A village in flames. It was a peaceful end to a day like so many others. So much summer and orange skies. So many warm evenings and shadows redrawing the valleys. He stood still and in the background. A spectator. A house suddenly collapsed, its beams cracking, renewing the breath of a raging fire that roared skyward.

  Suddenly, he noticed a pain. In his body, a pain in his mouth. His teeth. He clenched his teeth as hard as he could. Grinding.

  He broke the stillness of his gaze to look at the grass at his feet. A streak of fire was turning green into brown, twig into dust. The fire reached his feet when he heard a voice. It was distorted, as if articulated through a mass of water. He closed his eyes and suddenly found himself lying somewhere. Somewhere warm, but far from hot. He was crying, but his chest was full of anger... No. Full of love?

  The voice returned, as distorted as ever. A phrase.... there was his name, perhaps.

  "...Yeen."

  He stirred, scratched. "Open your eyes. Open your eyes... open your eyes!"

  A forest floor opened before him. He breathed in and regained awareness of his body, piecing together his memories like a fragmented fabric. He understood where he was. Pastel sat up on his elbows, grimacing, aching. He scratched his belly. Dried semen irritated his skin and tugged at his fur.

  "Ah... that wasn't a dream." Pastel was tetanized as he thought about his morning pounding. Hip thrusts, immense sex, desire bigger than the mountains. In a moment of panic, he looked around. The fire was out, the birds were singing. The large tunic was beside him and the makeshift camp was silent. No trace of the mercenary. "Shit!" Pastel caught his head in his hands. "Aaaaaaaaaaaah..."

  He'd lost all his gear, his clothes... not to mention his dignity. At least he still had the stone."That's the most important thing, Pastel." He said to himself, reassuring himself. "You came within a hair's breadth of losing the stone. It could have been a lot worse. You'll pull through, as always."

  "You're awake."

  Pastel raised his eyes to Yeen, who stood between the trunks, a bag slung over his shoulder."I...." Pastel articulated.

  "You don't need to explain yourself. We don't need to talk about this morning if you want. It was fine. Very good, in fact. But we can forget the whole thing if it bothers you... although I'm not about to forget it, but you know what I mean, right?".

  "..."

  Yeen laid his bag on the ground and took out a belt, a small pouch, and a dagger. Rudimentary equipment. "I went back to their camp to pick these up and make sure there was nothing left with any value. I got you this. It'll make you feel a little less... naked under your tunic."

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  "Thanks!" Pastel suddenly noticed, among the valuables that Yeen had collected, his sabre.

  "Hey, that's my sabre."

  Yeen didn't move and looked away, without saying a word. After a few awkard seconds Pastel added:" Can you... give it back to me? The black sabre. Please."

  "Ok fine" Said Yeen, trowing reluctantly the sabre to the ground, just before crouching close to Pastel's face, still sitting on the floor.

  "I tell you what. Me, I'm hitting the road again in thirty minutes. I've wasted enough time as it is. If you want to make the trip east with me, no problem, but you've got to be ready. If not, well good luck for the rest and thanks for this morning. Ah, that's right, we didn't talk about it. I didn't say anything."

  Yeen resumed his preparations, adjusting his bags and inspecting his sword as if he were alone. Pastel realized he wouldn't be waiting for him, so he quickly went to the stream to wash up. As he walked, he could feel his sore bottom, but it wasn't too bad. With or without pain, he was going to have to walk, and probably quickly, given the length of the gnoll's legs.

  His pellage cleaned, he snorted and ran to his new equipment, which Yeen had simply thrown on the ground.

  The latter finished putting his bags on his shoulders and glanced at the foxhound, which was hopping between the rocks and branches on the ground, with a serious look on its face. He smiled and pretended to leave.

  "Ehhhh wait!"

  Yeen headed for the road without saying a word. With a grunt, Pastel hurriedly put on his clothes and equipment and ran to join the gnoll, who was striding along.

  Pastel followed, slipping between branches and thickets to adjust his belt. They came to a path. It ran parallel to the path they'd taken the day before and Yeen had chosen it, Pastel guessed, to avoid attracting attention, in case the brigands tried to find their camp. It was a less direct route, but safer.

  "Good. I think you owe me a few explanations." Said the gnoll without turning his gaze. "You tell me what brought you out on the road like that, why they tied you up and drugged you like a pickled sausage, and what's all this about a stone. In exchange, I'll give you a piece of my story."

  You could hear the subtle rubbing of leaves on their clothes and fur. Near them, a butterfly twirled.

  "So?" reiterated Yeen.

  "I was just thinking," said Pastel, who didn't know where to start, or what to say. Now that he had regained control of his will, he wanted to measure the words carefully, so as not to say too much to this man who remained an unknown.

  "The stone..." He remembered the moment the gnoll had entered the hut, when he was on the ground covered in blood and helpless.

  "Wait for my stone! The magic stone, they took it from me! Oh that I should have ripped out his carotid artery, then his eyes, then his heart!" That's what he remembered yelling. So perhaps Yeen suspected that the stone wasn't commonplace, but in a funny way, he sensed, a half-truth was perhaps the safest course.

  "It's a long story... First of all, you probably know as well as I do, but there are many magical objects, which have certain powers."

  "I'm not five years old anymore, so your story might be awfully long if you start that far back!" Pastel ignored the interjection and continued.

  "I grew up on the steppes of the Cradle of Clouds as we say. You probably call it something else. We moved with the seasons, the birds and the beasts, and the priestess of our clan, my great-great-grand-mother, guided us, like all the priests and priestesses before her. And like all of them, she guided herself with a stone, this stone. Every solstice, there was a ritual feast and Mamalou... the priestess..." Pastel's voice broke as he articulated the name with affection.

  A few steps in the silence. A small animal leapt across the path, a few yards ahead of them. "Mamalou was talking to the stone. All in chorus, we sang ritual questions, wishes for the return of the seasons, the times, the hills. But on my eighteenth summer solstice, everything changed."