Today's Earth date: December 24, 1991

We decided to turn back.

Christmas is tomorrow. Horcus thinks we'll make it to Iomallach by the afternoon. We're all miserable from the weather and feeling homesick for our families, but at least we haven't seen any assassins for a while.

-The Journal of Laszlo the Paladin

According to their local source, the Dead Zone was near the Earth Temple and Drumin's Divide. Locals used three exceptionally tall spires of coral to define its borders, but even with such well-defined landmarks, they gave that part of the Cuts a wide berth. The manaconda hunting grounds and the calls of siren traps were worry enough without also running foul of a strange curse.

Looking over the map, Wayne was disappointed to see how far the Dead Zone was from Iomallach, and the Earth Temple was only a short distance beyond that. Unless the party investigated both areas back to back, they would spend a great deal of time simply commuting back and forth to Iomallach. At the same time, though, if the Dead Zone was worth investigating, his party would certainly need a respite before venturing to the Earth Temple.

Which was its own odd challenge.

The Earth Temple was deep beneath the surface. Where they could park Outlawson right outside of the Water Temple, just getting to the entrance of the Earth Temple would take two days of hiking through caves. When the Heroes made the journey, they needed three weeks or more to fully clear the Temple. Each floor was larger than a floor in the Water Temple, and there were nine of them instead of six.

Wayne's party wouldn't have hundreds of demons to cull. While not having to worry about being eaten by hellspawn was preferable, it would also make the trip so incredibly boring. The Water Temple had relatively little of interest to see, so he expected the Earth Temple to be worse.

Visiting the Lighthouse was still a priority as well, but it was lowest on Wayne's list. The structure was well-explored and was now more of a tourist attraction than anything else. Seeing the white tower through the canopy as they neared Iomallach, however, increased its appeal. The pearl-white spire was monolithic, its pointed peak scraping the clouds. Even if it were empty inside, its grandeur was hypnotizing in the way a mountain summit was hypnotizing.

Its very existence seemed to demand a visit to its peak.

Vanilli pointed out that their journey needed a soundtrack. Wayne hit Random.

Song: Three Marches Militaires

Artist: Franz Schubert

Album: [Single]

Genre: March

Was that literally marching band music? That's what it sounded like.

Random.

Song: Thinking Blues

Artist: Bessie Smith

Album: Hot Spring Blues

Genre: Twelve-Bar Blues

The track that played had the scratchy quality of a Depression-era recording. Wayne would have preferred blues from a later era, but the laid back beat and the vocals were relaxing enough.

"I again propose we take our time before rushing back into the Cuts," Fergus said, toweling sweat off his face and scalp. He wiped a separate towel on a block of ice Wayne generated with his sword and dabbed his skin again. "This humidity… It's relentless."

"Agreed," Hector said. "I'd eat a goblin whole if it meant a cool sea breeze right now."

"We'll go where the research takes us," Wayne said. "I don't see how we avoid spending a lot of time in the Cuts, though."

Fergus nodded. "I know. Complaining is cathartic."

The ascent out of the Cuts, a long series of switchbacks up an otherwise steep rockface, felt like stepping out of the summer sun and into air conditioning. A few feet above the tallest trees of the Cuts, the temperature shifted from hot and humid to pleasantly cool and breezy. The line was stark, as if the valley full of jungle was contained within a bubble.

The party wizard exhaled loudly when he felt the shift. "Luxury is only a few hours away."

"Do we know where to find Blackwell's?" Wayne asked.

Pointing up at the edge of the valley bordering the cuts, Fergus answered, "It's one of the chateaus up there. Has a view of the Cuts as well as the Lighthouse and is not far from the western gate."

"Do we have to go there right away? Maybe we could wander around town first."

"Wayne, we've talked about– Ah. You're teasing me."

Wayne looked over his shoulder to smile at the Royal Scholar. "I'm looking forward to the stay as well. Definitely not as much as you, but it will be nice."

"What offense has earned us such divine torment?" Fergus whimpered.

Iomallach was gridlocked. Traffic out of the Cuts was relatively light, but that changed as soon as the party passed through the back gate. The Salt of the Earth Festival was a little less than a week away, and people traveled into the city in droves to celebrate. The bulk of the visitors came from the immediate northeast, a vast expanse of farmland and prairie. Beyond that were two desert towns and a large port city called Bata.

Many of the wagons in the streets were decorated with the grandeur of parade floats, like a yeehaw Burning Man, so for the first time ever, Outlawson entered a city with no fanfare whatsoever.

The city was grand yet intentionally rustic. Nearly the size of Teagaisg, each building–from small homes to five-story hotels–had the character of commercial western architecture. Stained wood covered nearly every surface, straddling a strange line between utilitarian simplicity and a masterpieces carpentry and construction.

Cowboy hats abounded, but the people Wayne saw could fit into two categories. The first category were the true blue collar workers. Their boots and hats and leather pants served function before form, chosen because of how they eased the challenge of daily labor, even if only slightly. Cowboy hats were good for long days in the sun. Chaps cut down on some of the chaffing of extended rides. And cowboy boots helped to keep feet in stirrups when things got chaotic.

The other category was what Wayne had heard described as "cowboy cosplayers" on Earth. Coincidentally, he learned about cowboy cosplayers the same night he learned how to play Stump.

A cowboy cosplayer was someone who was a cowboy only when it was fashionable. A whole bachelorette party wearing cowgirl boots on their way to the original Coyote Ugly Saloon? That was acceptable cowboy cosplay.

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The unacceptable kind was characterized by people who bought big, loud trucks and never truly put them to use or even got them dirty. They wore hats that never saw sweat. The most outdoors their boots saw was walking into their manicured lawns to get the family chihuahua before it ate its own poop, again. For them, cowboy was decoration. Not a lifestyle. Yet, they considered themselves true cowboys nonetheless.

Completing the scene in Iomallach, this fantasy version of Nashville, were dogs barking down from rooftops, hitching posts in front of every business, and a guitarist around every corner. Over all of that wafted a symphony of fragrant grilled meats prepared by one of many street vendors.

"We don't all need to stay with the wagon," Wayne said. "It looks like everyone could get lunch and still make it to the gate before Outlawson does. Worse comes to worse, I'll wait for you there."

"We are a party," Fergus said. "We should not abandon–"

"I promise that I don't care."

"You are a beautiful human being," the old scholar said, standing immediately. "We'll get you something to go."

"I shall wait with the wagon," Vanilli said.

Fergus gave the demon a half-hearted "are you sure?" before disappearing with the rest of the party into the rambunctious Iomallach crowd.

"You didn't have to stay behind," Wayne said.

"It was my preference."

"Well, in that case, thank you for the company. What do you think, so far?"

"Their appreciation for music is pleasant."

Yeah, it was, Wayne realized. And all of the music that reached his ears felt rich with passion and had the relaxed complexity of seasoned expertise. Iomallach probably had bad musicians somewhere, but it very obviously had an abundance of talent.

Wayne glanced over at Vanilli. He looked perplexed. "What's on your mind?"

"My understanding is that music is commonly experienced this way, with large groups of strangers."

"That's true."

"My experiences with music were in pure solitude until I joined the party. I'm not sure I like the idea of sharing music with that many people."

"On Earth, most people do it both ways," Wayne said. "Big music fans usually love a deep listen as much as they love a packed concert. Liking both isn't weird at all. It's also fine to have a preference."

"And in this world?"

"Music recordings don't exist here, so you and I might be the only two people who have ever listened to music alone. Everyone else can only hear music live. On Earth, recorded music is everywhere all the time."

"Interesting."

"Can I make a suggestion?" Wayne asked.

Vanilli nodded.

"Concerts come in a lot of different forms. You might be more comfortable starting with a smaller show. Fewer people, more intimate setting."

"Crowds do not bother me."

Wayne paused to think about how best to explain his point. "I don't know if everyone on Earth would agree with me, but the more people at a show, the more the experience is about the shared moment and less about appreciating a specific artist's performance. A giant crowd has its own kind of energy, but you didn't have music in the hells, right?"

"We did not."

"That's why I suggest starting small. I think that's an easier way to get a feel for the dynamic."

"I see," Vanilli said. "Were you a musician?"

Wayne laughed. "I took clarinet lessons for like a week in third grade, but otherwise, no. I love listening to it, but I can't carry a tone or hold a beat. My singing is awful too."

"Yes, it is."

"You could learn an instrument if you wanted to."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I had several friends who saw music as a simple pleasure. Strumming on a guitar a few times a week was relaxing for them."

Vanilli stared ahead, deep in thought. The demon's conversational skills steadily improved each day, but he still hadn't gotten the hang of introductions and conclusions. He often started and ended conversations abruptly. Like now, for example. Having decided he had nothing else to say, he made no effort to transition out of the dialog. He simply stopped speaking.

"Hey mister!" a small voice yelled. Wayne looked over the side of Outlawson's round head-body to see a child, maybe thirteen, holding a flier into the air. "You don't want to miss any awesome fights, do you?"

Wayne accepted the flier.

Before Wayne could ask about what he was reading, the boy yelled, "Love your float!" and went to the next wagon to force fliers into more hands.

Sheeri had told him sports were big in Iomallach, but his own party's interest in music had led him to focus on that aspect of the Salt of the Earth Festival without considering the full scope of what an event as big as this might entail. The flier he held advertised a handful of recognizable events like wrestling, javelin throwing, and chariot racing, but most of the events were completely new to him.

One of the secondary arenas, for example, had a schedule that included Warg Busting and Goblin Roping. By context, those sounded like rodeo events to Wayne. Whether or not that's what they actually were was a different matter entirely.

Based on how much real estate it occupied–over half of the flier–the biggest sporting event of the festival was a series of exhibition duels followed by matches that pitted singular fighters against monsters. The copy advertised that not even the announcers would know what monster each round would feature until the gates opened to let the beast in.

That felt akin to bullfighting to Wayne. He had never been to Spain nor any version of a bullfight on Earth, but he never understood the allure. Sure, a bull could be dangerous, but the whole concept felt unnecessarily cruel. Substituting monsters for bulls didn't change that feeling for him.

He could accept the wisdom of eradicating monsters as if they were dangerous pests, but he never had the desire to extend their suffering in any way. Capturing them and forcing them into an arena felt like a very long extension to their suffering. Did he feel the need to advocate for monster rights? Not particularly, but he also had no desire to enjoy those kinds of pastimes.

Four hours later, Wayne, Outlawson, and Vanilli finally arrived at the west gate. The sun was setting, but the Zeroes had no problem finding and boarding their wagon in the chaos. As Fergus climbed on, he handed Wayne three skewers of meat dripping with a dark marinade.

"Keep heading west," Fergus said. "The Blackwell estate is off of this road about a quarter of a mile from here. I checked us in at the University too, by the way."

"Thank you for taking care of my part in that," Wayne said. "I'm so ready to be done riding for the day."

Fergus nodded. "Want me to take over driving? Give you a break?"

"That's okay. We're almost there. I might as well see it through."

Despite their relative proximity to the Blackwell residence, the congestion on the street turned that last quarter of a mile into an hour-long crawl. The sun was set completely by the time they turned down a long driveway to approach a house fit for a Texas oil baron. It had the character of a log cabin with the dimensions of a small castle.

Monsters were a threat to anyone living outside the city walls, so the Blackwell grounds were surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence and patrolled by attentive guards. If any monsters were brave enough to come this close to the city to hunt, the danger to anyone staying inside was essentially nonexistent.

All in all, Wayne was impressed by their new accommodations. He had come to appreciate the more Renaissance vibe of Lord Amethyst's guest house in Cuan, but this would do just fine.

"Didn't you say we would have the place to ourselves?" Sammy asked, squinting over Wayne's shoulder while speaking to Fergus.

"That is correct."

"Those don't look like servant carriages."

Fergus scrambled out of his seat to get a better look. Wayne had seen them but had not considered the implication until he heard Sammy's question. That was a lot of carriages and wagons parked outside of the main door, and even in the dark, their craftsmanship and opulence was plainly visible. When Wayne listened, he heard the distinct sounds of a gathering, perhaps not large enough to be a party, but there were certainly several people having a good time somewhere nearby.

Meanwhile, Fergus had taken to muttering to himself. "They're probably just leaving," he said. "We'll pass like ships in the night."

"I don't think that's the case…" Wayne said, as gently as he could.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"They're probably here for the festival. We might end up having to camp after all."

Fergus shook his head. "No. That's not happening. These are our accommodations. We have the letter and everything. This is just a misunderstanding."

Wayne didn't press the issue. His friend was upset, and Wayne didn't need to argue the point. The two drunk women yelling at them from a third story window made the point well enough without his help.

Someone–many someones, actually–was already staying here.

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