Certain creatures stir the imagination and are therefore overrepresented in the cultural tapestries of Tsanderos. Oftentimes this is due to their positions at the pinnacle of power; the ancient Dragons of old, Deep-Worms, Leviathans, the great Cave Bears and Titan-Rooks, the Rakshasa...the list goes on.

  Others are reviled simply due to their nature; The Creeping Dread from the mangroves of the Southern Deltas, the many species of parasites that manipulate the weave of magic as well as flesh, the common sheep, for reasons that should be obvious to all.

  But one creature among many holds a position of distinction; the Cat-Bear. Officially named the Felicious Ursekar by the White Tower Consortium, who were the first to successfully 'domesticate' this wild animal, the Cat-Bear is a contradictory beast.

  It is found in wild places of many different climates and occupies a strange niche in each environment - a wandering predator that holds no territory, beholden to no land or predators of its own. They are solitary creatures but can be found in the company of many other species, lounging around and taking advantage of hospitality.

  After all, none with sense would refuse to honour a Cat-Bear when it approaches. They hold all the entitlement and whimsical nature of the feline with the laziness and power of the ursine. They are beautiful creatures but dangerous beyond compare.

  Equivalent to a high 2nd tier beast, they are often too powerful to be held in populated areas. A house cat may swipe a passing visitor, for reasons unknown to all but them, without consequence but when that paw is the size of a human head and carries with it all the strength of a multi-ton savage killer… suffice it to say that Cat-Bears are only found in the homes of those with great power and no weaker kin, or the soon to be dead.

  I have long felt a kinship with them and will choose my Cat-Bear companions over human company every day for the rest of my life if I must. If there does happen to be a handsome man in the 3rd tier looking for a place to settle down in the wild though…head to Ilsa’s pass in the Dragon-Spine mountains.

  P.S. lilies are my favourite.

  - Poster displayed prominently in the White Tower Consortium’s Anthropology and Zoology department, by order of its last chair, Miss Euphrine J. Goodall

  I’d always thought that Vera was big. She was near as tall as me and built solidly – muscle wrapping her arms and legs and turning an otherwise unremarkable, if tall, woman into a person of notice.

  The woman who worked the bellows near the open forge was like a bigger version of Vera, sculpted out of marble rather than clay. Where my companion’s muscles were defined, this smith’s were chiselled. Where Vera’s shoulders were broad, this woman’s were bulky. I’d once remarked that Vera’s forearms reminded me of a gorilla or a baker. This woman’s forearm’s looked like those of a Silverback that had spent its life in a patisserie.

  In short; the smith we met working the forge was a specimen. I was in awe of her stature, and quite frankly I felt sorry for the sword that was laid across the anvil, as she swung heavy, precise hammer blows down upon it with focused intensity.

  A nervous young boy, not yet out of his teenage years if the scraggle on his chin and upper lip was anything to go by, hurried over to us before we could approach within a dozen meters.

  “Please stay back, sirs. Dansel doesn’t like customers getting too close, on account of the sparks, y’see” he stammered out, and we came to a stop before a bench laden with armour. Furs, leather jerkins, iron-laced brigandines and even the odd piece of plate-mail littered the long benches. The boy watched us peruse with nervous energy.

  “Hey lad, your boss…is she taking commissions?” Jorge asked, putting on a friendly tone as he inspected a leather binding cap meant to be worn beneath a heavy steel helm.

  “Uh…n-no, she’s not” he said with a distinct lack of confidence. He drew himself up, gulping comically before trying to inject a little more bravado into his words. “My lady is very busy and can’t spare the time at the moment. Sorry.”

  The final apology ruined the affect slightly, but Jorge just smiled patiently as he replied. “We’re willing to pay good coin, and have interesting materials besides. It’s no boring job, I promise you that, lad.”

  The hammer paused its descent, tinkling softly against the red-hot bar of metal rather than slamming down with bone-jarring force.

  “No, sir, and I have told you once alre-”

  The nervous boy was cut off by a deep rumble as the forge-woman spoke for the first time. “What’s the job?”

  Jorge gestured me forwards, and I took the cue to speak. “I need a spear forging. I have two, maybe three, materials of great power, and want them combined into a specific form. We’ll pay well, but it’s a rush job; we need it done before the week is out.”

  “Materials?” she grunted as she flipped the hammer in her grip, looking at me from under her sweaty fringe. Her eyes were golden. Not brown, not yellow, but molten gold, like the bubbling of the earth at the edge of a volcano.

  I grabbed an armful of heavy cuirasses and passed them to the boy, his knees nearly buckling beneath the weight. Jorge withdrew the Heart of Winter from his storage necklace and placed it on the now empty patch of table, and I laid down my mangled spear next to it.

  A flick of her wrist and the hammer flew into the air, flipping end over end until it snapped down through a loop on her belt as she left the forge and approached the table.

  “Ratter – keep the bellows going, I want that fire hot. Good work sticking up for yourself, too.”

  The boy straightened beneath the praise like a beanstalk beneath the sun, and I smiled to see it. She picked up the crystal and inspected it for long moments before grunting and placing it back down, moving onto the spear.

  She took longer to inspect that one, and looked up at me after a few moments, asking, “Artifact?”

  I nodded and held her wrist steady so that the wand was laying horizontal in one massive fist. I focused briefly to send mana down the artifact-link, and the spear responded to my will, expanding instantly to its full size, haft lengthening and thickening, but keeping the same amber glow and pattern of darker whorls on its wooden surface.

  She raised an eyebrow and whistled quietly in appreciation. “Rare indeed.”

  Jorge then brought out the Corrinian Rhai foreleg and thumped it to the ground next to the table.

  “Don’t get it in the mud! Ah you’ve-” I cursed to myself, shooting a venomous glare at Jorge as I tried to pick the massive thing up, but the underside was covered by that point anyway, so I let it drop to the muddy ground again with a wet squelch.

  “We’ve also got this to play around with as well,” I said, gesturing to the foreleg on the ground. “The root can expand and contract as I will it, although only within the limits you’ve just seen. It does seem to grow around the spear point, though I am not sure if that will work again with anything but the one there.”

  I pointed at the bent spear blade as I spoke, and the forge-woman nodded. She sighed through her nose and leaned back, and while it was a normal gesture, the sheer size of her made it seem like the snorting of a great bull.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  She was almost a match for Alker, but where the Red-haired man was all brash confidence and joyful exuberance, the smith before me seemed shrewd and thoughtful. She narrowed heavy brows as she looked me up and down.

  “This for you?” she asked, and I nodded.

  “And these materials…you buy them?” she asked with a gesture at the table and the muddy ground beneath it.

  “Collected them myself,” I said proudly, before amending briefly; “The creature that owned that was a little out of my reach though – killed by a…friend.” I had gestured to the foreleg as I spoke, and hesitated briefly when thinking of how to name the Rakshasa.

  She merely grunted at that, though I saw an eyebrow climb a half-inch, easing the dour set to her features. “In that case, I expect you’ll be wanting to be involved in the forging as well?” She didn’t seem pleased by the idea, and I could well understand why.

  Untrained idiots running around an open forge was a good way to get injuries, and while it wouldn’t be her fault per se, Jorge was a powerful individual and it was never a good idea to piss those off if you could avoid it. He hid it well, and likely obscured the depth of his power to almost all, but it was obvious enough to those that looked and had a kindling of power themselves that he was at least in the high 2nd tier, possibly higher.

  My own mana-senses weren’t discerning enough yet to confirm for myself, although I knew from conversations with him that he was in the 3rd tier. But even my frail sense told me that his power was more than a match for my own. It was a feeling more than anything, but I knew the forge-woman had that knowledge just as I did. For the same reason, I could tell she was at least in the high 2nd tier, too.

  Jorge nodded, “Only proper. He’s a quick lad, despite what his gormless face might tell you. He’ll be no harm and won’t need to be there the whole while.”

  “Aiming for a feat, then?” the big woman rumbled.

  Jorge inclined his head. “I won’t tell you how to do your business, but aye. Right on the cusp, he is, and given he gathered these materials himself and their quality, I think there’s a high chance you can both make something special.”

  The forge-woman considered for a few long moments, eyes tracking back and forth over the Heart of Winter and the amber root for a while, occasionally flicking to my face and the mis-matched armour I wore.

  “You’ll pay what I ask when the job is done,” she said, and it was not phrased as a question. Jorge agreed regardless, and the woman turned away, tapping her apprentice on the shoulder with one massive hand. “Ease up on the bellows, get it banked. I’ll be forging again in half a bell.”

  The gangly boy nodded profusely and despite the inexperienced mien he wore like a cloak, he bustled about in a surprisingly efficient whirl to get the fire tamped back down and forge covered. No wasted movement, and no complaints either, despite the conflicting orders he’d been given compared to earlier. I re-evaluated my opinion of the boy.

  “Come, we’ll talk in the back. Tell me of your plans for this spear, and then we shall see what is to be done.” So saying, the behemoth of a woman strode from the open forge and its circle of tables, and ducked behind a draped cloth, no doubt used to prevent the smoke of the forge from curling sideways into nearby tents.

  Dansel, or ‘Dansel of the Forge’ as she was known outside of clan White-Cliff, turned out to be a woman of few words. She was generous with her time, but if a question or statement could be answered with a gesture or grunt rather than a word, it would be. She’d asked some pointed questions about my desires for the weapon we would create, and then had sat in thought.

  She’d played with the materials, running her hands over them in turn, tapping them with a small, strangely shaped hammer and listening to the sounds produced. She’d brought out a chisel and shaved a sliver off the foreleg, though it took some work, and dipped the Heart of Winter into different substances, testing the freezing properties it possessed.

  For every physical test, I had no doubt that she ran a hundred more with her spiritual senses and skills. I watched, fascinated by the process, if mostly ignorant of what was going on. After a time, she put away her tools and stood to her full, impressive height.

  “I need to prepare; the forge, these materials, a plan. It will take time. Return before sundown.”

  Just as I was about to consider it a dismissal, she spoke again. “In the meantime, I have a task for you.”

  Wolf-pelts. 10 of them.

  I sighed in frustration as I trudged through the thin layer of frost coating the hard ground. It was a beautiful day, my breath pluming in the air and curling to the sky as its heat was expended, a final dance of white mist in the orange glow of the afternoon sun.

  The mountains were beautiful, and had I been unburdened at this time, I surely would have stopped for a few moments; looked out at the view of the pines marching their way down the hillside, red and orange staining the horizon as white crept across the ground below it.

  But I wasn’t unburdened at this point in time. In fact, I was very much burdened, and I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

  Over both shoulders rested 5 great wolf pelts, and since I was the one doing the skinning, rather than a seasoned hunter, the task hadn’t been done particularly well. Blood dribbled down my vest to stain my skin beneath, and course fur tickled my head and face with every step.

  The weight wasn’t so much the issue, given my enhanced attributes, but the smell wasn’t pleasant and the temperature, labouring beneath 5 layers of stinking pelts as I was, was horrible. I was thankful for the cold, not just to keep me from overheating, but also because there wasn’t a bevy of flying insects zipping around me. That would have set me off, I reckon.

  I dropped the pelts to the ground and stretched out, giving my back a rest and letting the cool air kiss my damp skin. I squatted down and looked out over the mountainside below and let out a heavy breath. Maybe it was worth taking in the sight for a few moments.

  The Frost-Wargs I’d fought earlier that day had been an interesting challenge. Not particularly high-levelled, only the alpha was in the 2nd tier, but they’d fought as a pack, and I’d been unable to pick them off individually after the first few kills. Luckily for me, the first I’d killed had been the alpha, and so I only ended up fighting a half dozen of the 1st tier creatures in one go.

  Tilt had come into its own and had a profound effect on the fellow 1st tiers. It had played havoc with their leaps and allowed me to dance and sway between them as they pounced, such that I’d been able to avoid taking more than grazing wounds from their many ice-sheathed claws.

  I’d gained a few levels in the skill, and a final level in my class to bring me to 45, but no class evolution had materialised. I wasn’t expecting it to, after my discussion with Jorge, but I didn’t much trust the system of this world if I was being honest, and half-expected my mind to blank out again like it had when I’d hit level 15.

  It had been a fruitful day then, level-wise, and I had completed the task set for me by Dansel. Why then did I feel such frustration? I was so close to the 2nd tier, so perhaps it was simply impatience, but it felt like something more significant.

  I’d finally, for the first time in this new world, committed myself to a cause beyond my own life. And yet, here I was traipsing around the mountains, gathering materials and fighting random monsters instead of getting on with the task.

  I knew that we were waiting for Nathlan, knew even that this was a necessary step regardless of the scholar’s health; to empower ourselves, to steady our hearts, and to be prepared for the fight ahead. ‘Previous planning prevents piss-poor performance’, after all. Still, I felt a growing sense of frustration at the constant delays. First the blending, then The Lost Grove followed by The Hollow Mountain, and now this.

  What was next? Another few days to forge my weapons, for Jorge and Vera to re-provision our little group, for Nathlan to finish his healing and Sadrianna to make ready. And then we’d be off. It would take weeks to cross the Dragon-Spine Mountains, especially so in autumn now that the leaves were falling.

  So when would I finally be face to face with the task I’d sworn to see done? When would Vera have her revenge? Would it even be this year? I was under no illusion that we’d simply sneak into the Sunset Kingdoms and walk up to castle Ryonic and knock on the door. There would need to be planning and strategizing and gods-damned meetings…

  When I considered all of that, the trekking through the wilderness under a load of stinking wolf-pelts didn’t seem so bad. With a great effort, I forced myself to stop dwelling on the future and to live in the present. Enjoy the little things, while I still had them.

  Dansel met me when I’d returned, a grunt of greeting and a brief inspection of the pelts, before she sent me off to the tanneries with instructions. A short while later, I was heading back to our temporary home, assured that the forging itself would begin tomorrow, and in desperate need of a wash.

  Luckily, we had camped beside a lake, and while it was bitterly cold, it did leave me remarkably rejuvenated as penance for the shivering it had forced on me. I was still dressing, shirt not yet on and drying my hair with a towel when an official from The Council of Elders swung by, asking Jorge and myself to follow.

  We’d been asked questions for most of a bell, and I’d needed to demonstrate my physicality for the man handling the investigation. He’d also asked me to demonstrate the effect of the amulet, and my ability to break through it. He had then demanded that I allow him to configure the amulet himself, using his own will to forcibly suppress my attributes.

  I was wary at first, only able to give that power to Jorge because I trusted him, but the older man had given me a look as if to say ‘if he tries anything, I’ll kill him before you have a chance to worry’. At least, that’s what I took from the slight frown and nod anyway. I had no issue breaking the effect of the artifact though, and so we were dismissed not long after, our part in the investigation likely over and done with.

  It wasn’t until Sadrianna swung by the tent late into the evening, seeming relieved to see us all inside, that I heard the news; Hastor had been found guilty of tampering with The Blending, and Jacyntha alongside him. The full details of the investigation weren’t open to just anyone, but the more disturbing news was flitting around the gathered clans already as lurid gossip.

  Jacyntha was missing following the investigation, and her father – Hastor – was found dead in his tent; skull split right down the middle, as if by the great cleave of an axe.