FSE

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"Environments are scattered at seemingly random by the Terra Formers. You will note a thin, shimmering blue aura separates one between the other. These are World-Barriers that keep each environment self-contained; water, you, and anything on your person may pass freely, but the elements cannot. This does not mean it is safe to do so, always take caution when entering unexplored territory." ~Guide, Chapter 4.

We slinked our way through the division, the way I had entered. Caroline following behind me with a sense one cannot call sight, yet we knew which way to go. Travis waited above in sleep mode as per usual, and once we appeared Caroline's eyestalk was a red blur as it scanned for any bad business. Travis woke upon the handshake with the eye, and gave the all clear sign. This peace wouldn't last. Soon we would surely be on the list of wanted enemies of our own home. I was on a fool's errand before, but now I'm in a group which is stranded but with only one hope.

According to the SCP ad our would-be employers were in Hackney, a slug mining camp east of the Korewood. I'm no stranger to the area at all, both as part of a trade group and band member. What doesn't make sense is the reward. Slugs don't eat meat, and almost always offer raw materials or technology for trade. We needed more info regardless, and so our trek's first stop would be at the river that fed the trees not far northeast of our location. Hackney rests under the plains. We crash for a bit at my hideout until dusk, and then make our way to the World-Barrier.

The river is a rather picturesque place. Rushing water with the occasional rock through a grass laden plain, starting with a waterfall up from the snowy mountains that fed it past the northern world-barrier. The moon even reflects off of the water if you look in the right places. A lot more Chrea would be settled here, if only it wasn't for the constant humming coming from the ground and the possibility of being torn in half by a rogue digger. Slugs don't mine for precious materials like eons past, and instead dig through thousands of years of human history represented in a monument of steel and old data. It's far better to recycle these materials left behind after The Birthright for both the Earth and us. This process doesn't normally harm anyone above ground, but every now and then their carving lasers will miss the target and rarely pass through the ground. Anyone who comes in contact with these lasers in any shape or form are instant kitty litter, but fortunately this has a miniscule chance of happening. Everyone is too spooked to live around this specific river because of that, which means the only residents are either traders or cave dwellers where the mining won't strike.

Travis at least can detect right when a drilling error is going to happen, but we'd rather not tempt the fates for approximately 50 miles. As we are rather small creatures compared to most predators, the best way to travel is swiftly. At my hideout among the other rubbish we un-hid Travis's pocket bike and my custom all-terrain skateboard, which we would need to make any sort of safe pace. Caroline rode with Travis, while my chain whip latched easily to the back of the motorcycle with a magnetic attachment for a free ride. Sure, I could just kick on the hover mode but I'd rather not waste the batteries.

Food being low at the clan's storage meant that we only have limited supplies even with our dried provisions, and this hostile environment means no food except for the average Whitefish that unwillingly comes down from the cold. Talk about luxury for a price. I've heard stories of fish being such imbeciles that bears could just stick a paw in the water and yank one out, or humans could just stick a string with a hook on a wooden pole to drag a fish into the air. These are definitely pre-Birthright tales of yore. Only birds can realistically catch a fish that isn't packing arms scott-free. I've heard tales of the more organized schools carrying even anti-aircraft guns on banks. Either way there's no time to sit around a single area and wait around eating and making jerky, unless you'd like to experience becoming jerky yourself. Like most carnivores I can eat raw meat just fine, but food preservation has been a virtue for us Sand Cats for as long as we've been on the Earth.

Almost halfway down the underground path, we find a tunnel to the left marked at the entrance with the Seer's Crest. For those not in the know, it looks like a yellow circle composed of arrows pointing outwards. I decide that I might be lucky and get a reading for free, since I'm most likely the center of her received warnings anyway. Despite what some may tell you, even Seers themselves, divination and limited future sight isn't magic. Nor is it fake. It's a bunch of holier-than-thou ceremony and formality built around the ability to contact unseen things, like the hidden messages of our dreams and the psychic residue left behind by the dead. The fee just happens to raise with those formalities. One universal role though: only one person admitted at a time for a reading. We draw straws, and it looks like I'm it.

Lyra's not quite like most Seers, only partially because of her demeanor being not one bit sagely. Which is exactly why I'm quite taken to her and visit whenever I'm around. We exchange the usual greeting all non-clan members outside of sheep give: guns out and pointed, we slowly walk towards each other until we meet and exchange arms. Only after our familiar scent and arms are felt comes the more friendly hugs and catching up, her words not matching the movements of her mouth as the translators in our ears modulate her squeaks into speech I can more readily understand.

We've settled down with tea between us, in a sort of living room hollowed out of the back thanks to a stray beam. We're at a table with a giant candleabrum, built for four candles to be used in the divination. Any other seer would so much as blush at casually drinking tea at the shrine, amid the elaborate mural on the wall behind Lyra. It depicted the three fates measuring and cutting of the thread of life. She sits her tea down to speak. "You're about the forest. I wish that you'd turn back, but... y'know how it is already, I can't stop it from happening." A light wince punctuates her meaning. I know that look immediately, something's wrong. Last time that happened our caravan leader ended up with his foot on a platter, but I learned early on to not inquire as to what. "I figured you'd already know. You wouldn't happen to have anything to say?"

"You know the rules, the three fates." I just like hearing Lyra bring it up. It never fails to fascinate me that beyond ancient human Greek myths continue to influence little things all over the world. It's something that started long ago, back to our earliest discoveries. Lyra starts by lighting a candle at our table, the leftmost. As she chants a different line another candle is lit, until all but one of the four in the center.

"Birth. The word of beginnings."

"Life. The word of an arctic fox from the highest mountain north of the river."

"Death. The psychic imprint of a deer from the forest."

"You may now ask each fate one question." Clotho is always about the start or birth of an incident, Lachesis is about the present or regular talk, Atropos is the opposite of Clotho and talks about the end or death. Answers can only be short. I pause to consider my options.

"I ask Clotho: where is the start of the Korewood's strife?

"The spider was the first to appear, not the fox. I see them trying to summon something."

"I ask Lachesis: who am I fated to ask before I leave?"

"There are murmurs of a sheep returning to this land, after a long absence. He is your source."

"I ask Atropos: will we all survive this quest?"

"No. Someone among you will die." As Lyra said this, I could hear an audible gulp.

With this she lit the center candle. "Go in peace, child of fate." On that note, I thanked Lyra and got moving. We had already been on the move most of the night, so dawn shouldn't be long.