Poisonous Fox

As we traveled, Sir Kate featured prominently in my thoughts. Or rather, she interjected herself frequently. I had learned from the Kaivan that it was she who had insisted upon healing me when I had been brought in. It was also Kate that had found me where I had collapsed. And once again, it was Kate who had argued against a summary execution for ‘safety’ and ‘peace of mind.’

It would not be inaccurate to claim that I owed her my life several times over.

When the Kaivan told me, there had been a certain unspoken, almost imperceptible expectation. I could not even accurately define the weight, but it was there nonetheless. The way Kissen tousled my hair, and the way that Larissen kept an emotional divide between him and I, which stood in stark contrast to his sister’s mannerisms, it all added up to imply they thought I had mixed loyalties.

As though saving my life left Kate entitled to my loyalty.

A laughable idea.

However, I could not exactly state that. If the Kaivan expected me to be honor bound to serve Kate, or something else ridiculous along those lines, then they would likely consider me honorless when I told them I felt otherwise. And if they considered me an aberration in regards to their societal norms and values, then we would be in the exact same place, or perhaps worse. At least this way, their false expectations came with a dash of empathy.

But speaking of Kate. The tincture or tonic or such, however the locals termed their medicine, had been remarkable. Just think, a drink that could heal gangrenous and rotten wounds, wounds that would ordinarily force amputation or excisement.

This world truly contained some remarkable feats, and I felt an urge to understand more. If I had been capable of such magics in my previous life, I was certain things would have been different. Not that I remembered much–no, I refused to.

Though there were still quite a few jarring elements: blatant slavery, a mixed tech-base, and large stretches of apparently apocalyptic wastelands. Out of those three, while it was the slavery that currently affected me the most, I was only ever in that situation because of the shattered wasteland, and I could have likely avoided the worst of the slavery if not for the strange technology, or rather, artificery, of this world.

I found myself tugging at the collar again. My grip felt weak, and I could barely squeeze a finger between my flesh and the metal. I had long since given up finding the hinge, and the locking mechanism appeared a thin divot no wider than a needle. Even with my lockpicks, I was unsure I could open it. No, that was bravado. I knew I could not open it. To do so required a special artificed key. And I had no idea where that key resided.

My nail scraped across the metal, failing to leave so much as a mark. The material seemed impervious against most forms of damage. If only I had received a Talent for breaking collars. Not that I was certain that Talent would work, as everything else I had received from these tattoos had retreated.

No longer had I a magical way to climb. I doubted I could avoid leaving a scent trail. And how could I begin to Evade anything? Of course, my Illusions failed to form. And even my mind felt sluggish. I hungered and thirsted more often than not. And I found myself in a constant state of weariness.

While not all of the weakness had to be attributed to the collar, since I was recovering from what should have been mortal wounds, the collar was a convenient target. And so, I focused on trying to remove it. To no degree of success.

My latest attempt, I had pried a nail up from the bed of the wagon. With the nail firmly gripped in hand, I began running the edge across the metal, pressing lightly, with my thumb following after to check the progress.

So far, even the iron nail failed to leave a mark.

But even a river could erode stone, given enough time.

I made another pass, keeping the edge in line with where I thought the previous pass had been. And then another.

-thwick-thwick-thwick-

The nail scraped continuously, picking up speed as I adapted to the motion.

“This will not work,” Larissen said, scoffing at my attempts, and turning an irritated ear towards the scraping sound.

I ignored the comment, except to continue scraping the nail across the collar.

-thwick-thwick-thwick-

Larissen’s ears twitched with each motion. I thought that I might have felt a groove.

“Let the Kitten try,” Kissen said. “Perhaps luck will favor her.”

-thwick-thwick-thwick-

“This will not happen,” Larissen said.

-thwick-thwick-thwick-

“And all this does is irritate ears and inflame the Qari.”

-thwick-thwick-thwick-

I ran my thumb nail over the surface of the collar. There was definitely a mark where I had been scraping, but it felt odd, different than I had been expecting.

“And are any furless near?” Kissen asked in that lilting melody. “And can the furless hear over the din of travel?” Kissen was referring to the roll of the wheels on the road, the vibrations of the cart, and the frequent shouts and loud conversations between the drivers. She had a point.

Larissen growled in irritation, “Like claws on dry slate.”

“Not that bad, dear brother,” Kissen said, chuffing.

I kept feeling at the mark. It was faint, almost imperceptible. But something about it was just… off. It took a moment for me to understand what I was feeling.

I scratched at the mark a bit more.

The mark fell off, pulling away from the collar. A wave of unease hit me. An indent should not have done that.

“Kitten?” Kissen asked, seemingly sensing my distress.

But I could not be bothered to listen to her. I had to make sure, to verify, to confirm, that the impossibility was real.

I passed the pad of my thumb back over the spot. It was completely smooth. A horrific realization was dawning upon me: the collar had not been wearing down, but instead, the nail had been rubbing off and accumulating on the material.

That should not have happened.

A brief panicked thought assaulted me, the fear that I would never remove the collar.

“Kitten, breathe,” Kissen chided. “This is not so harsh as to kill. Patience and breath.”

It was not until I felt her running her claws across the back of my nape, above the collar, at the base of my skull, that I snapped free from the downward spiral. Kissen was right. While I still breathed, there was hope. I had the skills. I just needed the opportunity to lift the key. I also needed to understand.

“How?” I asked. “How can the material be so resilient?”

Kissen’s throat rumbled but it was Larissen that answered. “The Qari do as they do; digging and plundering living metals. These metals carry a fragment of spirit. Resilient is a good term. Cursed is better.”

Oh. It sounded potentially that more mysticism and spirituality were involved in the explanation. In a way, it made sense that uneducated primitives would default to that nature of explanation. However it left much to be desired. And I could not exactly push for details without coming across as irreverent.

“Where do the living metals come from?” I asked.

“The Folde,” Larissen said blandly.

I was unsure what that term meant. Seeing my confusion, Kissen clarified, “The ground. My brother makes a joke. A poor attempt.”

He chuffed but offered no further explanation, seemingly content to watch the bleak world pass us by. After some time, he saw me watching out the same side, watching the broken rocks and the lifeless terrain. He waved a hand out, “This is the result. Take, take, take, never give. That is the Qari way.” He spat.

Interesting. An ecological disaster that humans were at fault for? Not an unheard of concept. Though I would not expect the uneducated to arrive at the conclusion correctly. But perhaps the idea had merit. As far as improper assumptions went, however, I had made a few regarding the Kaiva. I decided to rectify them by learning more.

“What of your people?” I asked. “The Kaiva?”

“What of us?” Larissen asked brusquely.

“The kitten merely wishes to learn of her people that the humans wrongly denied her. Be nice, brother.”

“Hm,” was Larissen’s response. He made his meaning clear. He would not answer, but nor would he obstruct.

“What would the kitten wish to know?” Kissen asked.

“Everything,” I said.

Kissen chuffed. “Anything first?” she asked, amused.

I thought about it for a moment, watching the bleak landscape roll by. “Are there really jungles out there?”

“Yes. Oh yes. As big as mountains.”