Blue-green spires and brambles of soft needles rose to a canopy well beyond sight in the steam-filled air. The floor of the pine jungle was dark at all times of day as the great arms of the trees held up a hillscape of snow high above, leaving tall caverns of wood and soil below. Beneath Ovi’s snake leather boots, the soft, damp floor of the jungle heaved with spring water, fallen needles, and the rare patch of exposed mud where the roots had broken through.
The harsh calls of crows and crickets filled the air, and a yellow-orange glow shone through the few breaks in the arbor's grip.
This environment was a shelter for life in the cold of the mountains, although few species survived in such a lightless place. The atlas pines which held up the snowdrifts in turn swallowed all sunlight, producing an ecosphere of scavengers and things which preferred shade. Here reigned such strange creatures as the raven moths whose wings outspanned the length of the forearm, and the sprawling heaps of sporecreep which clung to the base of the trees like a living quilt. Even in a place like this, however, predators lurked with eyes locked in carnivorous glow, watching for the occasional fool deer or wumbertusk to pass the wrong way.
Nonetheless, Ovi felt well equipped to deal with whatever hells this place had to offer her. Her flexfoil jumpsuit was patched and padded with tough, matted leather over the vitals and extremities, and a sharpened steel scimitar hung at her chain-like belt. Across her back was strapped her tent satchel, filled with three days worth of travelcake, tools for any occasion, and reagents galore packed in vials and tubes of idleglass. Her canteen remained nearly full, and this jungle proved no problem with the abundance of potable water from the hot springs and plentiful edible fungus in the undergrowth.
All this considered, the resourcefulness of a Qemian monk was more compounding to her abilities than any other asset. She carried her Torch an arms length ahead of her eyes, and to call such a thing merely a source of light would be disgraceful to its capacity as a tool and weapon. It was at this time just a cool flame rising from a metal grip, fueled by a small pump of powdered fuel. In addition to the score of chemicals she carried, the world around her was a laboratory of its own. She knew that each of the trees were filled with atlas resin, which could be used to heal wounds that pierced as deep as half an inch into the flesh. In this place one could find the drunkard’s cap mushroom or the mirewort root, and from there have access to numerous salts, alcohols, and vitriols, each of which she could personally name.
Her watchful eyes took care to note of how every last piece of this place interacted with another, every last reaction that could be made. This was the Qemian way.
She had read of such a place long before. The Pine Jungle of Prandia was a place spoken of in the encyclopedias back home in Su Bagan as one of the great natural wonders. From the peaks and cliffs of the Crevka Mountains looking down at the valleys below, all one could see is a rolling expanse of snow, unaware of what lay beneath. The atlas pines were taller than most towers that had ever been built, and their great, sprawling branches curled and twisted together in the canopy like the flying buttresses on the cathedrals of old, holding up a winter's worth of snow which blotted out the vital rays of the sun. Deep beneath, their roots sunk into the active springs below, trapping steam and warmth, and feeding off of the rich chemicals below in symbiosis with a multitude of species of worms and microbes. The result were would had sometimes been referred to as “living caves” by those who had traveled this way.
It was beautiful, but it was also dangerous, and not a place to stay long. The chemist monk sought the city of Prand, just to the south of this terrible mire. There she was to meet with a man named Prelzer Prawlsen. Each day she had made several miles since she left the free port of Strivogo down this path appropriately called the Prandian trail (which was, in many places, completely overgrown from lack of use), and she knew from the occasional stone and sign of human passage she was nearing the end of her time in this strange and alien place.
As the world grew darker, and less and less light crept through the canopy above, it became clear to Ovi that she was not going to make any more progress this day. Her legs grew tired and her nightly ritual awaited her, but not before dinner. Meditation was difficult on an empty stomach.
She found a spot of harder, dry earth not far off the trail. After emptying the contents of her tent satchel, she unfolded the plexic structure on the ground in front of her, connecting the frame of the pack until it was a small shelter, barely large enough for a single person, but enough for a traveler who had little need for luxury. She pounded four stakes into the earth, holding it into place. From there, she placed the majority of her belongings back inside. With her torch firmly planted in the ground, she calmly gathered stones, twigs, and dead fungus from the underbrush nearby, in the hopes of being able to build a fire.
Her long hands combed through flexic and glass tubes of a variety of colors and shapes, bound together by soft leather which prevented them from rattling with her steps. She had everything a traveling chemis could possibly need: there was the soft, heavy swirls of yostrogen, the intense purple glow of firefly vitriol, the soft reflective form liquid metal that was quicksilver. In addition were a multitude of the base essentials; chloric salt and acid, fermented alcohol, flour and sugar.
There was one in particular which she had in mind. From her kit of reagents she drew a finger-sized test tube filled with swirls of red and green within, which she knew to be what was called phlogifluid. After uncorking the tube with a loud pop, its sulfurous scent overwhelmed her for a moment, as she had grown used to the mild pine scent and the stuffing of her nose from the cool air. She poured a few drops of the noxious liquid onto the kindling, and it immediately erupted into waves of flame and smoke. This was one of the more dangerous chemicals she carried with her at any given time, and she returned the cork to its container, acknowledging the potential consequence of leaving it out in the open.
From there, she took a miniature skillet and three of the mushrooms she had gathered over the course of the day which appeared to be safe. Two were thick, sanguine drunkard’s caps, and one was a sweet, tender swilltop. She knew they would not be particularly filling, so she broke of half of one of her dry, doughy travelcakes and added it to the pan, pouring water and chopping with her knife as she went until there was nothing but a tan and grey mash before her. While it was not particularly appetizing to the eyes, the bread and mushrooms together had a welcoming aroma.
The natural stores of alcohol in the drunkard’s cap provided an unprecedented sharpness to the flavor, and she found herself far more satisfied with the result than she had expected. Having spent two years in the great kitchen hall of Su Bagan as a child, she usually knew how to bring out decent flavor on limited resources. While salt might have added to it, she dared not waste even one of the precious grains on such a thing; in its pure form, chloric salt was one of a Qemian's most vital reagents.
Her stomach now calmed and extremities warmed, she felt she was ready to begin. Next, she reached into her tent and allowed her hands to pass over the small containers of chemicals, eyes following the colors in the flickering firelight, until she found one which contained a dark amber substance. This was pramba oil.
She pressed her back against the solid form of one of the atlas pines and sat cross legged on the hard earth, eyes focused on her campfire. She drew the small flexic piece to her lips and allowed a small amount to her tongue, which struck with a slight bitter sense. Her breathing became heavier, and the pramba oil began to sink into her mind, a catalyst of the changes to her thoughts. Her focus completely drawn to the fire, her mind altered and twisted in the chemicals.
The pramba oil tradition had been carried for countless years among Qemians, an extract of the Pramba Nut, which challenged the senses and seemed to morph reality among its users. It was a unique sort of change, not stupifying like alcohol, nor inducing of delirium, like the smoke from the promfox plant. Those who used it and knew it well claimed that it was the greatest asset for a mind that sought to understand the nature of the world, and Ovi was one who appreciated its results.
Soon, the night sounds of the jungle, which had previously simply been a background of chatter, came to the forefront as banging, clashing, roaring, forceful like the cymbals of a marching jamboree, but in a strangely ordered, pulsing cadence. The fire which was before her bent and flowed across her entire vision, no longer an uncontrolled reaction, but an interwoven pattern of red and orange thatch, flowing in several perfect cones. Everything she perceived became a grand collection of interactions, and she could see the great unwinding of these across time. She no longer saw mere flames, but the life cycle of the trees and all that organic matter which burned before her, the eruption of light the conflagration produced arrayed in neat rays projecting outward from her pile, the swirling spirals of ash and dust which rose and intermingled with the steamy air.
She felt the lifespan of the trees and all the paths and angles the branches took in their grand and sweeping arcs, the heaving and undulation of the world above as the mass of snow strained the great pines, the fluttering and rolling of the canvas of her tent in the cool breeze as waves of air passed in and out of the caverns, and how it compared with her own pulse, deeply regular and slow, and the flow it took through her body. She closed her eyes, and all the matter withered, all the sound and sight dimmed.
In such a trance, the world melted away, leaving her all alone with the geometries of reality. She saw nothing but reactions in the theater of her own thoughts, and there could have been nothing more alive.
Just a few minutes later, her eyes flashed open. She was back in the world of naked senses. The fire flickered at a reasonable pace, the sound of the jungle returned to the background. The pramba oil produces its effect intensely and briskly, but subsides at a similar pace.
Two bright yellow eyes stared back at her from the shadows of the jungle.
The first reaction of most would be to draw their blade, but Ovi was no swordswoman at heart; it was her last resort. A great furry mass of grey and green roared most angrily and hurled itself out of the brush, twice her size and aimed at her throat. Ovi dropped and rolled as the monster lunged and felt her body trip through its hind leg and the scrape of a claw against her shin. Clear of the beast’s grip, adrenaline pumped through her flesh. Ovi’s hand grabbed the Torch firmly planted into the ground, and her thumb cranked its main toggle forward. She pointed it towards her feline stalker, and brilliant white light erupted from its peak.
In the glow of the flare-like tool, she was able to identify the creature: the Prandian woolly tiger, whose massive body arched not three cubits from the end of her hand. Stripes of gray and viridian wrapped longitudinally around its heavy frame. Its menacing face and eyes bore the complexion of its orange and black cousin, and its great ivory fangs hung low over its savage, drooling chin. Beneath that coat it was clear that its abdomen bowed concave, and it had been far too long since its last bloody dinner.
If this had been a mountain lion or another predator, Ovi presumed it might have fled in terror of such a brilliant light, but her foe simply stood and stepping in a menacing radius around her. It recognized the fear in her eyes and the hunger at its own core, and knew there was no other option at this point than to split her throat. Its eye contact was unwavering and she felt her hands begin to shake.
There was only so much steel sugar powder jammed in the chassis of the Torch; it could only burn at this light for under a minute’s worth of time. Her trembling left hand snared the scimitar, knowing full well that no one cut she could make with her own arms would slay her foe, but one firm grip of the tiger’s jaw and she would be helpless.
Its well lit body began to dim again in the dark, and its radius of approach diminished again. It began to move directly forward towards her, back arched downward and tail curled for the death pounce. She considered all of her options: attempting to take steel to its eyes, dropping the Torch and making a surprise attack, potentially even trying to run. Nothing seemed viable, except maybe one hope, if she could blow the damn thing up.
She pushed her thumb against the Torch’s toggle as far as it would go, and the white flame it emitted exploded towards her assailant, but it pounced backwards, away from the sudden blast. She pulled the toggle back to its shorter light but the fuel was dying and she knew nothing could save her now and the beast made its last coil-
The harsh calls of crows and crickets filled the air, and a yellow-orange glow shone through the few breaks in the arbor's grip.
This environment was a shelter for life in the cold of the mountains, although few species survived in such a lightless place. The atlas pines which held up the snowdrifts in turn swallowed all sunlight, producing an ecosphere of scavengers and things which preferred shade. Here reigned such strange creatures as the raven moths whose wings outspanned the length of the forearm, and the sprawling heaps of sporecreep which clung to the base of the trees like a living quilt. Even in a place like this, however, predators lurked with eyes locked in carnivorous glow, watching for the occasional fool deer or wumbertusk to pass the wrong way.
Nonetheless, Ovi felt well equipped to deal with whatever hells this place had to offer her. Her flexfoil jumpsuit was patched and padded with tough, matted leather over the vitals and extremities, and a sharpened steel scimitar hung at her chain-like belt. Across her back was strapped her tent satchel, filled with three days worth of travelcake, tools for any occasion, and reagents galore packed in vials and tubes of idleglass. Her canteen remained nearly full, and this jungle proved no problem with the abundance of potable water from the hot springs and plentiful edible fungus in the undergrowth.
All this considered, the resourcefulness of a Qemian monk was more compounding to her abilities than any other asset. She carried her Torch an arms length ahead of her eyes, and to call such a thing merely a source of light would be disgraceful to its capacity as a tool and weapon. It was at this time just a cool flame rising from a metal grip, fueled by a small pump of powdered fuel. In addition to the score of chemicals she carried, the world around her was a laboratory of its own. She knew that each of the trees were filled with atlas resin, which could be used to heal wounds that pierced as deep as half an inch into the flesh. In this place one could find the drunkard’s cap mushroom or the mirewort root, and from there have access to numerous salts, alcohols, and vitriols, each of which she could personally name.
Her watchful eyes took care to note of how every last piece of this place interacted with another, every last reaction that could be made. This was the Qemian way.
She had read of such a place long before. The Pine Jungle of Prandia was a place spoken of in the encyclopedias back home in Su Bagan as one of the great natural wonders. From the peaks and cliffs of the Crevka Mountains looking down at the valleys below, all one could see is a rolling expanse of snow, unaware of what lay beneath. The atlas pines were taller than most towers that had ever been built, and their great, sprawling branches curled and twisted together in the canopy like the flying buttresses on the cathedrals of old, holding up a winter's worth of snow which blotted out the vital rays of the sun. Deep beneath, their roots sunk into the active springs below, trapping steam and warmth, and feeding off of the rich chemicals below in symbiosis with a multitude of species of worms and microbes. The result were would had sometimes been referred to as “living caves” by those who had traveled this way.
It was beautiful, but it was also dangerous, and not a place to stay long. The chemist monk sought the city of Prand, just to the south of this terrible mire. There she was to meet with a man named Prelzer Prawlsen. Each day she had made several miles since she left the free port of Strivogo down this path appropriately called the Prandian trail (which was, in many places, completely overgrown from lack of use), and she knew from the occasional stone and sign of human passage she was nearing the end of her time in this strange and alien place.
As the world grew darker, and less and less light crept through the canopy above, it became clear to Ovi that she was not going to make any more progress this day. Her legs grew tired and her nightly ritual awaited her, but not before dinner. Meditation was difficult on an empty stomach.
She found a spot of harder, dry earth not far off the trail. After emptying the contents of her tent satchel, she unfolded the plexic structure on the ground in front of her, connecting the frame of the pack until it was a small shelter, barely large enough for a single person, but enough for a traveler who had little need for luxury. She pounded four stakes into the earth, holding it into place. From there, she placed the majority of her belongings back inside. With her torch firmly planted in the ground, she calmly gathered stones, twigs, and dead fungus from the underbrush nearby, in the hopes of being able to build a fire.
Her long hands combed through flexic and glass tubes of a variety of colors and shapes, bound together by soft leather which prevented them from rattling with her steps. She had everything a traveling chemis could possibly need: there was the soft, heavy swirls of yostrogen, the intense purple glow of firefly vitriol, the soft reflective form liquid metal that was quicksilver. In addition were a multitude of the base essentials; chloric salt and acid, fermented alcohol, flour and sugar.
There was one in particular which she had in mind. From her kit of reagents she drew a finger-sized test tube filled with swirls of red and green within, which she knew to be what was called phlogifluid. After uncorking the tube with a loud pop, its sulfurous scent overwhelmed her for a moment, as she had grown used to the mild pine scent and the stuffing of her nose from the cool air. She poured a few drops of the noxious liquid onto the kindling, and it immediately erupted into waves of flame and smoke. This was one of the more dangerous chemicals she carried with her at any given time, and she returned the cork to its container, acknowledging the potential consequence of leaving it out in the open.
From there, she took a miniature skillet and three of the mushrooms she had gathered over the course of the day which appeared to be safe. Two were thick, sanguine drunkard’s caps, and one was a sweet, tender swilltop. She knew they would not be particularly filling, so she broke of half of one of her dry, doughy travelcakes and added it to the pan, pouring water and chopping with her knife as she went until there was nothing but a tan and grey mash before her. While it was not particularly appetizing to the eyes, the bread and mushrooms together had a welcoming aroma.
The natural stores of alcohol in the drunkard’s cap provided an unprecedented sharpness to the flavor, and she found herself far more satisfied with the result than she had expected. Having spent two years in the great kitchen hall of Su Bagan as a child, she usually knew how to bring out decent flavor on limited resources. While salt might have added to it, she dared not waste even one of the precious grains on such a thing; in its pure form, chloric salt was one of a Qemian's most vital reagents.
Her stomach now calmed and extremities warmed, she felt she was ready to begin. Next, she reached into her tent and allowed her hands to pass over the small containers of chemicals, eyes following the colors in the flickering firelight, until she found one which contained a dark amber substance. This was pramba oil.
She pressed her back against the solid form of one of the atlas pines and sat cross legged on the hard earth, eyes focused on her campfire. She drew the small flexic piece to her lips and allowed a small amount to her tongue, which struck with a slight bitter sense. Her breathing became heavier, and the pramba oil began to sink into her mind, a catalyst of the changes to her thoughts. Her focus completely drawn to the fire, her mind altered and twisted in the chemicals.
The pramba oil tradition had been carried for countless years among Qemians, an extract of the Pramba Nut, which challenged the senses and seemed to morph reality among its users. It was a unique sort of change, not stupifying like alcohol, nor inducing of delirium, like the smoke from the promfox plant. Those who used it and knew it well claimed that it was the greatest asset for a mind that sought to understand the nature of the world, and Ovi was one who appreciated its results.
Soon, the night sounds of the jungle, which had previously simply been a background of chatter, came to the forefront as banging, clashing, roaring, forceful like the cymbals of a marching jamboree, but in a strangely ordered, pulsing cadence. The fire which was before her bent and flowed across her entire vision, no longer an uncontrolled reaction, but an interwoven pattern of red and orange thatch, flowing in several perfect cones. Everything she perceived became a grand collection of interactions, and she could see the great unwinding of these across time. She no longer saw mere flames, but the life cycle of the trees and all that organic matter which burned before her, the eruption of light the conflagration produced arrayed in neat rays projecting outward from her pile, the swirling spirals of ash and dust which rose and intermingled with the steamy air.
She felt the lifespan of the trees and all the paths and angles the branches took in their grand and sweeping arcs, the heaving and undulation of the world above as the mass of snow strained the great pines, the fluttering and rolling of the canvas of her tent in the cool breeze as waves of air passed in and out of the caverns, and how it compared with her own pulse, deeply regular and slow, and the flow it took through her body. She closed her eyes, and all the matter withered, all the sound and sight dimmed.
In such a trance, the world melted away, leaving her all alone with the geometries of reality. She saw nothing but reactions in the theater of her own thoughts, and there could have been nothing more alive.
Just a few minutes later, her eyes flashed open. She was back in the world of naked senses. The fire flickered at a reasonable pace, the sound of the jungle returned to the background. The pramba oil produces its effect intensely and briskly, but subsides at a similar pace.
Two bright yellow eyes stared back at her from the shadows of the jungle.
The first reaction of most would be to draw their blade, but Ovi was no swordswoman at heart; it was her last resort. A great furry mass of grey and green roared most angrily and hurled itself out of the brush, twice her size and aimed at her throat. Ovi dropped and rolled as the monster lunged and felt her body trip through its hind leg and the scrape of a claw against her shin. Clear of the beast’s grip, adrenaline pumped through her flesh. Ovi’s hand grabbed the Torch firmly planted into the ground, and her thumb cranked its main toggle forward. She pointed it towards her feline stalker, and brilliant white light erupted from its peak.
In the glow of the flare-like tool, she was able to identify the creature: the Prandian woolly tiger, whose massive body arched not three cubits from the end of her hand. Stripes of gray and viridian wrapped longitudinally around its heavy frame. Its menacing face and eyes bore the complexion of its orange and black cousin, and its great ivory fangs hung low over its savage, drooling chin. Beneath that coat it was clear that its abdomen bowed concave, and it had been far too long since its last bloody dinner.
If this had been a mountain lion or another predator, Ovi presumed it might have fled in terror of such a brilliant light, but her foe simply stood and stepping in a menacing radius around her. It recognized the fear in her eyes and the hunger at its own core, and knew there was no other option at this point than to split her throat. Its eye contact was unwavering and she felt her hands begin to shake.
There was only so much steel sugar powder jammed in the chassis of the Torch; it could only burn at this light for under a minute’s worth of time. Her trembling left hand snared the scimitar, knowing full well that no one cut she could make with her own arms would slay her foe, but one firm grip of the tiger’s jaw and she would be helpless.
Its well lit body began to dim again in the dark, and its radius of approach diminished again. It began to move directly forward towards her, back arched downward and tail curled for the death pounce. She considered all of her options: attempting to take steel to its eyes, dropping the Torch and making a surprise attack, potentially even trying to run. Nothing seemed viable, except maybe one hope, if she could blow the damn thing up.
She pushed her thumb against the Torch’s toggle as far as it would go, and the white flame it emitted exploded towards her assailant, but it pounced backwards, away from the sudden blast. She pulled the toggle back to its shorter light but the fuel was dying and she knew nothing could save her now and the beast made its last coil-