A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

I can't imagine what kind of water bill this thing runs up, Vincent thought as he splashed his hand through the water column in the washroom.

He smacked droplets into the air and watched as they were whisked away by the lore within. Then he plunged his snout into the surface and blew a bunch of bubbles that danced their way up the column and disappeared into the ceiling. His ears twitched when he heard somebody knock at the door to his room. He toweled off his snout and went to answer it. When he opened the door, he found Slade leaning against the wall.

“You...” he said.

“Indeed 'me',” she responded with a grin, “is it true, you are the Walking Contradiction?”

He began to shut the door in her face when she planted a foot in the threshold. “Why are you shutting the door on me?” she asked with a hint of playfulness, “did you not miss me?”

“Why the hell would I miss you?” Vincent asked, “missing you would be like missing cancer.”

“I am unfamiliar with that word,” she said, “it does not matter, were you not told that I am to be your escort?”

“Yeah, I was. But why you of all people?”

“They need somebody inconspicuous.” She pushed the door open and stepped into the room. “Inconspicuous, yet capable of protecting you. I am both.”

Thal'rin decided it was now time for him to go “shopping” for some custom-tailored clothes. After all, the more Vincent tried to wear his human clothes, the faster they would be worn down. The High Channeler also said something about isolation being a killer of the spirit, therefore he strongly invited Vincent to step out of his comfort zone and tour their city. That statement was rather apt.

It had been two days since Vincent's dramatic encounter with Orth. The confrontation remained fresh in his mind. Vincent needed a distraction, he needed to forget the Orth’s revelation. He needed to forget he was trapped here. He knew this to be the case from the beginning, but the fact that they found nothing at Lorix’s Eye, no trace of a passage between worlds...that disturbed him. So, he was glad for the distraction. Slade was going to be both his chaperone and bodyguard. Salish would join up with them later.

“Protecting me? Is Thal'rin expecting somebody to assassinate me?”

“Doubtful, yet he wants to take precautions. That is why I am here.” She walked over to the table and picked up a dollar bill. “What is this? Is this a 'human'?”

“Careful with that!” Vincent snatched the bill away from her. “That is a priceless artifact. It's the only one of its kind on your planet. And yes, that's supposed to be a human on the front.” He tucked the bill back into the wallet and pulled out a coin. “If you're that curious...here. You're not going to break this.”

He tried to flip it through the air, but the coin slipped on his claws and fell to the floor. He spent the next few seconds trying to pick it up, but it was like trying to use chopsticks to pick up a marble. Slade effortlessly scooped it up for him. “Okay, there you go. That's a dollar coin and that's one of our women on it, shucking corn, I guess.”

“Your form looks soft,” Slade said, tumbling the coin through her fingers.

“Yeah...well, you're lizards. We're not. While you entertain yourself, I'm going to finish washing my face. Then I'll be ready to go.”

He stepped back into the washroom, shut the door, removed his shirt and plunged his snout back into the water. It was completely unnecessary, but it was part of a morning routine that kept him grounded because it reminded him of Earth. Though the geometry of his new face made it feel like he was washing a dog's snout, the cold splash of water on his face and neck connected him to his former everyday ritual. He pulled his head out of the stream, shuddered as droplets raced down his back, then he grabbed the towel to pat himself dry. Then he threw back on the shirt and opened the door.

“I need to get this hair cut,” he said, “I’m open to suggestions. And do your people remove horns? They're a pain in the ass.”

“Your horns have flesh near their base. If you cut into them, you risk infection.”

“What?” he asked in surprise, “that's not at all how a ram's horns are.”

“What is a 'ram'?”

“...let's just go.”

When they entered Thal'rin's stalls, Holan seemed to recognize Vincent. Her feelers probed the air and she turned toward him. He mounted her after Slade, then they both headed out. Several groups of people gave him fascinated, pointed stares and spoke among themselves, speculating as to who Thal’rin’s guest was. These creatures seemed to sense there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the “charisma” Slade once mentioned. They imbued the word with much more significance than anybody on Earth did. To these creatures, “charisma” described something palpable rather than simply having a force of personality. Was he exuding some sort of pheromone?

“So, who is going to be paying for all of this?” Vincent asked to get his mind off the gawkers.

“The city of Meldohv,” she said.

“I see. So, is there going to be a Saedh....an S-word tax to pay for all my expenses?”

“Ess word?” Slade repeated.

“S as in...you know, Saed...” He stopped. “Wait, never mind. You're not familiar with our letters. I keep forgetting that I’m somehow speaking Meldohn.”

“In truth, you are speaking Gladeish, my home language. It would not be prudent for us to speak in Meldohn and risk being understood by eavesdroppers. As there are few Gladeans inhabiting the city, it is unlikely we will be overheard. Until we meet with the tuhli, I will be addressing you in this.”

Slade led Holan through the sea of horns and wings, taking care not to trample any of the pedestrians. Eventually, she reached a wide, elevated road called a “beastrun”, the Falian equivalent of highways. There, they joined more landriders and other strange creatures as they left the purple sector, which is where Thal'rin's home resided, and headed toward the green sector, which contained many of Meldohv's merchants.

Vincent was flanked on all sides by beasts that brayed, warbled, and clicked. Colored brickwork formed decals in the road, designating lanes for certain varieties of animals. Occasionally, a foul-smelling wagon would be parked, its driver and his assistant scraping up some mess while wearing rags over their snouts.

A large iron-wrought arch decorated with green gems denoted the green district. As Slade pulled Holan toward it, he could almost sense a change in the city's energy, he could feel a “pulse” that reminded him of the frenetic rhythm of Chicago. The air was filled with the spices of savory barbecues, the sound of exciting street music, and vendors passionately hollering for the attention of passersby.

It was far busier than the purple district, and his schizophrenic “instincts” were telling him to stick to the shadows. A thousand people meant a thousand unspoken thoughts assaulting him from every direction. He dosed just the other day but still, he palmed his pocket just to make sure the Triasat was still there. Nevertheless, he was mesmerized by the fact that they were walking through an alien metropolis.

Slade pulled Holan up to a large row of covered landrider docks and casually tossed a piece of Falian currency to one of the attendants, who was busy playing some sort of board game with his coworker. It bounced off his open wing which had a message written on it and landed in a bucket. He looked up at Slade, nodded her on through, then resumed his game.

“Are you not going to check the amount I paid you?” she asked. He looked up at her again, clearly irritated that she had interrupted his game a second time.

“I know what a five-trine feels like, Kiolai,” he said, “go on through. Ran out of banners for mounts, have more being made, but until then just choose a spot. Make sure to tell me the dock number and breed of your mount before you leave and I will write it down.” He gave a cursory glance at Holan and raised a brow. “A Kelton Ash? We don’t see many of those. You better hide her from my friend here or he may run off with her.”

“Pfft...” his friend scoffed, “I would be a flapper to try and steal a Kelton. I am willing to bet your lovely beast would stomp me into the ground.”

“Indeed,” Slade said quietly as she found a spot in the back and tethered Holan.

Several small, strange comical creatures scattered across the dirt, clumsily clonking into each other. They resembled walking gray traffic cones, only they appeared to be made of stone and they had crab-like legs sticking out the bottom. They scurried away from Holan's massive hooves, their tips frantically waddling in the air as they blindly bumped into one another and knocked each other over.

“What are those things?” Vincent asked as he watched one run into a wall and topple over, squeaking. He could hear more of the jittery creatures clonking nearby. “They're hilarious.”

“They are neeps,” Slade said.

Vincent's ear twitched. “Did you just say 'meeps'?”

“Nnnneeps,” she enunciated more clearly.

“Are you being serious right now? They're really called 'neeps'?”

“They are valued by stables as they love to ingest landrider dung.”

“Oh...” Vincent frowned, “well, there goes my idea to keep one as a pet.”

Slade gave the stable tenders her dock number, then she led him out onto the streets. They were both immediately caught in a torrent of wings and snouts. Several times, he tripped over an errant tail and fell to the ground, not sure whether the swearing that followed was his or if it belonged to the tail’s owner. They were almost impossible to avoid, like walking on a ground full of pythons.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the wings on his back, being under the control of a mind not meant for them, kept spreading and getting into peoples' faces. Eventually, he had to physically reach back, grab them with his hands, and pull them around himself to hold them still. The posture drew several strange looks from those he passed by. So, he stayed close to the walls, away from the opposing stampedes. When they found an alley, Slade pulled him aside.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“I will be if we can find a place to amputate these,” he said, referring to the wings. He shook his head. “This is ridiculous...just give me a moment. I swear, you may have to hold my damn hand. It's just chaos out there.”

“The crowds will thin,” Slade said, “we are still near the beastrun, where they are the densest.”

“Why don't we use that teleportation ring you have?” Vincent asked, “you could go to wherever we're going to, and you could teleport me there.”

“Since you do not know how to use one, your attempt would make a scene.”

“Fair enough.”

“–What is the matter with you?”

Vincent and Slade turned to look at the speaker, who was talking to an obese channeler. The creature, whose blue eyes glowed dully, was leaning over a barrel as if he were preparing to puke in it. Sweat gathered around his snout, glistening in Meldohv’s ambience. His cheeks puffed with each breath and his eyes darted around, chasing phantoms.

“Sike! What’s the matter with you?” the channeler’s wife said.

“Stop bending my wing!” Sike snapped, throwing a wing out to push her back. “Give me a moment, dammit!”

He looked as if he had swallowed a bottle of poison. His irises were filled with sheer terror. But it took only a few moments and a few deep breaths for him to recover.

“What is the matter with you? Salok traveled all the way from Tremolm to see us! What is with–”

“–Something is wrong,” Sike spat.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t...I don’t know. Naikira’s wing...” he muttered as he shoved off the barrel and wiped his snout. That was when he saw Vincent. “What about you?” he asked, “am I the only one feeling this or do you feel it too?”

“You’re talking to me?” Vincent asked.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you! You’re the only other gloweye nearby! Did you feel that just now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“Oh...”

“Sike, come on...” his wife said.

“I said give me a damn moment!” Sike took a few moments to recover himself. “Okay, I think I’m better now. Sorry. Let’s go back to Salok...”

Their voices trailed off as Slade and Vincent watched them both leave.

“What the heck was that about?” Vincent wondered. Slade didn’t answer.

After Vincent took a few more moments to orient himself, they continued onward. Slade was right, the further away they traveled from the beastrun, the thinner the crowds became. It was still hectic, but at least he could actually see where he was walking.

The green sector was arranged as a network of large, octagonal plazas connected to each other by alleys and streets. There was a plaza dedicated to food vendors, another dedicated to craftsmen and blacksmiths, another dedicated to aluntai who sold artificial conduits. There was even a considerably large area dedicated to zerok vendors, who appeared to be selling raw ore and materials to numerous merchants. Vincent watched as one of Kyrotin's kin hefted a huge chunk of rock in its beak and loaded it into the wagon of a buyer.

Scattered around Meldohv were enormous, dome-shaped lattices. They reminded Vincent of the jungle gyms he used to see in playgrounds, except they towered over all the other buildings. Zerok flew in and used these structures as perches. From there, they watched the marketgoers come and go.

The center of each plaza was occupied by performers. Vincent found himself mesmerized as a masked puppeteer entertained a gathering of youths with a couple of marionettes. His wing membranes were painted with elaborate patterns that he used to form the backdrop of various scenes, which shifted depending on how he folded them. Nearby, a creature had a hose jammed up one of his nostrils. The hose trailed over his shoulder into a glass vessel that he embraced in one of his wings. Scurrying around a charred piece of wood inside the vessel were a bunch of beetles that flashed with bursts of light. Smoke rose from their carapaces. The creature's eyes drooped with intoxication as the smoke he inhaled poured from his maw.

He took one long draw, sending the insects inside the vessel flying. One of them got sucked up the hose and a second later, the creature sneezed, sending the tip of the hose shooting out of his nostril, still connected to it by a thick string of mucus. Somebody stepped through it before they could stop themselves, shouted at the creature and wiped his own snot on him. For a few moments, he didn’t even react. But then he looked around and went “Huuuuuhhhhhhh?”

Slade led Vincent to a plaza filled with tailors and seamstresses. Hundreds of horn caps and horn guards hung like ornaments from the rims of their booths. Some of them were simple leather guards while others were flourished with colorful jewelry and frills. There were dozens of Falian garments hanging from the racks. Some looked as slick as velvet or as vivid as Navajo tapestry, while others looked to be more pragmatic: favoring durability over fashion.

She took him to none of these. Instead, she led him down an alleyway filled with permanent brick and mortar shops. His attention was drawn to the windows of one such shop, which were filled with the clay busts of Falian heads. The dummies' horns were showcasing polished inlays and jewel inlays. Others had their horns carved into various shapes. Several more busts demonstrated repair work: a sequence of cracked horns being filled and polished. Vincent took a peek through another window where he witnessed a Falian lying back in a “barber chair” type seat. His eyes were shut while a Falian scraped away an oval divot into his horn with a curved chisel, preparing it for an inlay.

“Are these guys some sort of 'horn doctors'?” Vincent asked.

“They repair and make alterations to racks.” Slade gave a disinterested glance through the window. “Why, do you wish for yours to shimmer, Vincent Cordell?”

“I didn't think I could possibly look more ridiculous,” he scoffed, “but I think that just might do it. It's...interesting though. I'm digging the pattern on this one.” He pointed to a bust with an inlay of polished red stone forming a checkered grid that wrapped around the horns.

“'Digging'...the pattern?”

“It means I like it.”

“Two hundred trine for straight sets or gentle curves,” Slade read, “five hundred for curled or unusual sets.”

“Ah well, that sounds a bit discriminatory. I'll make sure to smite these guys first when I develop my full powers. I won't tolerate discrimination in the new world I plan to create.”

Slade didn’t respond to this remark, instead, she led him further down the alley. Several siliths scampered out up the walls, chattering as they passed. They came upon a large shop with a wooden sign dangling over the doorway. Several winged wooden mannequins greeted the patrons as they entered. But before they could reach the door, a channeler stepped out, followed by his friend.

“Zent,” the one without the glowing eyes said, “what is wrong with you? Clemen's prices are fair for what he is offering!”

“Not that...” the channeler said, leaning his arm against the wall. He didn't look so good. “Not his prices, they’re fine. I don't feel well.”

“But he is waiting for an answer! You can't just walk out like that!”

The channeler searched his pocket and placed three purple gems into his friend's palm, “Get the green pair, she loves green. If they are too big, she will grow into them. I’ll meet you at the center. I need to take a walk.”

Without waiting for a response, Zent left his aghast companion behind and walked in the opposite direction. Vincent tried to exchange a look with Slade, but the kiolai's eyes were fixed on the departing channeler, her ears twitching. After a few moments, she led him through the door. He immediately caught sight of Salish dressed in dark brown leathers, considering a set of shoes. The avian-like Falian was impossible to miss with his large, feather-like plumage. He almost started when he noticed them enter.

“We will now speak Upper Meldohn,” Slade whispered.

“Right,” Vincent said, “I'll speak in English.”

Salish put the shoes down and came up to them both. “Vincent Cordell,” he said, “Kiolai. Greetings, I should think. How are you? Salish Rakheel.”

Slade uttered a bored greeting. Salish nodded, then he looked at Vincent expectantly.

“Wish you guys had a coffee shop,” Vincent said, “but I'm fine. By the way, try not to take this the wrong way, but why are you here again? I mean, specifically here, in this shop.”

“You can learn a lot about a society from what kinds of clothes they choose and the things they buy,” Salish said, “your choices will perhaps teach me things about your people that you may not even be aware of.”

“Uh...okay. I doubt that, but fine.”

Vincent wasn’t sure he would be comfortable with Salish taking notes and asking questions while he looked around. Fortunately, the tuhli was subtle with his observations as Vincent walked around. Like everything in Falius, it was surreal to stand in a shop that was specifically tailored to dragonoids. The walls were lined with drapery for wings and horns, sleeves for tails. Ornamental snout masks dangled like wind chimes near the windows, looking like plague doctor masks that had been cut in half. He grabbed one that was woven with glass beads and tried it on.

“Well?” he turned to Salish, “does it hide my face?”

“It...it is a mask,” the tuhli said, unsure of how else to answer. “And the sign says to ask before trying on.”

“Shit.” Vincent removed it and hang it back up on its hook. “I can’t read your language.”

Salish made a short note of that fact while Vincent explored the shop. Occasionally, he had to grab his wings and pull them in so he wouldn’t knock things over. Eventually, he came upon the bust of a head whose horns were shaped like his own: curled like a ram’s. Only they were covered in loose plush sleeves whose ends dangled off the tips of the horns, draping down the front of the chest. At the tip of each sleeve was a ball of fluff. It was as if somebody had grabbed a court jester’s ears and pulled until they were permanently stretched. Beneath the bust was a basket filled with more of the sleeves, each a different color.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Vincent said, taking a few out of the basket. “Am I allowed to try these on?”

“The sign doesn’t say not to,” Salish said.

Vincent took a pair of mismatched sleeves and slid them over his horns like socks. The excess lengths flopped across his frontside. “Are these for...for clowns?” he asked, feeling whimsical and ridiculous.

“Clowns?” Salish repeated, “uh...no, they are a fashion...among people with curled racks.”

“You’re pulling my leg.” He looked around for a mirror until he found one. When he saw his reflection, he scoffed. “There’s no way somebody’s walking around wearing these without being some sort of clown. Just...why? Why would you wear something like this?”

Salish continued to make more notes. Vincent pulled them off and handed them to Slade.

“Here, you try them on,” he said.

“No.”

“Come on, I think they would look good on you. Salish says they are a fashionable item.”

“Only for curled horns. No.”

“Are you sure?” Vincent held up the ridiculous garment. “I really do think they would look good on you.”

“When you are done attempting to court me,” she said, “put those back.”

“Court you...” It took him a few seconds to realize what she said, then he cringed. “Oh God! Ew! No! Just...no.” He shuddered and put the sleeves back into their basket. “Here I was having some fun and you just had to make everything weird.”

She led him to the counter, behind which a stern-looking creature with a chiseled snout stood, deep in discussion with Zent's friend.

“–does this sometimes. You know how they are,” the latter said in an exasperated tone to the tailor, who nodded as he wrapped a pair of tiny green shoes in pressed ohnite.

“I had a few gloweyes snap their jaws at each other this morning,” the tailor said, “no offense to your brother.”

“You’ve noticed that too? I’ve seen several channelers acting agitated, like they have tail rot, or some sort of sickness. And now Zent...Anyway, I think my niece will like these. Thank you. You have a good day, Clemen.”

Zent’s brother put the shoes in his pack and headed toward the door. Though he spared a moment to give Vincent a cursory glance, then continued on his way.

“Lady,” the tailor, Clemen, greeted Slade. He rasped with a voice that sounded as if it had been exposed to too much smoke. A slight curl raised the corners of his old mouth as he attempted to smile. “What can I do for you today?”

“I am not here for myself,” Slade said, “I bring a visitor with me from a distant land. Unfortunately, through an unprecedented mishap, he lost most of his clothes during his travels.”

Fucking hell, Vincent thought, please continue to make me sound like a dumbass.

“How unfortunate,” Clemen drawled, “well, I may be able to help your friend. I assume he is the strange looking channeler standing behind you?”

“He is.” Vincent said.

“Ah...” Clemen said, “do not take my comments on your appearance personally. I suppose you need a measuring first.”

He grabbed a pair of thick glasses and hung them from his horns instead of his ears. The lenses made his yellow irises look comically large. Vincent gritted his teeth as he was made to stand on a stool and pose with open arms and spread wings. He tried to ignore his blue reflection in the mirror by closing his eyes. Salish began to scribble down notes on a pad he had been carrying in his wing while Clement took measurements of his extremities.

“Remove the garment you have tied around your waist,” Clemen demanded. Vincent reached down and untied the hoodie he had been carrying. Then he handed it to the tailor, who stopped at the sight of it. “You are the Diac's guest?” he asked in surprise.

“Yeah...how’d you know?”

“He had me work on this garment. Didn’t say why it had no horn ports or notches for your wings. The weave is a technique I have never seen, but it was a bit...oversighted to leave those out. Who made this?”

“American Giant,” Vincent said.

“I...will not even attempt to pronounce that.” Clemen grumbled as he hung the garment on a rack. He fiddled with the zipper tab for a bit, perhaps curious about its function. After Vincent’s measurements were recorded and written down, Clemen gave him back the hoodie. He put it on and zipped it up.

“Ohhh...hold on there,” Clemen said, “what did you just do?”

“What?” Vincent asked.

“That thing you did, how did you do it?” Clemen insisted, “on your frontside.”

“What...this?” Vincent unzipped the hoodie and zipped it back up,

“Ohhhh OH!” Clemen leaned in like a dog examining something interesting, his eyes darting behind their thick lenses. His reaction turned several heads. “Do it again, slowly.”

Bewildered, Vincent ran the zipper down his front and slowly zipped it back up.

“May I?” Clemen asked. But he didn’t wait for Vincent’s permission before grabbing the zipper and examining it in his hands. “The teeth interlock...” he grumbled to himself, “this mechanism is ingenious...a work of art. And...” he pulled it all the way down until it unhooked.

“It’s just a zipper...” Vincent said. Clemen didn’t appear to hear him.

“I will give you a discount if you let me take wax impressions of these,” Clemen tapped Vincent’s chest.

“Um...sure. Have at it.” Vincent allowed Clemen to take his hoodie to the back room. A few minutes later, he came back and returned it. He was afraid the zipper would be gunked up, but he only found a few specks of wax in the teeth. They fell out easily.

He spent the next hour looking at different fabrics and describing what he wanted. It was challenging because he had no idea what that was. On one hand, he was surrounded by alien fabrics that exploded with flamboyance and color. On the other hand, choosing clothes for this creature whom he inhabited was like choosing bars for a prison. But hoods to hide in and dark colors appeared to be a common theme. He wanted to wrap himself in darkness and hide from this crazy world. He also wanted to wear clothes that reminded him of Earth, so he asked the tailor to recreate his jacket, albeit modified for Falian use. After they were done, Slade left a deposit and the three of them left.

“Well, did you learn anything extraordinary about us 'Earthlings'?” Vincent asked Salish.

“It is too early to say,” the tuhli said, “these are all but pieces of a picture. The fabrics and designs you chose do seem to imply a preference toward simple pragmatism rather than flair. Is this a fashion of your people?”

“I don't know. It's probably just me,” Vincent said, “us engineering types aren't very fashionable. I don't buy many good clothes because I usually end up spilling flux on them or wrecking them.” He looked around. “Really, really wish you guys had a coffee shop. I am dragging my feet.”

“Dragging your feet?” Salish quoted, “is this an idiom?”

“I'm tired. That's what it means.” Vincent rubbed his eyes. “I am dragging my feet on the ground because I am so tired. I wish I had some coffee to wake me up.”

“I just saw a madel extract vendor rolling his cart back there,” Salish said, “if you are looking for something to wake you up, that is what I favor on long nights of study. Wait here...”

Before anybody could say anything, he ran off, leaving both Slade and Vincent behind. Slade stood, poised as always while he shifted from foot to foot. Finally, he backed up to the wall so that pedestrians could pass them by. Then he noticed Slade had her attention on a Falian youth who was cowering in her mother's arms. The child had eyes that reflected an unseen source of gray light. Slade stepped forward and stooped to the girl's level.

“Is everything well, little one?” she asked. Vincent’s ears twitched. There was a softness in Slade’s voice he hadn’t heard before.

The girl continued to tuck her snout into her mother's side. “She...is acting afraid of something,” the mother said, “I don’t know what and she won’t say when I ask her, sorry.”

“Hmm...” Slade nodded, stood back up, then she backed up against the wall alongside Vincent. He noticed her hand moving toward a dagger she had sheathed in her belt. It caressed the handle.

“Do you remember Tuls?” she asked quietly.

“I remember him,” he said, “yeah.”

“Channelers have the ability to sense the presence of malice as he did,” she explained, “several today have been acting strange.”

“Like that one who almost puked up his breakfast in that barrel earlier.”

“Indeed.”

“So, what does this mean?” Vincent watched the girl hide in her mother's wings.

“I do not know. But we must watch to see if more channelers exhibit this behavior.”

At that moment, Salish returned carrying two tiny cups, each smaller than shot glasses. The cups themselves were formed of pressed leaves that had been glazed with a waxy substance

“These are tiny,” Vincent said, carefully taking one. It felt delicate in his clawed grip.

“It is all you need,” Salish said as he sipped his, “and the leaves are edible.”

“I don't think you know how many espressos it takes to get me through the day. But thanks.” With that, Vincent downed the whole thing in one gulp. It was sweet, smooth, and it had the floral taste of honeysuckle nectar. He considered the cup briefly, then tossed it into his snout. He crunched down on it and bits of the cup tumbled like crumbs from the sides of his mouth.

“Where shall we go now?” Salish asked.

“I have no idea,” Vincent said, then he nodded toward Slade, “she says several channelers are freaking out about something. But we can go wherever. I mean...I’m an alien. So whatever you show me, I’m just...” He looked around at the surrounding area, taking it all in. “I’m like a kid at a fair. But I think first...we need to do something about my about my ‘mane’. Is there a barber nearby? This thing I’m in looks way too effeminate.”

“Barber?” Slade repeated, “I do not know this term. But if you wish to have your hair trimmed, there is a groomer nearby.”

“'Groomer?' What am I, a dog?”

Slade gave him a confused look as she led him further down the street. “What other word would I use?” she asked, “it is their job to 'groom'. 'Barber' is not part of any vernacular I have learned.”

“Groomer' makes it sound like they are going to check me for fleas and give me a French cut.” Vincent stopped himself. “Wait...you wouldn't even know what that is because you don't know what France is.”

“Indeed...”

“Come to think of it, how in the hell are you able to understand so much of what I am saying? I am using English contractions and slang. How are those being translated? It doesn’t make any sense. For example: Isn't, ain't, aren't, wasn't. What did I just say?”

“Uh...you said 'is not', 'am not', 'are not', and 'was not',” Salish said.

“I didn't, though,” Vincent said, “anyway, I guess it doesn't matter. So 'Kiolai', how do you think I would look with a 'Slade' cut?”

“A...'Slade' cut?” she repeated with narrowed eyes and a cocked brow.

“Bald. Shiny scalp with a little green braid sticking out the back of my skull.”

“Uh...” Salish cringed, “her cut marks her as a kiolai. It is something they treat with a respect akin to reverence. And you have to be licensed to wear it.”

“Well then...no offense intended,” Vincent said. There was a brief silence before he continued, “I have another question, though. I've been wondering about this for a few days, but how come some of you have hair while others don't? In fact, how come some of you have some facial features that others don’t?”

“What do you mean?” Salish asked.

“Well...for example, that guy over there has spines sticking out his cheeks, and the woman next to him has these...well, they look like 'fish fins' growing out of hers. That kid that just ran by has a crest on his head. And Thal'rin has these fleshy whisker-like things hanging from his snout, how come you all don't have those things? I'm just wondering what kind of crazy evolution your entire species went through to spawn such genetic diversity.”

They followed Slade to a relatively dull-looking brick and mortar building. It seemed out-of-place considering the jade and obsidian majesty that surrounded it. He was about to step inside when a female with glowing eyes exited the building, towing behind her two confused children. She had a terrified look on her face as she dragged them along, moving at a brisk pace. Seconds later, her husband came out with a bewildered expression on his snout, his mane half-trimmed. He looked around for her, saw her, then gave chase. Vincent blinked a few times, then he stepped inside.

The “groomers” were set up just like an old-fashioned barber shop. Yet the familiarity of such a scene only made it more surreal to see these creatures sitting in it, having their horns polished, hair and whiskers trimmed, and claws ground into various shapes. Vincent immediately either wanted to turn around and go back outside or tear his face off. But the substance Salish gave him made him bold. He just wanted to get this over with.

An obese female with orange skin and wide-set eyes called him over.

“You feeling the ill too, ish?” she asked.

“What?”

“You feeling the ill? Like that mother ya just saw? Lotsa channelers be acting strange. Been licking the ardvok powder, yes?”

The only part of the sentence that Vincent understood was “You feeling the ill?”

“Uh...I’m fine,” he said.

“Then what do you want, ish?” she asked, sounding bored. “Ish” must have been some honorific title merchants used to address customers, because it did not translate into English for him. “The cliff be popular with lotsa neckmanes like yourself. Or perhaps the hedge?”

“I don't know what you just said. Just give me something that will make me look less stupid.”

“Uhh...I do not know what you mean by that, ish.” she said, raising a brow.

“Do you see this face?” Vincent gestured his snout, “and this hair? See how stupid they both look? I don't have a clue what you people find to be fashionable. But just do something. Fix it.” His comments drew a few bemused stares from the other patrons.

“Tastes are subjective, ish,” the woman said, “I need you to tell me what you want or else I–”

“–Look 'ish',” Vincent interrupted. He was aware that he was drawing more attention. “The level of cringe in here is about to kill me, so can we not prolong this conversation? Just do what you think would look good on me. Give me something dignified. The only way you could possibly make this any worse than it is right now is if you dyed it pink and dumped a bunch of glitter all over it. My skull is your canvas! Have at it!”

She looked baffled for a few moments, but then she grabbed a pair of metal shears and had him lay back in the chair. Like the chairs in the archives, it had a back support to it, and he had to mount it by pivoting the tail into the slot meant for it. Salish chose a spot in the corner while Slade waited outside the entrance, looking out toward the street. Well, at least both of them wouldn't be standing there and watching.

One of the other patrons tried to engage him in conversation, asking him about the color of his hair. He briefly rehashed the lie he told in Teramin about a malfunctioning conduit that changed his hair and eye color, then left it at that. The ordeal was thankfully much shorter than the visit to the tailor's. When he stepped out onto the street, he felt more of a breeze around his ears and neck.

“I approve,” Slade said with a grin in her voice as she paid the groomer, “it matures your countenance.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Vincent grumbled. He had refused to look in the slab of polished metal they used as a mirror.

They left the court and simply wandered. Now that Slade had pointed it out, Vincent noticed more and more of the channelers he saw were indeed, agitated by something. Groups of them gathered together and spoke in hushed, inquiring whispers. Others seemed to pace in place and look around, as if expecting to be attacked. He recalled Tuls' words, shortly after Slade had apprehended him My father used to tell me that it is a gift, that I am able to see beauty and grotesqueness in places where others only see mundanity.

As they wandered, Salish peppered him with questions. He soon learned, however, that it was a fruitless effort. Vincent got distracted every few seconds by the sights Meldohv had to offer. There were vines climbing up the posts and walls. Pink petals as thin as hair drifted forth from their flowers like cilia, beating against the air. A few zerok feathers fell from the air as one of the creatures flew overhead, each the size of Vincent’s leg. An insect the size of a great dane skittered by with a proud looking child riding on its back. Vincent’s eyes didn’t know where to look. So many things were competing for his attention.

A young woman walked by, leading a young child with light blue scales by the hand. He saw Vincent and his eyes widened.

"Big ears!" he said, his hands making grabbing gestures in Vincent's direction. He broke away from his mother's grip and ran toward Vincent.

"What? Get back here!" she said.

"I want to grab the big ears…"

"No, you can't grab anybody's ears." The mother picked up the giggling youth and carried him off. He was still making grabbing gestures at Vincent, saying "grab, grab, grab, grab..."

"Huh…" Vincent muttered. He raised the hood on his hoodie and tucked his ears into it.

“Kiolai, may I ask you a question?” Salish asked.

“I believe you already have,” Slade said as the three of them walked.

“I heard you were offered a position with the shandan. I was wondering why someone with your reputation would turn it down?”

“The answer is simple: I prefer freedom,” she said, “I prefer the liberty that freelancing offers. I get to set my price, turn down assignments I deem not worth it and make decisions without having to report to a superior first.”

“But you report to Orth,” Vincent said.

“I have been in a contract with him for several years. As per our agreement, I would report and answer to him since he is the one who pays me. However, how I approach my assignments is mine to consider, as is the price I ask. I have sworn no oaths that bind me to his service. I can void the contract, leave whenever I desire and choose another employer.”

“So you are a bounty hunter.” Vincent hedged as he moved aside for a wagon.

“Well, yes,” she said, “the kiolai are more of a 'guild' of bounty hunters. We live by a set of codes, yet these guidelines are not as stringent as those imposed upon the shandan. Nor do they rob us of our desired flexibility. At the same time, they allow for...'camaraderie' among my peers. If two or more of us work in concert to hunt down a mark, then there are rules dictating how the pay is distributed. There is little bickering that may otherwise come if...say independent bounty hunters worked together.”

“But I have heard the shandan could benefit from somebody with your talents,” Salish said, “I have heard you are just as competent of a fighter as any of them. Is it true that you got into a prolonged battle with Yu'nox and won?”

Either it was Vincent's imagination, or Slade seemed to stiffen a bit. “It is not true.” She waited for a moment before adding, “the 'battle' was brief, not prolonged. Two strikes was all it took. He had not expected me to take a bet seriously.”

There was a commotion nearby. They were passing a bookstore when Vincent heard shouting from within.

“Out! Out!” somebody yelled.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next. A giant worm-like creature flopped through the entrance as it was chased by the owner, who waved a broom in his hand. Both of its ends had a ring of small tentacles with suckers on them, and it moved in the manner of a slinky, flipping end over end instead of crawling. The suckers at each end made loud squelching noises as it slinked. Vincent stepped aside at the last instant and let it pass by. It stopped for a moment, probed the air, the snail-eyes coming out of its midsection looked around. Then it flip-flopped toward a wall and scaled it. Using its suction to grip the stone, it slinked upward several times until it flung itself over the top. The owner of the bookstore, fuming, went back inside and accused somebody of feeding it.

“Did...that just happen?” Vincent muttered as he stared at the spot where it disappeared. He abruptly lost his shit a few seconds later.

“What the hell was that thing?” his voice cracked. Salish was about to answer when somebody on the other side of the wall yelled.

“Weaverflame! Somebody get that damn thing out of here!” The shouting was followed by the sound of pottery shattering. “Dammit!”

Vincent couldn’t talk for the next few minutes. He had to lean against a post to stabilize himself.

“Are...you going to be all right?” Salish asked.

Vincent tried to wave him off. “I’m good,” he wheezed, “it’s just...I didn’t expect...” He broke down into another fit of snickering.

“I believe this is the first time I have seen you smile,” Slade said.

“I don’t know why that was so damn funny...seriously, what the hell was that thing?”

Meldohv awoke something in him, a childlike wonder he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It seduced his eyes with its sights and captivated him with its sounds. For a time, it almost made him forget about his fears and his quandaries. He just wanted to explore. Every landmark enticed him. Every shop they stopped at stimulated his imagination. How long had it been since he felt this way? He was a kid, transported to a world of fairytales. Slade was right. It was the first time he’d smiled this much since coming to Falius. His face ached with the unfamiliar expression.

And yet, there lingered doubts behind the wonder. He never forgot his predicament, nor did he forget what Orth said. There was no gate. He wanted to take a break from the fear. He wanted to forget that the place he was so captivated by was his prison. But he couldn’t. He was trapped and helpless. So, even though he laughed and grinned, a trill of dread rested in his gut like a small pebble that he’d swallowed.

Then there were the channelers. Ever since Slade pointed it out, he could see that many of them were on edge about something. Small groups of them huddled together and whispered to each other. He didn’t catch their words as he walked by, but there was confusion and concern in their tones. Occasionally, he would catch one’s eyes and they would simply stop in their tracks and stare at him. He didn’t like that look. They could tell something was off about him. They could tell he was different. He was other.

Slade, Vincent, and Salish came upon a shop selling a bunch of stringed instruments. It was off the main roads, tucked away in one of the alleys. As such, there weren’t as many patrons. Vincent found his feet stopping in front of the store. He could see two or three caels resting against one of the walls. They caught his eyes, but they weren’t the reason he stopped. No, the instruments hanging in the windows were the reason.

They looked so much like guitars that he had to do a double take. The shape was familiar: a body, a neck, 5 strings instead of 6. And there was one extra, cael-like neck with a trio of strings. But even the frets on the main neck looked the same, though they were carved from bone instead of brass. Hesitating, he removed his hoodie and tied it around his chest so it would restrain his errant wings. Then he stepped inside with Slade and Salish in tow. The owner, a burly creature with droopy cheeks greeted them with a grunt.

“May I help you?” he asked.

Vincent looked at the instruments and asked if he could try one.

“Your hands,” the owner grunted, “show them to me.”

Bewildered, Vincent offered his hands. The creature took one and shook his head as he inspected Vincent’s claws.

“No,” he said, “you aren’t touching any of those. I have a beater you can try, and I can sell it to you if you like it.”

“A beater?” Vincent repeated. The creature grunted as he disappeared into the back room.

“Do you play an instrument, Vincent Cordell?” Slade asked.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, “well, I used to. I have a PRS I used to play all the time. I bought it used at a flea market. I used to shred pretty good.”

“A PRS?” Salish repeated, "shred?"

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain what they mean later.”

The owner returned, carrying a beat-up instrument in his hands. It was intact, but it was in rough shape. It was covered in scratches and the frets were dinged. Vincent was made to sit before he was allowed to hold it. When the instrument was placed in his hands, he reached up to the tuning pegs, which were mere friction tuners rather than geared tuners, and tuned each string by ear.

Satisfied, he brought his hand up to the eleventh position and tried to rest his fingers on the strings. But their balance was both shaky and precarious. The strings, though much thicker than guitar strings, were difficult to pin under his claws. His fingers wobbled as if they were wearing high heels. He tried to play a note, but his claw snagged on the string and produced a horrific twanging sound. He moved onto the next note in the sequence, his claws slipping on the frets. This time, he didn’t even get a note. It sounded as if it had been strangled at birth before it had a chance to exist.

It was a simple riff, one almost every guitarist was familiar with, one Vincent knew by heart. And yet he couldn’t play it. His hands were crippled. His fretting hand skated and slipped against the wood, his fingers fell out from under his palm. His playing hand kept snagging and tripping. Frustration twisted his gut. Every note was a violation to the ears. He tried to find familiarity. Instead, he was confronted with his ineptitude and reminded of his abduction. It was a scar his captor left behind. Frowning, he handed the instrument back to the owner and stepped outside.

“What was it you were trying to play?” Salish asked.

“Just the opening to a song called ‘Sweet Child of Mine’.” He untied his hoodie and put it back on. “Well, the ‘Saedharu’ is famished. I’m ready for some food.”

Vincent felt his stomach growl as they neared the court with all the food vendors. The air was filled with the zest of foreign spices and seared meat. They entered a large circle with coal pits scattered around them. Strange, skewered animals sizzled as they turned over flames, street chefs dual-wielded their knives while their wings held down the numerous vegetables and fruit for dicing. Glass tanks crawled with big-eyed tentacled monstrosities which shifted colors from second to second. Two caelists performed in the center. Though their music was not as ethereal as the phantom tunes he heard in the Molan Tierre forest, they added an energetic, percussive pulse to the plaza. It was a satisfying sound.

An ear-piercing screeching drew Vincent’s attention. A food vendor was fighting with a dog-sized crustacean whose pincers snapped at the air. He held it down while his partner grabbed a hammer and bashed the creature’s head in.

“Good God...” Vincent said as the vendors chopped the creature into pieces. They pulled out its meat, tossed it into a boiling cauldron and followed it up with handfuls of fresh herbs and vegetables. The fact that both vendors were covered from head to toe in scars meant that they must have handled this kind of critter all the time.

Next to them, a grill sizzled with kebabs. The vendor behind the grill flipped them over, took some off and hung them on a rack, where they swayed like pendulums. There were booths with exotic fruits of all shapes and sizes. Turquoise citruses, star-shaped gourds, clusters of multicolored berries decorated the booths.

“Well?” Slade said, “what do you want?”

Vincent didn't know. There were too many options… too many.