As it’d turned out, her pallid skin was more of a problem than expected. Stumbling upon a merchant in the night, her corpse-like countenance dimly lit by a fire and the fireflies around them- why, the poor man had screamed so loud that it made birds escape for the skies at about a mile’s radius… And it also scared the living out of her, making her screech like a banshee in turn, and that… Yes, it was a bit of a chain reaction. She’d been lucky the man was traveling alone with his wares.

  Had he employed security, she might’ve ended up skewered by a few crossbow bolts or something even worse. Instead they’d merely screamed at each other until their throats went dry, and then they just stared at each other.

  And eventually they’d spoken. Few words. Assurances that neither meant the other harm. Then profound apologies from both, and that’s how they’d ended up like this: Maia huddled at the opposite end of the fire, chowing down on some of her dried fowl like her life depended on it. She wasn’t out of shape by any means, but it turns out she’d underestimated trekking through the forest.

  The man still eyed her suspiciously, but her gift of delicacies (see: the bird) had pcated him enough. He was a portly fellow, jovial looking even when clearly on guard, bright blonde moustache and beard showing signs of graying alongside his long locks down to the shoulders. He looked fatherly, almost. Like the word father just fit him.

  “Heading for the godsblooded capital, are ye? Good luck with that. You and a thousand other pilgrims.” A bit of the bird’s flesh has stuck to his beard as he speaks. “The Day of Rebirth will be in a few months.”

  The following tilt of her head, akin to an owl, makes the merchant snort derisively. Country bumpkins, he thinks… But that isn’t quite right either. Even the average country hick knows about the Day of Rebirth. He forgets that forest folk can be even more ignorant if left to their own devices.

  “When Life and Death come together at the capital to resurrect a chosen few. Or that’s what they say. It’s all about who can pay the church the most to present the ‘worthy’ to the twin gods. If your poor little son happened to jump down a well by accident and the body’s preserved, you might get lucky… If you’re a noble with a lot of gold.”

  That sounded perverse. Wrong. She didn’t even have to think about it for long, still keeping quiet as she ate. She found it hard to talk to people, used only to her own voice and that of her parents, and they’d been gone for some time.

  “Death is sacred.”

  That’s the phrase she utters, causing the merchant to tilt his own head in return now.

  “Everything’s sacred if you want to think of it like that, young dy. Life, Death, War, Cities, everything’s divine. Name something, it’ll have a god.”

  Her head shakes, “you and I are not gods.”

  “Does that mean we can’t be sacred? We’re all alive, you know. And Life is sacred just as much as death is, so we’re a part of something sacred. Worshipping the gods is all well and good, as any pious man or woman would, but you need to understand that you yourself are a part of it all too…”

  He speaks with a certain experience and gravity that makes her actually consider his words. Maybe he’s a man of the book? That doesn’t make sense, though. He was a merchant, and from what little she’d been taught, priests were generally frowned upon if they practiced any mercantilism while in their office.

  “You speak very authoritatively for a man of coin.” Her words aren’t meant to be accusatory, but she instantly realizes how that might sound. “... Have you studied…?”

  The old man scoffs and nods soon after. “I considered joining the priesthood of the god of Merchants when I was a wee d. Third son of a big family, no other prospects at the family business. Spent a good eight years at the bench of a school before my oldest brother died and the second left for the seas. Hohohoho. That’s how you learn about the sacred nature of Life and Death, my girl, you experience both in their evenhandedness.”

  Maia falls quiet at that. She couldn’t really cim to be experienced at life, so hermit-like as she was, and her experiences with death were also minimal… The world was a wide thing, and she was so thin she couldn’t cover even an inch of the tapestry of it.

  Their conversation dies down from there and into mere chatter, although they both agree to finish their trip together. Come morning, the old man’s already pushing her awake; here she thought she had a rigid schedule! The old timer had apparently woken up a whole two hours before her to douse the remains of the fire, organize his backpack to account for the dried bird she’d gifted him and then he’d even gone ahead and cleaned up the rest of the campsite so it’d look as natural as possible.

  Something about bandits, as he’d muttered. She didn’t pry further. Occasional rumors of woodnd robbers reached her hermitage through the occasional traveler’s tales, but she’d never met them. Why would they bother with her anyway?

  It’s about half a day’s travel for the town at the edge of the forest; or rather one of the many towns. While the forest was huge and thick and rather uninhabited, the edges of it possessed many small hamlets such as this, all entry points to the vast network of roads and less traveled paths snaking through the treeline for the desperate traveler who couldn’t afford the time to circle past it.

  They all have location or direction based names; Eastwood, Gate-Of-South, Southtrade, and so on. Towns of sheer convenience, where poputions are divided between ancient lineages of woodsfolk and merchant families who settle down for some years before moving on. An idyllic lifestyle of farming and sheer convenience, yet quite ephemeral-

  and she sticks out like a sore thumb.the pallid skin *really* is a problem.

  Children stare. One even pointed, the redheaded small thing, and her mother had to drag her away by the shoulder. Adults give her suspicious gnces, whispering to each other about necromancers; apparently those who abuse magic attuned to Death often end up looking simir, but she doesn’t- she hasn’t- yet when she tries to wander off to argue, the old merchant grabs her by the shoulder to keep her walking.

  Even she knows that necromancy isn’t illegal, but it isn’t something you really advertise; raising the dead is a long and arduous process that doesn’t even give good dividends, so there’s no reason to regute it… Yet the mere thought of messing with the cycle of Life and Death makes people anxious, and necromancers all become gangly and pallid from piercing the veil so often.

  So what did that make her, a humble hermit?

  They do not stick together for long. The old man leaves her at the doorstep of the town’s tavern, patting her shoulder a few times. Ask around here, he said, and you will likely find a group heading for the godsblooded capital.

  And that if she ever needed it, she should ask around for friends of one Hermes in the city. And then he left with a wave and a jolly ugh, probably to peddle his goods- the effect of his leaving isn’t quite as striking when she can see him come to a stop like, a five minute walk away at the small market pza. It’s a little hamlet, after all.

  She can feel how out of pce she is even here; just how much will this feeling gnaw at her when she enters the capital? She has some two months and chump change in days… Better just take the plunge.

  The smoky, oily odor of the tavern almost overtakes her the moment she pushes past the door. This isn’t a rge establishment, but it smells like one; a constant smoke hangs in the air coming from the fire pit, and the sickening stench of burnt grease- there’s a spit above the fire with the vague remains of a boar’s ribcage loosely hanging to it, constantly threatening to drop, yet somehow the bones rattle and cling to the spit at just the right angle to never fully dip.

  Those are good bones too. She chews on her bottom lip, resisting the urge to go and ask whether she could collect them for ter or not; Death loves bone effigies, she was told. But Hermes had told her pinly that asking for bones was a bad idea when she’d seen someone chewing on a chicken wing outside.

  Despite his assurances, there was no friendly group of adventurers with a big sign that spelled out “LOOKING TO FERRY WEIRD GIRLS ACROSS THE COUNTRY FOR FREE” or anything like that. Just old local geezers giving her weird gres down in their cups, other merchants that also gave her weird gres, a couple of local guards, also giving her weird gres,

  as it turns out, weird gres were pretty common here. Maybe a local thing. She ends up seating at the counter, the stool underneath her awkwardly small, knees having to kinda buck on top until she practically sits on it like L.

  The only potential guide she could think of is the pair of gruff young men sitting a few stools down from her, chatting with each other. They seem like mercenaries, based on their bdes and armor, so,“Ah… Excuse me…?”

  Her voice has never quite rung meek, but the polite, quiet tone it carries can be read as weakness. So, what she meets is gres instead of helpful smiles as she’d hoped.“What is it, corpse-woman.”

  Corpse-woman?!

  “Aah, I’d… I need to get to the godsblooded capital in time for The Day of Rebirth. I must see Death, I need to talk to…”

  Before she can finish, there’s a barking ughter in response. The two men both shake their heads in unison; now that she’s got an even closer look, they seem to be twins of a kind. Identical, even, except for their different haircuts. One spiky, one long and ft.

  “Godsblooded capital? In two months? Good luck with all the pilgrims clogging the roads. You’d have to go through the Sawbone Range for that, and that’ll get you nipped apart by the harpies and razorboars, hah!”The spiky haired one sps his knee.

  “And even if you make it, seeing Death? Who do you think you are? Life and Death are barely visible to ordinary citizens. Only the godsblooded nobles get to see them, and talking to her? Psh.”The long haired one scoffs at her.

  “Well, I,”

  but when she tries to interject, they just keep going. When not with words, instead with their bodies, smming down their tankards in unison.

  “What do you even want from Death? Are you one of those bum-ass necromancers looking for a patron? Death itself, even? Your kind are always like this. You think raising the dead will be so interesting, or powerful or- whatever- and then you turn into deprecated corpses because you mess with powers that you shouldn’t be messing with.” The long haired one sneers, followed by a verbal punch from the spiky haired one, the twin redheads on perfectly coordinated offense.

  “Or maybe you’re going to be asking her for sweet release? You look like you’re one foot in anyway, so maybe you’re going to find her and throw yourself before her and ask her for it? Bad news, friend. Death doesn't like your kind. Never has, never will. In fact-”

  The reason Maia hasn’t talked back more isn’t just because of the verbal onsught. It’s because she saw the intervention first, and she’s been staring up at it with her jaw sck, eyes wide open. Two hands sp down, one each per shoulder of a twin.

  “In fact what.”

  The voice is gravelly.

  “Go on now. Finish your speech, ds. Don’t mind that I’m here.”

  The man is like earth itself. Tanned brown, hair cut short in a military style, beard outright chiseled onto his wrinkled face, arms the size of tree trunks, shoulders as wide as a door, the sword he carried on his back could barely be called that, it was more like a giant paddle, as tall as he was,

  what-what is this man?

  “Go. On.”

  His grip grows so tight the leather shoulder pad on the long haired brother cracks, and that’s when it begins. The two yell out, rip themselves away (clearly allowed by the giant, if he wanted to, he could grip them forever) before they run right out the door. The tavernkeep shouts after them about their tab.

  The giant sits himself down, needing two stools to sit comfortably, turning around to stare down at her. His form changes instantly, shoulders hunched, face aging almost by ten years, expression lighter, as if just fring up that aura of his took so much power, and he speaks. Kinder. Gentler.

  “... My name’s Homer. What was that about the godsblooded capital, girl? I’m heading there myself. I must meet my grandsire.”

  “Your grandsire…?”

  A man as old as he? Does that mean-

  A rumbling ughter echoes, like he knows the mental question, and he answers it with due haste.“The god of War will be there for the Day of Rebirth, girl, and I need to duel him to the death. I’ll take you with me.”