A tall, gruff man approaches from the ever-distant distance.
His old grumpy head creases bobbing up and down as he draws near on yonk-back.
I smell trouble.
Eventually, after a while, he pulls up next to us and gives us a hard, long stare for two seconds straight.
Unblinking.
"Halt for a sec while I check yer cargo."
He barks the order at us.
"Sir," I reply, "as you can see, cargo is something we are unfortunately lacking in. Make way for us. Please. Help a family in need."
He ignores me and turns to Tim.
"Whose this crook-a-fella? Where's your daddy, boy?"
"Dead," Tim whispers to himself, thumb shaking as he gestures behind him.
The man comes around, sticking his noose in the air, and upon noticing Jimson's body, dismounts from his horse, placing a four-fingered hand on Tim's shoulder.
"I'm sorry kid, but you know the rules. We have to take him from here. Might take a day to get everything ready. If you have any complaints, you know what to do."
Tim silently nods.
"What?" I proclaim.
"You can't just take the boy's father away from him. Who are we to mourn? How are we to recover from this? This is madness. We have to bury him, mourn him, and respect the deceased, not carry them around like they are sacks of rice."
Snorting, the man audibly grumbles.
"He flaps his mouth more than your late father did."
Tim freezes; a twitch cracks his stoic mask — subtle, but I see it.
Bastard. You made my boy sad. I won't let that slide.
Turning back to me, Tim stares. Though no words are exchanged, I can tell he's uncomfortable.
Fine. I'll deal with this petty scum before lunch.
The stranger turns to me, eyes flat.
He steps closer, rests his discolored, mottled arm on Samuel, squinting with long eyelashes, and says,
"We have our ways. A prune like you shouldn't talk to us like we don't know what we're doing. We've lived in the unlivable, you catch my drift? I'll be kind and explain how things work here — that's your last warning, champ."
This dude just called me champ. That's actual disrespect where I come from.
I lean over and respond.
"Okay, explain it to me then. Why do you stand there after we've been traveling for six hours—emotionally and physically devastated by the death of our friend and father? Explain why you get to grave-rob and swindle us of our last moments of grief for your own personal benefit. Huh?"
I jabber my finger into his face.
"Ratatata — Negligent Infliction of Emotional Distress! Papapapa — damages and compensation for psychological harm!"
Then I throw my tactical nuke:
"Disorderly conduct — invoking age-related infirmity to mitigate culpability!"
He blinks.
But I don't care.
Won't make me stop.
I continue unloading my barrage of legal jargon and rhetoric — a most righteous tantrum indeed, pinning him inside my most belligerent portrayal of his guilty and unconscionable self.
I persisted for a while.
But when I finally stop, I smile to myself — slowly, yet immensely satisfied.
Boy, does it feel good to let off steam in the pursuit of justice.
Everything had got me pent up for a little while now.
I slide my hands into my mangy pockets, breathing, and letting the last of my rage uncurl.
He just stares.
Veins bulge across his balding scalp.
His head twitches as if trying to hold back a volcano.
Then he starts mouthing words, lips chewing and swallowing down all potential words of retaliation — too lost, too confused to even speak further in my presence.
Go back to the psychiatric care unit, and stop bothering us with your problems... buster.
I idly scratch at my itchy balls, half-bored, half-amused, but sitting confidently on my throne.
I watch him in bemusement, already likening his seething visage to a kettle that's too stupid to whistle.
I already made him my bitch, and now I'm simply savoring my victory.
Slowly, he gets up, tripping over his boots.
He leans forward, spitting bile into the dirt — a sickly lullaby of bodily heaves serenades us over the grassy greens.
When he concludes the show, he wipes his mouth with a tattered napkin, muttering about having a killer headache.
As if that makes you any less of a loser, dude.
"You…" he speaks at last. "I don't like you very much. But I'll try to stay as professional as possible. Rules are rules. You'll need a permit for that body, and until it's processed, it stays with us."
"Permit… for a body? Tell me, what is your name?"
"You don't need to know that. Now please, I'm just attempting to do my job here, don't push it."
"Oh, I will need to know. You and I have a disagreement here. I won't stand for your audacity. Just wait until your boss hears how you wronged Tim. Shameful. I bet you don't even have kids — you wouldn't understand."
His face twists.
Before he can answer, another voice calls out:
"Zeke!"
A clear tone projects from the distance.
"His name's Zeke, he's the only watcher here. Suspicion's his job. Though that doesn't excuse him and his actions, I hope you can find understanding in your heart. I apologize for his rudeness to you and to Timothy. He didn't mean any harm. He doesn't have to work but insists on doing it, all for our safety."
The man draped in clerical finery rides closer with a open gesture and azure eyes.
"And Zeke, this man couldn't have known about your condition; he's never met you. How could he know something so… personal?"
His words are soft but precise.
Zeke looks down, embarrassed, fingers twitching.
"Don't worry," the priest continues. "It's not that bad. Most men your age have that happen — they just don't talk about it. We're proud of your bravery."
He dismounts, gives Zeke a firm hug and a pat on his shoulder.
"Here, let me deal with this. You can head back and have a break for today — you've earned it."
The father whispers in his ear and pats his bald head.
Fuck, now I just feel guilty.
"Ah, I see. Right, I didn't—" I start, but the priest interjects gently:
"It doesn't matter now. What's said is done. Forgiveness is the way, my child — that's the best path forward. Shake hands and call it a day."
Zeke shuffles forward, extending his hand.
I take it — it turns into a clammy and awkward persisting shake.
"One second."
"Two seconds."
Zeke mouths under silent breath, mumbling a half-apology, and then waddles away.
"Hey, Zeke, that was really mature," the priest calls. "Proud of you, buddy — see you during our next confessional."
Zeke nods, mounts his beast, and then rides off.
"Sorry," the priest says, turning to me. "I don't think I introduced myself. Father Jiord. I'm the community leader and counselor here. If you have questions, ask me — I'm happy to help. Let's head toward your home, shall we?"
He mounts up and leads the way.
"It's been a while since he got that angry. You must have a certain way with words," he quips.
"Well, the rules just seemed too absurd," I reply.
"Hah, tell me about it. I agree. But we don't very well make them do we. The whole area's under quarantine — stricter than ever."
He talks like a man who enjoys hearing his own echo.
No, everyone doesn't play with their own echo, and I'm not just finding any qualm about him because he tried to portray me like an immature child earlier.
"What happened?" I ask, curiosity cutting through my irritation.
"You must not be from around here. Fifty years ago, a sickness ravaged the ascenders. No one was safe — except the morts, of course. The higher-ups at the Heavenly Sky Palace panicked. Couldn't find the cause, but they blamed these very lands here."
He pauses.
"Some said it was a ceremonial curse from the Cult of Bloodborne Ascendancy. Old magic. They supposidly used beast cores from prowlers here to catalyse it. Dangerous, rare things."
He continues, voice low and reverent:
"These lands, they absorb mana — even the beasts here adapted, taking in that ungodly property. That's why they call it the 'dead-lands.' Not from description, but from sheer terror."
"What were the patients symptoms?" I ask.
"A crumbling of spiritual development. Regression of mana cores and pathways. Whatever it was — vicious. I even got it. Ruined my life. That's why I'm here, trying to start again."
"Well, that's bloody awful innit. But why keep the body? Why operate here?"
He pauses for a moment, eyes suddenly appearing emaciated as he thinks deeply.
Noticing my sudden look of concern, his face lights up, and he continues.
"To check if it's contagious, of course. If so, we burn it... stopping the spread. Dead bodies pollute the air with their bad mana. It's a long-standing arrangement. We burn about three hundred tonnes of corpses a year — all from the constant battles at the northern borders. It's hard, but necessary."
"But why here?" I press.
"If it happens here, the infection doesn't infest the other three regions. Scholars also say this land absorbs the bad mana too — so we use it."
"And what about the war in the north?"
"It's been quiet lately," he says. "The caravans of corpses are shrinking each year, but something just tells me this is the eye before the storm — those demons."
"Surely they investigated it?"
"If so, they've kept it quiet. Makes sense. If black magic's involved secrecy is urgent. I'm just grateful they finally let the board handle it. Deferring jurisdiction to the board happened not even five years ago — to save face, who could guess. We just follow their orders now."
"So, who comes here?"
"Rarely anyone. Sometimes exiles, crippled ascenders, refugees. We take them in — one big family."
He smiles.
"Say, do you want to join us? I don't even know your name."
"Ugh, sorry. Desmond. My name's Desmond."
"Well Desmond, welcome to Settler's Camp."
He gestures outwards as if revealing the scene himself.
Turning the corner around the mountainous ramp, there it is — a bustling sprawl of open land that lies ahead, filled with yurts, foot traffic, and pop-up stalls grilling meat over open fires.
In the center protrudes a large, old timbered cathedral; towering and imperial above the scattered bustling chaos of mundane life.
What's that?"
"Ahh, that's the community and prayer hall," Jiord replies. "It's where we manage all the town's logistics and administration."
"And that?" I point to a smaller but sizable block of compact buildings.
"The storehouses — for the food, resources, and salt."
"Salt? You have salt?" My hands clasp each other and my fingers begin twiddling in excitement.
"Ah, you've heard of it I see. Those little white rock clumps that keep meat from spoiling also add a flavour that is simply sublime."
He points toward the canyon's rim.
"See those two canyons — three, if you count the one you came from? Look closer."
I squint. "I can't see anything, just a bit of sun and sparkle."
"Yes, that's it. The light — that's where the salt forms around the rocks looking like glassy piles. If you look even closer, you'll even see the town's miners harvesting them. Scarce almost everywhere else — but we're lucky here. They provide us with a good income to run things tight. Anything else you're curious about?"
As we ride along the main path deep in discussion, the topic changes almost as rapidly as my questions regarding culture, daily life, food, and activities.
Throughout the campgrounds, various townsfolk stream along haphazardly, floating towards us as they gather — sometimes by themselves, other times in small collected groups — all greeting Jiord with nods, half-smiles, and wavey motions.
After a while, we ride past the last cluster of tents and accommodations into the quieter, more spacious outskirts.
"So, how come the prowlers don't come here?" I query.
"Great question. I wondered about that myself when I first arrived."
He adjusts his reins and clears his throat.
"The reason is mana. The dead lands out there are barren because of stagnant mana concentration, as I said, but here's the strange thing — it's like something sucks it straight out of the air. Mana doesn't just fade; the land actively removes it — or so I heard before. Those beasts can't survive long in mana-dense areas, so they avoid them. But what's even more mysterious is that it seems mana is one of the things they like most in their diet."
"..."
My head tilts forward, protruding my chin out before it clicks back into place.
"That's surprising!"
"Incredibly so, but this area is safe for us to inhabit — that I guarantee. Those canyons leading here, you probably noticed it when you were there. Having more life inside than out. That's because mana slowly seeps back in; it takes the entire distance to adjust. Plenty of stories about folk going crazy from mana deviation — one of the many reasons why no one wants this job."
He sighs to himself and leans back, crossing his arms for a moment as if in reminiscence. Then he resumes:
"Anyway, it all converges here, at the heart of the valley. I don't know why, but this mountain became our home because of it — Mount Trenchlaw. Such a place, it is our home now, and I hope it will soon become yours too."
He chuckles to himself.
"We need all the hands we can get."
Our pace stops, standing before a lonely yurt flapping in the wind.
Tim is the first to dismount, followed by Jiord, then me.
We all tie our leashes to a wooden stake before continuing.
"Here's your stop. Say, Desmond — you want to be Timothie's new guardian, right?" he says, wrapping up the last hitch knot on his yonk.
"Yeah. Jimson asked me to do it, and I owed him my life so…"
"He was that kind of person, wasn't he? And just to check, Tim, you agree with this arrangement too?"
His soft gaze lingers as he squats down next to him.
Tim nods silently, then speaks.
"He's my only family I have now!"
"Good lad. Then follow the rules and all will be fine."
Pausing for a second he asks.
"Is this the body here... hey Jimson we'll miss you, have a good time in the afterlife huh"
He reaches from his bag and pulls out a majestic blue top-hat, placing it firmly to his chest for a moment, and closes his eyes.
"..."
"..."
"Amen", he places the hat on his head, and continues talking.
"I'll take it and prepare it for the funeral tomorrow, don't you two worry about a thing"
"Say, Desmond — we have an old tradition here of taking down the houses of our deceased. Sounds like something you two might consider doing for the rest of the day, to settle in and bond before the grand Farewell tomorrow."
I slowly nod at his words.
"Well, I must be heading off for now. Good day to you two, and may the lord bless you."
He touches his two shoulders, then kisses his hand before riding away with the body in tow.
"Treat them both with care," I call out.
He waves dismissively as he finally rides off into town, leaving the two of us behind.
I watch as Jimson's dry body shrinks into the distance, a weight I didn't know I had, was carried leaving with it.
Then something jumps at my waist, breaking my thoughts.
I look down.
Oh look at you, managing to sneak up on me without me noticing. Little scuttler.
"Thanks for that. I really needed it," he speaks directly into my chest, sinking further into my embrace.
"It's alright, we're family now. Nothing wrong with wanting a moment to settle personal grievances."
I pat the back of his head.
"Say, what's with this tradition?" I ask.
His head unsticks from my body as he speaks up at me.
"This yurt — me and my dad built it when we first arrived here. What happens is when someone dies, their family takes down what they built with their loved one, then they rebuild it in the image they remember — something about remembrance of the moments they shared inside it or something."
I ruffle his hair.
"Think you can handle it, or you need some help from big papa?"
He looks up to me, snarling his nose.
"Yeah, big muscles man — like I need your twig arms for help."
He then springs forward, pulling at my hand, dragging me forward until he stops before the entrance.
This is it
Your home.
I know I can't replace what you had Jim, but I will try my best. Thank you for letting me be apart of this.
Tim stands there for a few moments, still and solemn.
Finally, he looks away from the house, back at me.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready!" he responds, lifting both his arms up at me.
I pick him up and carry him on my shoulders.
Then gradually, piece by piece, we disassemble this memory in stunned silence.
Not because we were too sad to speak — moreso that there were no words in that moment between us that were ever needed.
Maybe it was our unspoken presence, or our shared goal toward completing the task before us.
Either way, we indulged and shared that very moment between us like cherished siblings — removing the covering, the frame, and finally the door.
After a few long hours, we finish, reassembling everything neatly into a firmly standing structure.
Our bodies collapse, unwinding onto the open field of leafed clovers as they dance to the tune of the whistling winds.
Laying next to each other, we breathe in the earthy and sweaty musk, staring at each other, sharing a mischievous grin.
"Boy, don't you stink too much," I joke.
"Not as much as you. You've always smelled funny since the moment we met," he retorts.
"You're saying what now, lying little piglet."
"Yeah. Call it my kindness — a thank-you gift for standing up for me before, and helping me now."
"Damn, I really need to teach you better manners." I scratch my buttocks.
"I think I already have better ones than you could ever possibly have." He giggles.
"Oi, watch your tongue." I give my most stern voice.
"Why? You can see it just fine." He sticks it out and waggles it at me provocatively.
"You little—"
I grab his boot, ready to remove it to tickle his foot, but the second I move it, the stench hits me like a speeding rock.
"Pwooh! I guess we both stink like hell."
"Haha! That's what you get, loser."
"Fine, I'll take this defeat with humility."
I capitulate, laying my head over my folded arms in loafing comfort.
"Not likely. You'll larp on about it as much as your so-called 'emotional damages,' whatever that is."
"Hey, I was standing up for you!" I raise my voice.
"The only one standing up here is me."
He hops to his feet, looming over me.
"And that was really embarrassing. You should be ashamed of yourself. I think you even made poor old Zeke cry."
His straight face breaks at that, and we share another round of rapturous laughs that drag out for longer than I'll ever care to admit.
Reigning back my breath, I lie backward, staring up at the afternoon sky.
My voice hums to itself in awed appreciation.
"Don't you think it's just so captivating?" I idly muse in my deepest voice.
"It's just a sky. Why look there, when we have the whole world around us constantly moving and changing? You look at the one thing that never changes, old smelly… fuck."
Testing the waters — that won't fly by me, boh.
"Hey, only I'm allowed to say that. That's my privilege. Do as I say, not as I do, twerp."
"Oh yeah? That doesn't even make any sense. Shit, fuck, shit, ass, fart, yonk."
He continues, rattling off all the well-oiled words in his arsenal in a mocking yet imitative high-pitched tone of my argument before.
"Enough!" I wag my finger at him.
"So you're ready now? Come on, the bath is this way, Dezzy-dude."
He clicks his tongue, clapping at me like I'm his pet, beginning to walk off as I stay put, continuing to snooze around.
"Ugh, you really know how to be boring."
He groans as he walks back.
Grabbing at my thigh, he attempts to drag me along with all the force he can muster.
My neck bumps against the coarse rocks as I get to enjoy the show — only for a moment though, before he stumbles back, unable to lift over my immense newly gained dad-weight, the final step in my paternal transformation.
"Looks like I won this round."
I gloat at him in gleeful condescension, looking right back at him.
"Oh yeah? I've got a secret weapon too."
"What is it?" I raise my brows in anticipation.
"You don't even want to know. Even my father hated it."
I keep staring at him, giving him my most childish facial gestures I can think of, proceeding to urge him on.
Go on, my boy. There's nothing you can do to move me.
This is my newly acquired dad energy.
"Bet!"
He turns and gallivants away from me in sluggish but dramatic motion, building up anticipation with his half-assed performance of deliberate movements.
What's this little goober planning?
When he is around five meters away from me, he turns back — a devilish smile now possessing his once-innocent face — sprinting toward me in run-up for...
Jump?!
Oh hell nah, please don't do what I'm thinking you're planning on.
I regret it already, just please not my gut.
Beer gut activation.
I tense my stomach inward, and hold.
Thump…
OOOOOOAAAAAHHH!
The air rushes out of my mouth, yelping as his knees land, sticking into my now-swollen gut.
Before I could even react, his anus then tears the foulest and loudest fart known to mankind.
The disaster occurs so close in proximity that when it blows, I can feel its shock-wave reverberate through my bones. My face twists in disgust, aerated by the continuous breeze that still manages to blow at my hair five seconds after the occurrence — then a stench wafts into my nosal cavity causing it to bleed profusely.
And what is it that's in my view, but that same haunting, devilish smile as it begins to climb up and across my body, slithering away at dizzying speed, fully aware of its own deeds.
Guilty.
Cackling and shrieking he books it from me — dodging, weaving, and evading every vain attempt of mine to grasp him once more.
What a magnificent little shit.
Is this what fatherhood is like? It already sucks ass.
Why did all the men I knew who were dads have a beer gut, but now I'm officially a father and don't get that superpower?
This is unfair.
I don't have enough protection on me to deal with this child.
I limber to my feet, ready to give chase.
Verbally chastising, "The sheer audacity!" of his actions.
"It's just a fart! What's there to be ashamed about?" he calls out from a distance, running circles around me.
"Oh, you shit with that ass, boy? I'll make you lick it up if you do that again!"
I begin to follow.
"Ha! You can smell more of it if you want when you try to catch up with me!"
It doesn't even last for thirty seconds before I stop, gasping, wiping at my bloody nose.
"You wouldn't dare!" I breathe toward him.
Grinning over his shoulder, he looks back at me.
"Then it seems like I won again! You'll never catch me — not even in a thousand years!" he yells back.
I begin to shake, and scrunch my face up.
What was first a feral and wild look on his face is now covered in concern as he hesitantly approaches me.
"Wait, are you ok?" He gulps some air, pupils widening at me.
I tumble to the ground.
"Wait, I didn't mean anything, just—here."
He runs back, offering me his hand, and I slowly grasp it.
Yank.
I pull him back into my grasp.
"Mwahahahaha, you are now my prey. I'm going to eat you, my little blow-fly."
I sing in an acute melody.
My fingers slide in, finding that one especially ticklish special spot under his arms, then I unleash a controlled shock.
Zapping him until he squeals like a newborn pig.
After this and the various proceeding rounds of melee, a victor was yet to be decided, so settling for a tie, we lay here, piled-up, and smooshed on top of each other. Lazy.
The sun has now turned into a soft tangerine glow of evening, as we slowly pick ourselves up, clean off the debris and at long last start to shuffle toward the distant silhouette of the long-promised bath-house.