voice had a tremulous quality to it that made her inwardly cringe.

The innkeeper set his book face-down on the countertop. He looked up into Freya's eyes for a moment, and then nodded. "Gimme just one second and I'll fetch 'em!" he said.

Freya watched as the man slid off his stool and walked into a room behind the counter. She could hear the chiming of keys on a ring, followed by the snaps and clicks of a heavy lock opening. An image of nutshells being ground together filled Freya's mind, called into being by the hollow sounds of the lock. The gritty squeal of dry door hinges dispelled the vision, causing Freya to wince as the piercing sound bored into her ears. She heard the familiar jangle of her chain mail shirt a moment later, as it was lifted from a closet shelf somewhere beyond her sight. The door squealed again as it was slammed shut, and the innkeeper reappeared from the back room carrying her trident and hauberk.

"Here you go!" he said, laying the two items down on the counter in front of Freya. "Don't want your big red hat too, do you?

"No," Freya replied. "I won't need it tonight." She tugged at the ascot tied around her neck, pulling the end of the scarf free from the inside her coat and slipping it through the slack beneath her chin. Her hands refused to follow her directions without trembling, and she snarled at her own clumsiness as she whipped her ascot violently free of her collar. She laid the frilly length of azure cloth out on the countertop. A minute later, it was covered by her heraldic bib, proudly emblazoned with the House of Crescent coat of arms. Her red leather greatcoat joined the pile with a flop, hanging over the side of the counter in heavy folds. One of the silver shoulder pauldrons on the coat rang softly as it tapped against the face of the counter.

"Need a hand?" the innkeeper inquired, as he saw Freya reaching for her hauberk. The muscles in her left shoulder twitched awkwardly beneath her orange suede tunic as she picked up her body armor. Her ears flattened against her skull as she plunged both arms into the shirt of mail and raised it over her head. The hauberk jangled noisily as Freya wormed her way into it, her upper body undulating rhythmically from side to side. Her head emerged from the garment nose-first, and she craned her neck to let the heavy mesh slip over her back. After she had adjusted the way the stiff shoulders of the shirt rode on her frame, Freya smoothed the links of the hauberk down from her chest to her groin, and then she began to don the rest of her gear.

"There's a couple other things 'round here for you," the innkeeper said. He ducked beneath the counter and resurfaced with a bundle of bone-white ironwood shafts tied together with twine, and a folding penknife with a hart's horn handle. "I sent your note to Caleb at the barn, too, but he ain't showed up yet."

"Thank you," Freya said, glancing at the items as she buttoned her silk bib into place. The corners of her muzzle turned down as she studied the knife resting atop the trio of shafts. Although it looked to be a tool of high quality, the body of the knife was very slender. "Could you open the blade and show it to me?" Freya requested.

"Sure thing!" the innkeeper said. He picked up the penknife and worried it open with a stubby thumbnail. He whistled in awe as a blade rippling with veins of black and silver snapped into view. "Dee-mascus!" he cried. "I ain't seen that but once before!"

Freya draped her blue ascot around the back of her neck and held her hand out to ask for the knife. The innkeeper passed it to her handle-first. She rolled the grip of the knife between her fingertips for a few moments before she sighed and set the blade down on the countertop. "Would you trade me another knife for this one?" she asked. "This is too small for my hands. I need something with a fatter handle. Something sturdy enough to whittle through ironwood."

"I'd sure like to have that knife," the keeper said, rubbing his chin. "But I don't have any other knives to trade you…I don't think. Don't think I do…" The man trailed off into deep thought for a few seconds before he dropped his hand and let out a hoot of triumph. "Who-ooo! Wait now, I know where I can get some knives!" Freya turned her muzzle to watch the man as he scurried around his counter and off towards the kitchen. She knotted her ascot beneath her chin and waited for the keeper to return.

Just the stench of death shouldn't have shaken me up so badly, Freya thought, her mind drifting back to the clearing in the cornfield. First I puke my guts out, and then I walk into town shaking all the way, with a child to guide me. What's wrong with me? I know there's an unruly evil still lingering where that hound tread, but even so, I should be able to throw off the mental effect of faded magics. But that stench! Gods, it rose from nothing and returned to nothing. Like the hound was touching me from afar. Learning my scent and leaving its own. Sabrael, sweet mother of our people, lend me strength! Do not forget your child who shall face this darkness alone and…

Freya gave a start as a clatter of steel and wood jolted her from her thoughts. The innkeeper was standing next to her, with a collection of kitchen knives spread out on the counter at his side. "Got all sorts of knives right from the scullery!" he said. "They're used for food, of course, but our smith makes 'em from old choco cart springs, so they're real sharp and tough! Any one will do you!"

Reaching out to run her fingers over the collection of blades, Freya searched through them until she found a paring knife with a chunky handle. Her fingers dove down to seize it. She immediately fumbled the knife, sending it clattering onto the floor at her feet. "I'll trade for this one," she sighed as she bent down to retrieve the knife. She absentmindedly shoved the naked blade into the left side pocket of her coat. Mumbling her thanks to the innkeeper, she collected her lengths of wood, turned away, and walked slowly towards the door of the inn.

"Hey, here! Take this with you, ma'am!" the innkeeper called out, beckoning Freya back towards his counter. He was waving a piece of tattered parchment in his hand. "You can use this to wrap that knife up. Don't want you cuttin' yourself open!"

Freya took the sheet from the man's hand with a nod of thanks. A loud thump suddenly sounded behind her back, and she gasped in surprise as her baldric shifted upwards on her shoulders. A ringing clatter filled the room as Freya's trident fell over and onto the floor. Her shoulders slumped as she glanced behind her to see her weapon lying with its butt at her heels. How in the world did that slip out? she wondered. Gods, I'm a disaster today. I'd best cover the knife in my pocket before I end up lopping off a finger.

Freya turned her attention to the wrinkled piece of goatskin the innkeeper had handed her. There were pictures and writing visible on the stained face of the document, and Freya immediately recognized it as being a hand-drawn map. She set her bundle of shafts back down on the countertop and folded the damaged map in two, intending to make it into a crude, stiff sheath. She was turning the paper sideways to make a second crease when she noticed something that made her heart skip. Her vision narrowed to a gray-walled tunnel that focused itself on the single paragraph that was written on the map's reverse.

"Let fear propel you forward. Drive yourself on. Do not look back in regret. Do not let failure stifle you. As long as your dreams live, the road ahead of you will remain wide open.

- F. 'Iron-Tail'"

"…and weren't no point in keeping' it around, really. I told the dang kid to stop eatin' at the counter. And then…ma'am? You all right? You're lookin' kinda peaked."

Freya glanced towards the innkeeper. He'd been speaking to her, but she hadn't heard his words. She slowly stood up straight and tucked the folded parchment into her coat. I don't believe this, she thought. I can't believe this! It is too strange, too improbable. Of all the papers in the entire world, to be given one bearing the words of my tutor, my trainer, my lover, the man that I'm searching for! Sir Fratley, wherever you may be, I thank you for your words! Mother and Father, I thank you for this fair omen!

"Ma'am?" the innkeeper said again.

"I will be fine," Freya replied. Her voice had lost its tremulous quality, becoming low and firm. Rolling her shoulders back, she raised her muzzle towards the ceiling of the inn. Her chest expanded as she drew in a deep breath of air through her nostrils. She shut her eyes and exhaled slowly through narrowly parted lips.

With a crash that shook the lobby of the inn and made the knives on the countertop rattle and dance, Freya spun and slammed her right foot down onto the floor. With her muzzle pointed to the side and her ears fully erect, she stood motionless next to her fallen spear. Her knees were bent in a low crouch and her broad feet were planted a yard apart. Her right hand was balled up into a fist with her forearm resting on her upper thigh. Her left arm hung straight down from the shoulder. Her fingers were spread like the tines of a fork.

Three guests wandered in from the dining tables in the common room to see what was happening. The innkeeper sucked in his breath in anticipation. He was watching the Dragon Knight with a strange little smile on his face.

Nobody saw how the trident came into her hands. There was just a double-slap of wood against flesh, a flashing arc of silver, and Freya was suddenly holding her weapon in front of her hips. She rolled her head casually from right to left to center, eliciting a soft series of pops from the vertebrae in her neck.

Freya's toe-claws gouged through the surface of the floorboards beneath her as she pivoted forward and dropped the butt of her shaft alongside the crook of her right arm. She jabbed the weapon forward through the air three times in rapid succession, leaning into her thrusts with her left foot darting out and back in a dancing step. At the third jab, she slapped the butt of her spear aside with her right thigh and brought the weapon up in a twirl over her left ear. Her tail snapped out behind her as she turned on her left foot and raked the outspread toe-claws of her right foot viciously through the air at gut-level. Air hissed between the tines of her trident as she swung the spear downwards in a hooking sidearm arc. Her feet danced lightly across the floor as she hopped back three steps with her weapon held straight out in front of her navel. With a sudden leap, she slapped both hands to the base of her trident and soared forward with the tips of her ears brushing the ceiling overhead. She landed in a crouch with the tip of her weapon hovering motionless just a hair's breadth above the floor.

She held that position until the innkeeper and his guests began to clap and hoot, stomping their feet on the floor in appreciation. A flush of pink spread across Freya's ears and nose as she stood up, spun her spear over her left shoulder, and slipped it into its harness. She turned and bowed to her audience with a flourish.

With her chin held high and her green eyes sparking with determination, she strode to the counter, picked up her parcel of ironwood shafts, and turned to leave. She had one foot out the door when the voice of the innkeeper called out to her once more. "You kick that hound's ass and you come back whole, now!"

Freya turned her head and locked eyes with the innkeeper. "You know what I'm setting out to do tonight?" she inquired.

"Word's been round," the innkeeper replied.

Freya bared her teeth and set her ears forward in her best smile. "It shall be done!" she barked.

Stepping outside into the harsh afternoon sun, Freya narrowed her eyes and shielded her gaze with a hand cupped against her brow. The path leading to the inn was dry and dusty, and the hard soles of her feet rasped against the paving stones. She followed the path along to the main road, heading towards the chocobo stables. She had just turned off onto a soft, sandy cart path with uncertain footing when she heard her name called out by a fellow pedestrian.

"You Freya, the Dragon Knight?"

A tall man in a blue denim bib was standing on the path in front of her. He was holding a loosely folded burlap sack in a hand that was almost as large as Freya's own. His close-cropped hair was brown at the roots and a sun-bleached yellow at the ends, giving it an appearance like the ticked coat of a wild beast. His skin was burned to an amber hue by years of exposure to the sun, and little flakes of skin were peeling from the bridge of his long, hooked nose. His brown eyes looked straight into Freya's as she replied to his question.

"Yes, I am Freya." she said.

"Great!" the man replied. "I'm Caleb. I keep the chocos here in Dali, and I got somethin' for you." With that said, the chocobo keeper dumped the sack he was carrying onto the ground near Freya's feet. "It's a dried-up lump a little bigger than a man's head, just like your note asked for."

"Thank you," Freya replied. She looked down at the wrinkled heap of cloth slumped in the dust halfway between herself and the keeper. Sand trickled out from between her toes as she lifted a foot from the ground and pressed the tips of her claws into the folds of the sack. Her probing digits encountered little resistance, and for a moment she feared that the chocobo keeper might be playing a joke on her. The pad of Freya's nose stretched wide as she flared her nostrils in search of information. The strong scent of mildew rising from the old burlap sack lay atop a handful of other smells, covering them like a curtain. Still, Freya's sensitive nose detected hints of urea, gysahl greens, and something that smelled like wood sorrel. She pressed her foot more firmly into the loose folds of burlap until she felt a thick and shapeless mass in the very center of the bag. She kneaded the lump with her toes, and it emitted a soft crackle. Satisfied, she put her foot back on the ground and raised her muzzle to speak with the keeper. The man was standing with his hands balled up into fists and resting on his hips. An amused expression was stretched across his ruddy face.

"Did you make certain to include straw?" Freya asked the keeper.

"Plenty of it," the keeper said, "'long with that other stuff. Can't keep it apart. It's all old and dry, too."

"That'll be perfect, then!" Freya said. "Can you tell me where I might make a fire?"

"I sure can!" the keeper replied, raising a hand and turning to point down the cart path behind him. "Go on back between that little white house over there and the choco barn. Walk down 'longside the pens and you'll see a circle of dirt with a stump standin' straight up out the middle of it. You can start yourself a fire anywhere 'round that stump. Won't scare the birds."

"Okay!" Freya said. She tightened her lips and perked her ears forward in the Burmecian equivalent of a smile. The chocobo keeper stared at her without showing any emotion.

"Used to tie my dog out on that stump," he said, "but he ran off a couple days back."

Uncertain of how she should reply to the keeper's statement, Freya gave him a sharp little nod that she hoped would be interpreted as sympathy. I can't stand dogs, she thought. Noisy, smelly things. Always barking at my heels. I remember that stupid mutt in Alexandria that tried to bite me. I knew I shouldn't have tried to relieve myself in that alley, but the place looked quiet. I get my breeches and cloth all undone, squat myself down, lean my back against the wall, and here comes a yapping dog. Straight out of nowhere, and snapping at my legs! I kicked that nasty bastard so hard he spun around twice before he slapped the far wall. Wish I could've crushed him. I felt constipated the whole rest of the day…

"Haven't seen the dog since," the keeper said, breaking into Freya's unpleasant reverie. "Think that hound that's been comin' here put a real scare into him."

Freya gave another nod. She bent over to pick up the burlap sack, spinning it a few times to tighten the loose material into a handle for carrying. She held the smelly parcel at arm's length away from her body as she turned to face the chocobo barn. By reflex, her whip-like brown tail stretched out to the side to help balance her against the load she was carrying. Sand stuck to the soles of her feet as she stepped around the chocobo keeper. She gave both of her feet a little shake before she hopped over onto the cool green grass growing alongside the cart path. Waving goodbye to the keeper, she set off towards the field. The orange bow tied to the tip of her tail glowed brightly in the late afternoon sun, dancing like a butterfly as she strode towards the chocobo barn. The tart smell of gysahl greens lingered in the air nearby, along with the thick scent of guano. A light breeze tickled across Freya's ears as they swiveled instinctively towards the booming and creaking sounds of Dali's distant windmills. She'd almost passed the chocobo barn when she heard the voice of the keeper calling out to her.

"Hey! Could you tell me just what you plan to do with that bag of stuff, ma'am?" the keeper bellowed. "I'm downright curious 'bout that!"

The chocobos in the nearby building started to cluck and call as they recognized the voice of their keeper, forcing Freya to shout to make herself heard over the rising din. She let her voice ring through her sinuses and across her upper palate, raising its pitch to make it carry. "I need it to harden the points of my javelins!" she yelled.

The keeper cocked his head as if he were thinking about what Freya had said. He gazed at the ground between his boots for a moment, then he shrugged and raised one of his hands in a wave of farewell. He turned and walked away without saying another word. Guess he was satisfied with my answer, Freya thought, as she set her own feet moving towards their destination.

As Freya walked past the chocobo barn and towards the back field, she noticed the musty smell of dog drifting in from ahead of her. She saw the stump the keeper had mentioned; a jagged gray fang sticking up out of the ground, standing ragged and axe-hewn at the edge of the field. It was surrounded by a circular patch of bare earth that had been packed down by the neurotic pacing of a tethered canine.

Freya smelled the rope and leather that had secured the dog to the stump before she could see it. Like all Burmecians, Freya was nearsighted. Although her vision was excellent at detecting movement, she could not see well beyond the distance of a stone's throw. Sometimes, if a faraway object caught the attention of her ears or nose, she would rock her head gently from side to side to try and create a measure of parallax between her and the object of her interest. This movement would allow her eyes to form a hazy picture of what she was trying to view. As Freya moved closer to the patch of bare earth, she saw a thick, frayed cord stretching out all the way from the stump to where the grass began to grow. An empty leather collar was tied to its far end.

As Freya entered the radius of the rope's reach, she turned her eyes down to carefully scan the ground in front of her feet. At such a short distance, she had no trouble seeing things with perfect clarity. Almost immediately, she had to take a skipping little half-step to keep herself from putting a foot down into a dried-up pile of dog scat. Knew there'd be plenty of that scattered about, she thought. I'll smell that stink for days if I step in it. Nothing worse than settling into a nice warm bed at an inn, all turned down with sweet, fresh linen and blankets, and then having the smell of dog crap coming wafting up from between your toes. Sometimes, I wish I could wear shoes.

The circle of ground around the stump felt sandy and dry beneath Freya's feet, but the stump itself was rotten and still damp from a recent rain. Freya dropped the sack she was carrying at the base of the stump and propped her ironwood shafts up next to it. A gentle wind was blowing in from the east, so she stepped around to the sheltered side of the stump. There, she discovered that the chocobo keeper's dog had dug out a deep wallow in the earth. Freya rubbed her hands together in satisfaction as she studied the small depression. This will be perfect!

She reached around the stump and picked up the burlap sack, letting its twisted neck slowly unwind. When the mouth of the bag was fully open, Freya rolled up the loose material to make the coarse fabric take the form of a broad and shallow bowl. Her nose squinched shut and her eyes started itching as a wave of ammonia billowed up to envelop her muzzle and face in a potent cloud of stink. Moving swiftly, Freya bent over and inverted the sack over the dog's wallow. A dry, clumpy mass the color of slate and eggshells plopped out of the bag. Broken strands of yellow straw poked out of the lump at every possible angle.

Phew! It smells worse now that I've shaken it up, Freya thought. Didn't expect it to still be so fragrant. Still, few things burn as hot and slow as dry chocobo dung. Freya tried breathing through her mouth to avoid sampling the stench emanating from the lump of guano on the ground in front of her, but she still perceived a muted version of the smell through two tiny ducts that pierced the roof of her Burmecian palate.

She squatted down on her heels, reaching her hands out towards the smelly mass. Immediately, her trident rode up in its harness on her back, causing her heavy red greatcoat to bunch up beneath her armpits. Snorting in annoyance, Freya reached her right hand behind her to push the butt of her spear aside. She straightened her coat and settled herself down beside the lump of guano. Gingerly prodding the mass with the tips of her claws, she pushed and turned it until it was properly settled into the shallow hole at the base of the stump. Satisfied with the arrangement, Freya reached into the side pocket of her coat and pulled out a dented steel tinder box that was tied shut with a fraying loop of twine. Her thumbs pulled the string off of the box without untying it, and she transferred the twine to her mouth while she popped the tinder box open. The battered lid wobbled on a loose hinge as Freya reached her fingers inside of the box. She dug through a curly nest of fragrant wood shavings to grasp a gray lump of flint. Rolling the flint back into the palm of her hand, she lifted out a pinch of the shavings, shaking the excess back into the tinder box.

She arranged the shavings into a neat little pyramid at the crux of two sprigs of straw. A flick of her wrist clapped the lid of her tinderbox shut, and she turned it on edge to strike her flint against steel. Fat orange sparks grated from between her fingertips, showering down onto the dry wood shavings. A few puffs of air from Freya's lips sufficed to make the smoldering sparks catch flame, and she soon had a small fire burning.

Freya stood and watched the fire until she was satisfied that it would continue to burn without her attention. She then picked up a length of ironwood in her right hand while her left dipped down into her coat pocket to carefully fish out the paring knife the innkeeper had traded her. Leaning back, she pressed her haunches and right foot against the tree stump at her back. With the little fire of chocobo dung burning next to her left foot, Freya propped her wooden shaft against her thigh and began to whittle. The pale chips of ironwood showered down into the fire as Freya swiftly carved a rough point on the end of her shaft. When she was satisfied with her work, she put the length of wood aside and picked up a fresh piece. One after the other, she finished carving out three points with the speed and certainty of a practiced hand.

Freya gathered the three lengths of wood together and bent down to hold the palm of her free hand over the guano fire. She only managed a count of two before she had to snatch her hand away from the crackling blue flames. Perfect! It's nice and ready. Pleased, Freya began to hum an old Burmecian carillon tune through her nose as she sat herself down on the ground beside the fire. Stretching a leg out towards her little blaze, Freya propped the three lengths of wood against her tibia, pushing the points of the shafts into the heart of the flame.

This shouldn't take too long, she thought, watching the lengths of ironwood as they gradually began to char. The carpenter certainly turned the wood well. These javelins will be excellent! Now, to think about what I know of the hound that I'm about to face…

It's a preternatural creature, for certain. It may be undead, as well, or it may be a manifestation of pure malignant energy. If it's undead, I can torment it with Reis's Wind while I puncture it with javelins. I can finish it off with a well-charged jump. Minimum of risk. If it's a creature that resists physical blows, I'll have to rely on my other skills. The Dragon's Crest that Sir Fratley taught me may or may not be able to hurt the beast. I could call upon Danos, the Great Father to imbue my javelins with elemental strength, in a pinch. Handling that much power will leave me weak as a baby moogle, however. Last resort. Oh! Time to turn the javelins…there we go! Coming along nicely!

I'm certain that the hound's going to have some nasty magic. I got a little taste of that out in the fields. My best bet it to make my first attacks hit its head and face. I don't want that creature to have a chance to cast anything at all.

I wish I could've made more sense out of that book the Mayor showed me. Of course, every word in it may be utter nonsense. Old books are often filled with misinformation. And who knows if I can even trust the writings of that DeHaye, or DeHalt, or DeWhomever it was. Pfft! Palimpsests…

Javelins are ready!

Pulling her shafts from the fire, Freya rose and resumed her position of leaning against the tree stump. She let the points of her javelins cool until she could handle them, and then she carved away the charred outer shell at their tips. The wood beneath had become dense and incredibly hard from the heating, and Freya's ears perked with satisfaction as she whittled and tested each point against the ball of her thumb. She was surprised when the tip of her third javelin slid straight into her flesh with a soft pop. She hadn't exerted any pressure on the shaft. Shaking her head, she watched as a bead of crimson welled up out of the wound, falling down to bead on the sleek, oily fur of her wrist.

Freya kicked a shower of dirt over the guttering remains of her fire. The wind was starting to pick up as evening approached. She ran the tips of her claws through her fluttering hair, combing it back from her eyes and forehead. Her hands smelled like smoke and ammonia from the guano fire. shouldering her javelins, she turned her face towards the binary moons that were beginning to rise over the black backbone of the Nolrich Heights. Time to get moving! I've a man with a statue to meet in about thirty minutes!

Ten minutes of walking brought her to the edge of the pumpkin field at the edge of town. The evening was becoming cool and crisp as light began to fade from the sky, and the sharp, sour scents of vines mixed with the meaty smell of pumpkins to fill Freya's nostrils. She hadn't seen a single villager during her trek, nor had she heard any sound other than the fluttering canvas of Dali's windmills. The entire village exuded a feeling of tension, as if it were a hunted creature gone to earth and huddling in its den as something hungry and desperate sniffed outside. Freya's nose and ears searched the wind, but she found no trace of anybody being near.

Freya stooped down and rolled a fat pumpkin over onto its side. She smoothed the tail of her coat over her haunches and sat herself down to wait.

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This is the spot that I'm setting aside for discussing the feedback I get from reviewers. I welcome criticism, and I encourage my readers to tell me what I can do to make my stories more entertaining.

Dagas Isa has left a review which mentioned how the style of writing I employ is too formal, almost to the point of being stilted. That's a problem I need to work on! I want to create stories that flow smoothly, with no jarring interruptions caused by unwieldy syntax or archaic forms of expression. To that end, I've gone back and edited this chapter of DYS an extra time, trying to make the story run smoother. I'll give the previous chapter another edit soon, as well. Additionally, I hope to make the dialogue between characters flow more naturally, while still preserving a unique voice for Freya.

I doubt if I'll be able to hit my original target of putting this story to bed by Halloween. I'm working hard on finishing this monster, however, and it will see completion! Thanks again for the help, Dagas. Thanks (or BLAME) should also go out to Eudemic and LancerZero from the RoER Burmy forums!