Honest John fled to the south, and Jelena and Calaf’s group followed.

  They were headed that way already. It just made sense to explore the trail of their rival brigand. Six sets of dire-horse hoof prints proved easy enough to track along the sands.

  “Could use some dire-horses,” Zilara said. “Would cut every trip in half.”

  They still had the immaculate conception tent, its latent effects too valuable to pawn off. Enkidu had hassled that attendant until he got their helmet relic back. Still, their payoff eluded them. They had plenty of generic ‘Camp’ items to use in the meantime, still, the tent-relic languished in Calaf’s inventory where it would remain indefinitely.

  “No matter,” Jelena said with her usual Pollyanna-esque nonchalance. “One more heist, then we’ll sell the haul at the next market.”

  There wasn’t going to be another market here in the desert ruins. Smoke billowed out of ventilation shafts, rising far into the air. The columns would be visible region-wide. The Firefield cathedral would send scouting parties to investigate by evening. Already, the less-than-legal merchants and shoppers were scattering to the winds.

  “He got away again,” Calaf said with a scowl.

  “I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of him.” Zilara whistled, looking south.

  Jelena put a hand on Calaf’s shoulder pauldron.

  “We’ll get him next time. You can, ah, bring him to justice, Hot Shot.”

  Sand whipped up by a great breeze moved perpendicular to the group, east to west. An incoming dust storm would kill their visibility.

  “I don’t want to bring him to justice.” The Squire balled his gauntlets into tight fists. “If we catch him again I’m killing him dead. Before he has a chance to scam even a single piece of gold off some unsuspecting rube. I want to tear off the other half of his face and then watch his HP tick down digit by digit as I strangle him.”

  Calaf turned to the group, teeth bared, breathing deeply. Jelena gazed at him with an astonished, I’m-getting-laid-like-never-before-later-tonight expression.

  “Bookmark that Berserker ability ‘till we catch up to him, honey,” she said. “Might need it.”

  “Yeah.” Zilara nodded. “You’re getting Hoss hot and bothered.”

  Jelena shushed her.

  “Let’s just…” Calaf turned again. “Let’s just go.”

  The trail ahead beckoned, enticing them to follow the madman even as a great billowing sandstorm rose in the east, over Firefield.

  The party weathered a dust storm through the night with a generic one-use Camp item. Jelena was indeed laid like never before. The once-virginal, once-chaste Calaf’s vented frustrations turned even the hardened and experienced former brothel worker into a moaning puddle of flan. The thunderous fury of the sandstorm mercifully protected Zilara’s sensitive and innocent ears two tents over.

  By morning, the fire pit was half-buried in sand. Destressed and refocused, the group continued their trek south.

  Sandstorms masked most forms of tracks. But there was a thin, muted band of footsteps over the next dune. No others could have passed them in the storm, so the identity of these phantom tracks was obvious enough. Honest John was heading for the river Delta, where his trail would rapidly sink into the swampy environs.

  Along the way, the group passed myriad ruins unearthed by the shifting sands. They clustered up, old towns based along dried-up watering holes and ancient, dead riverbeds. There’d been roads here, long ago, alongside all the trappings of civilization.

  The ground grew rockier. This topography was not unlike that of Japella, and Jelena led the group through ravines and natural valleys.

  By noon the party happened upon a loose convoy of merchants, guards, and a long tail of hangers-on milling about, having traveled from back around the bazaar.

  “Uh, who goes there?” Jelena asked in a mock authoritative tone.

  “We represent a group of traders and customers scammed by that damn curator,” said the lead merchant, a bearded fellow the Menu dubbed ‘Bartholomew.’

  Bart was a midlevel merchant type with a Scout class – pretty common for those who hawk wares. The natural Charisma of the class was said to help with bartering with unaware patrons, though Calaf had never seen this play out.

  “What a coincidence,” Jelena said. “One of our number has a bone to pick with Honest John, too.”

  The caravan was maybe 40% Branded, 60% unconverted. Underground markets like the one they’d set ablaze yesterday catered to foreigners to these lands. Otherwise, those not of the Menu were often frozen out of many church-based economic measures.

  Onward the newly formed party of parties marched, south in search of their mutual scammer’s last known location.

  Green gradually poked out from rocky fissures. Plants, granted life by the increasing rainfall closer to the delta, took purchase in the ground. This slow transformation from barren desert to fertile forest was arrested as the parties entered a greying, withered valley.

  A pit sat in the middle of this depression surrounded by wilted and dead leaves drooping into a viscous pit.

  “A dead carnivorous trapdoor antlion tree.” Jelena nodded at the pool. “Acid could still gather at the bottom. Watch your step.”

  Death seemed to radiate out of the plant, killing everything from this epicenter to the lip of the nearby hills. None wanted to venture near it, so a few of the more enterprising merchants attempted to shimmy around the side of the ridge in search of an alternate path.

  Honest John’s footprints circled around for a time before venturing in three separate directions. The most obvious tracks skirted the pit then traveled southbound.

  Footprints. Calaf knelt to examine the tracks. Footprints. Something isn’t right. It’s too… obvious.

  In the center of the viscous acid pool sat a strange anomaly. It was a thick film like an eggshell, but far larger than any human. Even dire-cassowaries didn’t lay eggs so massive.

  “Huh. Antlion plant must have bitten off more than it could chew,” said that lead merchant, Bartholomew.

  Indeed, the most obvious theory was that this pitcher plant caught and then attempted to digest this hulking egg. Only, the egg proved too big and hard-shelled for the plant’s digestive acids. The trapdoor antlion tree shriveled and died in its rooted ambush position. What was most impressive was that the egg, or perhaps chrysalis, had survived to hatch later. The massive beast within was nowhere to be seen. Calaf hoped they did not encounter the creature.

  Unprompted, one of the merchants started humming a quiet, looping tune. It made it hard to think – harder still when two more merchants joined in.

  Twisting, hexagonal items at odds with the natural environment hung along the slope around this withered carnivorous plant and the half-shell.

  “Pandemonium Wisps,” Zilara said. “Lots of them.”

  “Well, hot damn,” said that Bartholomew fellow. “Heard about these on the pilgrimage circuit when I was a lad. Never seen one in real life.”

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  Branded marveled at this field of wisps; one could live a fulfilling, adventurous life without ever encountering an artifact of the System like this. And here, there were dozens, each a cornucopia of experience points caused by mass mob-casualty events.

  “May I?” Zilara motioned to the nearest wisp.

  Jelena shrugged. “Be our guest.”

  Other unbranded wondered what the hoopla was about. A few who phased through the artifacts felt a slight chill, but little else. Further in the back, a few stragglers yawned.

  Calaf let Zilara scoop up a handful of wisps. He gave her his share, hoping not to hog too many in front of their new guests. They were helping to power-level the holy child’s unique class. She swore she could unlock a way of teleporting people at will around level fifty-two or so. As of now…

  Level up! Level up!

  Another impressive set of stat distributions. Zilara leveled up with surprisingly even attribute bonuses each time. And multiple level-ups at once meant compounding +2s.

  Some of those impromptu scouts found a solid footpath along the edge of this death pit. The merchant convoy started to follow along the raised, winding path. There were some in the back who stayed behind, swaying slightly. That tune grew louder, whistled by another traveler or two as they walked past Calaf. Even Zilara caught the musical bug.

  “Any idea what that thing is?” Jelena asked Enkidu, pointedly pointing at another bit of teal eggshell that had landed on the far end of the valley.

  The mountainous wild-man’s ears twitched, nigh-imperceptibly. “Something… familiar. We shouldn’t stay here.”

  The party continued onward to the edge of the delta region, where Honest John’s trail abruptly vanished. No matter, for night was fast approaching. The mixed group all camped out amidst a natural grove. Some merchants, not expecting to off-road it on such short notice, didn’t have proper camping supplies. Calaf provided three extra Camp items from the posse’s stash. It was a minor expense.

  “We should keep going,” Enkidu said even as the tents assembled themselves. “Leave the others if needed.”

  “Relax,” Jelena said in a sing-song voice. “It’s the Delta. Nothing’s at-level to hurt us.”

  Calaf looked around the camp at the dozens of merchants all out to get a kinetic refund from Honest John. It would be hard for a conman of that caliber and scale to escape comeuppance for long. But he’d already set half the continent on fire with his machinations a year back and was still kicking.

  There was that sound again. A low, buzzing, white noise accentuated the absent-minded hums of their campmates. It made it hard to think about further revenge fantasies.

  ”Do you hear that?” Calaf asked.

  Jelena did not respond at first, merely humming a tune.

  “Sorry. What was that?”

  ”Never mind…”

  The river delta was free of carnivorous plants and positively idyllic compared to the desert. They ought to be safe here, everyone aside from Enkidu agreed. Camp was placed beside a shallow lake. With rations roasting on a campfire, Jelena and Calaf walked down a narrow stream and found a waterfall cascading off a short, natural outcropping. Away from the hustle of the merchants and well out of sight of anyone.

  Secluded from the tents and fires by a thick screen of plant life, the pair showered. Calaf unequipped his armor, then unequipped his plain civilian traveling clothes. Unblessed/unburdened by the Menu and its Interface, Jelena slipped out of her boots, untied her bodice, and slipped her pants and shirt off. Her eyepatch was the last to go, revealing that Scoured, milky Brand on her left eye that no longer connected her to the Menu.

  The waterfall covered just enough space for two. Jelena let the water cascade over her hair.

  “Mmm. It’s been far too long since we visited the hot springs.”

  Calaf nodded, summoning forth some Scented Gel of Shampooing (x1) via Inventory. The master thief/Calaf’s lover had exacting hair care standards, and Calaf followed her instructions dutifully. The gel caused her hair to cling tight and clump up. With proper drying and detangling, it would regain a volumetric frizz by tomorrow morning.

  For a further bonus, that constant cascade overwhelmed that buzzing white noise he’d noticed since the antlion pit. This campsite was getting better and better.

  “Thanks for carrying all this around for me, dear,” Jelena said, leaning back into his touch.

  “It’s nothing,” he responded.

  Each lather, towel, and bonnet took up barely a single space in Calaf’s inventory. Carrying it around was barely an inconvenience.

  The sun dipped below the rocky outcropping. A crimson sunset was refracted in the falling water, bathing the pair in kaleidoscope hues.

  Jelena turned, utterly exposed to the Squire.

  “Y’know, after last night I’m surprised I can still walk.” She grinned.

  Calaf got to work lathering up Jelena’s chest, eliciting a soft hum from the relic thief. It was a strangely familiar tune.

  “That song…” Jelena’s brow furrowed.

  No matter, Calaf soon found his face pressed into Jelena’s neck. She pressed herself up against him. Soon a leg shot up straddling his thigh, which he caught with his arm. The pair continued where they’d left off last night, more tender and less stressed this time.

  Falling water covered the pair, shielding them and accentuating a pleasant warm sensation to the couple’s lovemaking.

  Much later, the pair retired to their tent to sleep together less euphemistically. A few merchants were in a tizzy; some of their number had gone missing since that brief stop at the Pandemonium Wisp valley. Still, they were likely just stragglers, and no rescue parties were sent out yet. A few night guards were set, but both Calaf and even Zilara were high enough level to dissuade any delta dire-beasts from investigating in search of a snack.

  The fires were left to wind themselves down, as Camp items were wont to do.

  Hours passed. Calaf still could not sleep, even with Jelena for company. A constant swishing of tent flaps was audible outside, but little in the way of drunken murmurs or celebration common to merchant caravans. That was… odd… for a convoy of swarthy black marketeers. The Squire rose some hours after lights out. Jelena snored softly beside him. She slept on her back, perfectly still. Normally she was sprawled out every which way in a tornado of limbs. Regardless, Calaf got up slowly and let her be, closing the tent flap behind him.

  It was a lightless, moonless night. The grove was quiet and still. Both Zilara and Enkidu’s tents remained dark, their occupants asleep. Many more tents from the other campsites were lightless, their fires only embers. Despite all the noise earlier, the camp felt downright abandoned. With the fires out and the grove dark, Calaf strolled near the pond and basked in the aural din of the surrounding swamps.

  A low, melodious hum wafted down from the canopy. The song was familiar and inviting. It looped around itself, constantly reiterating while never maintaining a set pitch.

  Still, Calaf dare not sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about this second run-in with Honest John. No sooner had he escaped to the far edges of Autumn’s Redoubt had that conman traveled south a ways and started running new, slightly lower-profile scams under the church’s radar.

  Escaping round one by the skin of Honest John’s crooked teeth was insulting enough. To gallop away with most of his health intact in a second bout left Calaf’s blood boiling. He tried to summon some memory of his dealings with Honest John to help determine where the dastard would slink off to next. Port Town, maybe, but that was one of the larger cities on the continent. To make it into the delta’s fertile swampy terrain was to disappear.

  Something about the mad conman’s escape path didn’t mesh right. They’d followed his footprints into that valley. It was almost like he’d been expecting his tails to walk right into the dead antlion tree pit. Nobody was that dumb. Why would Honest John lead them here?

  Though he tried brainstorming leads out of the ether, Calaf’s mind drew a blank. He couldn’t help but get thrown off by that stupid, constant song. Everything was louder this time.

  When did it start? It had first been heard… at least before their shower. Before they found that strange cocoon and the dead carnivorous plant? By the Menu, Calaf swore he’d been hearing it all day. An otherworldly tune wafted over the landscape, drowning out the natural chirps of the swamp. At once familiar and wholly alien, it commanded attention. Calaf’s skin crawled, though he didn’t realize why.

  Where is everyone?

  No guards were on shift, and the merchant camps were eerily quiet. Any convoy of this size had at least one person keeping a fire going and booze flowing. But it was as if everyone had vanished. Not just people – but even the bugs and dire-toads had fallen silent.

  All the while, that song grew louder still.

  There was a rustle by the tent flap. Calaf turned to see the dim silhouette of someone he was by now intimately familiar with.

  “Jelena?” he tilted his head.

  But Jelena ignored him. She stepped over to, then around, the long-extinguished fire pit.

  Calaf approached cautiously. Even in moonless darkness, the Squire could make out Jelena’s mismatched eyes: one cloudy, one hazel. They were both dull and unfocused, but wide open. Jelena was dressed in her loose-fitting and mildly revealing white undershirt with accompanying short pants, which she was only wearing for privacy reasons now that they had company. It was not something even Jelena would usually prance around wearing outside the tent.

  Onward, the song beckoned.

  Resist!

  A notification appeared in Calaf’s Interface. He took a step back. There was a status effect afoot, here. But what?

  The melody continued as a low background hum drowned out noise and thoughts.

  Again, a ‘Resist!’ notification blared. Awake, alert, and now expecting something sinister, it would take more than some low background miasma or tune to affect a well-leveled Squire. But Jelena was without the Menu and had been deep asleep for hours. And without an Interface designation, there was no way of telling what effect this song – yes, for it had to be caused by the enticing song – was having on the relic thief.

  Calaf shot one last look at his former rival, current lover. She had a faint smile on her pursed lips as if she were drifting away under a pleasant dream. Again, the tune seemed so instinctually familiar yet alien to him that Calaf’s neck hairs stood on end. Jelena carried on through the now-abandoned merchant camps, deaf to Calaf’s increasingly fraught cries in her wake.

  “Jelena. Jelena!”

  The tune shifted, purposeful and directionally. Jelena followed it, one foot in front of the other. She stumbled about in somnambulist stupor as the song beckoned her north and east. Her footprints in the sand joined dozens of others returning into the deep desert. All the while, she mindlessly hummed that alien, arhythmic song...