99. Strangers in a Strange Land

Only two days into her ascension, Serac already found herself back in familiar territory: prison.

Having survived the Damnatorium, however, its Pretjordian cousin felt more like a vacation. She and Zacko had been locked in separate cells, no doubt to prevent their collaborating on an escape. In effect, however, it also gave each Wayfarer that much more room to stretch out their legs.

And stretch them out Serac did, taking full advantage of the first real 'break' she'd had since arriving in Pretjord. Her cell, like many other buildings upon the Realmtree, was a refurbished tree hollow, giving Serac the chance to experience what it might be like to reincarnate as a squirrel.

As she lay on a bed of crushed acorns and stared up at a sap-stained ceiling, Serac pondered what her next action ought to be. Zacko was no help this time, not only because he was in the next cell over, but also because he could be heard loudly snoring. Which left…

What do you reckon, Trippy? Think we'll be stuck here for long?

"I should think that depends on you, Wayfarer. It'd be no trouble for you to burn down this cell and deal with the soldiers outside."

This was true enough. Even with numbers and harpoon guns on their side, the soldiers had stopped short of trying to confiscate Serac's and Zacko's Instruments, no doubt wary of violent (and magical) reprisal.

"Keep in mind, however, that killing Anchored souls would incur a Karma deduction for each 'unsanctioned smite'. It also might not be a savvy move, politically speaking. Especially if you wish to remain friendly with the locals for the time being."

You know me well enough to know that's definitely out of the question. Besides, I have this funny feeling the soldiers here know it too. They seem to treat me and Zacko, not with fear, but with caution. There's a line where you could push a Wayfarer too far, and they're careful not to cross it.

"Reasonable assumption. The locals here, whether Anchored or Wayfaring, are first and foremost law-abiding subjects of their king. Which leads me to suspect even your imprisonment follows its own set of protocols."

I was thinking the same thing. These guys don't have real beef with me or Zacko. They're just acting on orders, and orders can change at any time. I think, at least for now, it's best to sit tight and see what happens. I know you don't like being held up, Trippy, and neither do I, but I just don't think antagonizing the locals is the right play.

"On that count, we can agree," Trippy said, somewhat surprisingly. "Play it how you see fit, Serac Edin. But do keep in mind that, here in Pretjord, you're always on a clock whether you like it or not. I don't expect the soldiers would want to threaten a pair of Wayfarers with starvation, but we simply know too little to rely solely on our intuition."

On that count, Serac could just as easily agree. With her [Satiety] in the 20s now, her [Hunger] had become a palpable nagging sensation. She could only imagine what it might be like for Zacko and his faster metabolism, but if the Manusya man felt relaxed enough to take a nap, there was no reason for her not to follow suit. And wouldn't she know it? Cushioned by a bed of acorn bits, she enjoyed some of the most comfortable sleep she could remember.

Which was why she was almost miffed to be woken up by the sound of jangling keys. The interruption had come courtesy of the sea bass—he of the facial scars and grizzled veteran vibes.

"Thank your lucky stars, Wayfarers," he announced, reluctance and annoyance written plainly upon his scars. "You must've done something right in your previous lives, for you to be showered with such goodwill and generosity."

In this case, 'goodwill and generosity' started with letting both prisoners out of their cells. While Serac was grateful for the gesture, she still waited for the other shoe to drop. Captain Sea Bass, however, offered no further explanation. With a flick of his scarred chin, he beckoned for the Wayfarers to follow. Serac and Zacko obeyed without protest, but not before exchanging a look and a shrug.

"Enjoy your stay, Princess?"

"Can't complain. At least it was a short one."

The prison had been built into an out-of-the-way grotto—exactly the kind of locale that would've been ideal for a Waystation. Serac had no time to ponder the possibility, however, as Captain Sea Bass led the way at a brisk pace.

Outside the grotto, Serac drew in a breath, startled by the sight that greeted her. A procession of soldiers lined the groove upon an root that doubled as a footpath. Which was to be expected, were it not for the fact they had company. For as far as Serac could tell, large crowds of Yakshas in civilian clothing had turned up to witness the Wayfarers' emancipation.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

At least she could only assume that to be the occasion. The civilians certainly weren't here for the soldiers, who had their backs to the Wayfarers to instead face the crowds, harpoon guns held loosely across their torsos. Not quite a threat, but nevertheless ready to be used at a moment's notice.

The situation was more than passing strange. If the civilians risked being shot at to be here, there must've been something here deemed worth the risk. And Serac wasn't high enough on her Wayfaring horse to think she and Zacko would warrant that kind of response.

The more she studied the gathered crowd, the more disturbed she was by their presence and appearance. It was plain for even an outrealmer to see that these civilians lived in a different 'world' than the Stamgardians she'd met so far. They all looked absolutely miserable. Gaunt faces, emaciated bodies, and tattered rags that had more in common with Penitent Rakshasas one Realm below than with their Yaksha neighbors one tree segment above. Collectively, they all but radiated [Hunger]. So fierce and desperate as to weigh down the very air around them—almost a magical aura unto itself.

Said 'aura' certainly had its effects on Serac. She was gripped by a strong urge, even stronger than her own pressing [Hunger], to drop everything and help these people.

But she was also clear-headed enough to know she didn't have anything to offer them. At least not yet. So, she put her head down and followed Captain Sea Bass, all the while stewing in a fresh pot of anger. For she remembered well the fragments of local knowledge she'd gleaned from the recent cave expedition.

Renate and the Tomasen twins had their differences, but they could all agree King Tyr was bad news for the people of Rotgard. I know Zacko warned against jumping to conclusions, but I'm just about ready to declare this Realm's Immortal as big an asshole as the one we smited in Naraka. And maybe that's exactly what the Pretjordians need? A good ol' regicide to end their oppression by the Realm's most powerful soul…

Lost in her increasingly seditious thoughts, it took her a while to notice another change in the air. As soon as she did, however, her tummy rumbled loudly and her mouth flooded with saliva. The aroma of hot food, as inviting as a Chef Petey special. Spice, charred meat, and promise of nourishment.

Suddenly, the presence of the Rotgardian crowd made perfect sense. The civilians had been drawn here, not by the empty novelty of an outrealmer sighting, but by the real and far more urgent need to eat.

And how dare these soldiers posture with their weapons to deny their own people this basic need? They'd better be following King Tyr's orders because that would be the only way Serac could forgive them. She almost welcomed the notion, as it fit so nicely with her rapidly deteriorating opinion of the Realm Immortal himself…

Presently, Captain Sea Bass halted and stepped aside. Serac and Zacko found themselves in a large, near-circular depression upon the root, almost like the footprint of some enormous creature. And for all the outrealmers knew, that was exactly what it was. Whatever might've caused it, said depression was currently manned by a sizable collection of uniformed Yakshas.

Soldiers and their harpoon guns lined the circular walls of the crater, taking Serac back to a certain 'boss arena' that had featured a very similar arrangement. But instead of an earthenware urn, the massive object that took up the crater's central space was a dining table, one cobbled together from the same braided-vine material as the prison doors. Upon this makeshift table spread a sumptuous feast. There was no other word for it. Steaming pots of stew, roast meat dripping with fat, and cups overflowing with freshly squeezed fruit juice.

Serac gulped down a large dollop of her own saliva, even as she marveled at the logistics behind such a feast. As far as she could tell, the whole area was nothing but barren wasteland, somber soldiers, and starving civilians. Many of whom now peered down from above the walls, eyes bulging at the delicacies that were so close yet so far beyond their reach. In any case, whoever had whipped up this supper was either very rich or very magical or perhaps both.

Well, at least on the first count, Serac was likely to be proven correct. The dining table was occupied by exactly two people, both of whom clearly lived in a different world still from the soldiers or the civilians.

The larger of the two (and by a considerable margin at that) was a Yaksha man of a typing Serac didn't recognize. In her brief time in Pretjord, she'd seen some big boys, but this latest specimen took the cake, taking up an entire width of the dining table with his enormous bulk. Upon his wide, blocky head of polished basalt sat a crown—a strikingly pretty thing woven from glistening leaves.

Beside him, in a small corner of the table left behind by the man's frame, sat a woman. A Rakshasa woman. A realization so shocking it took Serac multiple blinks of the eyes to accept it as fact.

The woman was 'handsome' rather than beautiful in the conventional sense. She was visibly older than Serac, but not by much, with faint lines around her eyes and mouth that gave her a dignified appearance. Her outfit was an embroidered, form-fitting dress of lush forest-green, which had the strange effect of softening the red of her cinnabar skin. She too wore a crown that wrapped neatly around her onyx horns, fashioned from dried coral of various shapes and colors.

[Designation: LOHA of the Reticent Tribe]

[Wayfarer Race: RAKSHASA]

[Karmic Level: 87]

[Liminal Karma: 52,826 क]

[INFERNAL Instrument: DIAPHRAGM]

[Auxiliary: HEARTHSTONE]

"Welcome, outrealmers, welcome!" The Yaksha man spread his arms wide and greeted them in a booming voice, as jovial as he was loud. "I can't tell you how delighted I am to meet you both. By my count, we haven't had anyone ascend from Naraka in 381 years, you know! Can you even imagine? But where are my manners? Before we dig in, allow me to introduce myself."

Yet here was a man who truly needed no introduction. With enough context clues and just plain common sense, even an outrealmer knew exactly who this was.

"I am Tyr Djofulsen, king and warden of the Realmtree and Pretjord's reigning Realm Immortal. And this here is my wife and loyal partner of 381 years: Queen Loha."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.