The nomadic tribes were myriad, but organized into general groups across the sprawling society of Kraag’s Host. And all were in the interest of seizing mercantile advantages. The Summer Wanderers were red magic users who used their passions to act as performance artists, circuses, or, in the case of the more aggressive tribes, mercenaries. The Winter Sailors were transporters, ferrymen, and cargo carriers for the waterways and seas around the world. The Stone Circle Clan were a migrant labor force.

  And then there were the Spring Wind Tribes. They indulged in whimsy, literally following weather patterns from town to town and teaching themselves crafting skills to fill a city’s market stands with knick knacks, only to forget the skills as soon as they left the city.

  A specific type of nomad was required in this tribe, and Robin Pluck was one. Known as a wind runner, Robin channeled his glee and excitement to carry his strides miles ahead of the tribe’s bulk to scout out potential towns and villages they could take advantage of with their trinkets.

  Robin’s goal was to visit the town, explore the scenery, and get to know the needs of the citizens there. If the skills and crafts of the tribe were a good fit for the town, then the tribe would arrive, make loads of money, and then move on. If the town was not a good fit? Robin would rush back to the Host’s main body in the shadow of their turtle god and redirect them to another settlement.

  The job was a perfect fit for the whimsical and flaky man. The feeling of the early morning wind in Robin’s sandy blond hair was like the fingers of a lover. The blur of the scenery rushing past was a delight. The way the wind would be churned into an embrace that carried him, holding his lower back and carrying his feet in his travels was as comforting as it could be.

  And Robin knew comfort. It was part of the job. Getting to know folks in a town meant opening your heart, making yourself accessible. The people in larger cities revelled in his friendliness, and those in the smaller cities were enthralled with his foreign look and curious to learn more.

  Robin was a fanged folk, and had been born in central Gavundar, but that meant little to a nomad, especially in the Spring Wind. He had crossed the sea without the Host four times in his life.

  Or was it five?

  The girl he had kissed on the roof of the Duskfall bank was before the librarian in Gavundar’s Academy City, but after that shirtless woodsman south of the Capital. So in that case, it would have to have been five times.

  As Robin ran, his mind would wander through his conquests. The men and women he had teased and flirted with. Sometimes the relationship would go further. If the town was worth it, Robin would spend the night. Only if the settlement was promising. Or if the bed was really comfortable. Or there was a promise of a good breakfast. Regardless, the nature of his job was such that he did not like to count himself attached.

  In fact, he had become so detached that he barely even knew anyone in the Host anymore. They were always shuffling in and out, breaking away to take on jobs or coming home to have children. He stopped trying to make friends with them. He had games to play out in the cities.

  But, Robin still got attached. The muscles of the man with the woodcutting axe hovered in his mind, while the librarian’s perfume caught, still, in his nose.

  And just as vividly, Robin could remember that the librarian’s neighborhood in New Academy City was a total killing. He wound up spending a full five days with her while his nomad family pulled in bags of cash and partied through the nights. They sustained their travels all the way to The Throne with that stop. The woodsman’s woodwork village, though? That had been a pass. The merchants turned north and hit the Capital because it was always easy.

  If only he could have another day with each of those two.

  Robin had a roster of tristes he missed. Some for their personalities, others for their bodies, and still others because of how easy they had been to piss off. At the very base of the thing, this was all a game to Robin. He was not in these towns to make friends or relationships. He was there to get information for the rest of the tribe. The emotional play was just the sugary pill he used to help get his way.

  He always started with the flirting and the seduction. It came easily for him. But if that failed, as it sometimes did, he would turn to teasing and cruelty. After all, passion is passion, and a person will indulge in anger just as readily as they would in lust.

  Crossroads was ahead of him. A massive city in Southeastern Talnor, a ways in-land from Dawnbreak, but on the edge of the Fireline, beyond which lay the horrifying Scorched Cities. The locals called it the trade hub seeing as it was properly on a river, unlike its coastal neighbor, Dawnbreak. Crossroads may have had the money, the buildings, the shops, the culture, and the food. But most importantly, it had the freight. That is what had him interested. Slowly, he began to reduce his flight speed so he could drift right down into the town’s main thoroughfare.

  The townspeople paid little mind as he arrived. Shop assistants with brooms groggily swept dust from the walkways at their storefronts. Keepers would be scrubbing windows or arranging displays. The entire area was thick with the aroma of baking bread. Every corner in Crossroads had a cafe, or so they said. From where Robin stood, it seemed every other building had one.

  He scanned the drowsy crowd. The effort of picking a guide was a two-way interaction. If Robin was not attracted, then his heart would not be in it. And that was the key, after all. Heart. With just a few lines, Robin could feel the guide out, see what they wanted, and mold his heart to fit. Whenever he told them of his conquests, the other runners would call him “Kraag’s Cruelest Empath.” But it paid for their meals.

  But if Robin did not want to make the effort to empathize with these guides? Then it was like cooking a steak for a chicken.

  A girl was looking at Robin, her eyes almost like burs in his chest. Reflexively, he reached to his torso, expecting to feel something at his low cut, v-shaped color that had caught her attention. But there was nothing. The girl was a little too desperate. Not very fun.

  He felt another stare through a shop window. A middle-aged druid looking woman. She had some grey in her hair that was pulled tightly over her pointed ears into a bun. She was looking with a wry smile. Robin wondered if she was married as he strolled toward her shop, making sure that he did not maintain eye contact.

  He would turn his eyes in her direction every four or five steps to show that he had noticed her, but playfully appear shy. Her stare never let up. He approached the door to the shop, a small bakery, and mocked sadness when he saw a handmade “closed” sign hanging in it.

  “Oh, sorry, friend,” the woman said as she pulled the door open. A small bell over the frame jingled as she did. “I always forget that sign. Lost a whole day’s business once. Had to throw out all that bread, I did.”

  Robin laughed as he moved to the center of the bakery, casing the shop, and its owner. No family photos on the wall. But wire racks covered in fresh baked breads of all sorts. There had to be several ovens running together in the back. Too many for her to run alone, most likely.

  Her ears were pointed, indicating her druid heritage, and meaning she was likely not a shaman. Even more evidence she would need help baking all of this since she could not depend on magic to heat her ovens. Disappointing. Robin tended to avoid married folks, even when they seemed this interested. It never made for an easy cleanup.

  “Let me know what I can bag up for ya,” she chimed as she moved behind a counter near the window. “You mind me asking when the rest are coming in? We’ve been wanting for textiles for a good month now.”

  Robin laughed out loud. She knew! She knew what he was. “Depends, how many changes of clothes do you still have?” he joked. “We like to wait until the town is truly desperate.”

  The woman guffawed. “Should’ve come yesterday then, friend.”

  Robin laughed with her as he eyed the bread. Windwalking was tiring work. He fished for a geld in his pocket once he found a small loaf speckled with chunks of apple and swirls of cinnamon. As he found his money, the loaf on the rack moved.

  Another person had slipped into the room at some point. A young man, looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had pointed ears, like the woman, but fiery red hair, and emerald eyes.

  “Um, hello,” he said shyly when he saw Robin staring.

  “Hello,” Robin answered, smiling. That was always his first act, smiling. Simple, but often overlooked. Maintain the eye contact, or even better? Look around their entire person a bit.

  The boy watched Robin for a second before looking at the woman. “Aunty, the cheese loaves are in the third oven now.”

  “Fantastic. Help that gentleman pick out something. He’s probably starved. He’s a Windwalker.”

  “Oh?” the man was interested. “It’s been a while since you all have come here. The last group told us nothing was for sale. There was nearly a riot.”

  “Well, maybe their Windwalker just did not have a good guide?” Robin suggested with a nod toward the young man.

  The red head looked down. His brown pants were worn out at the knees, and his grey shirt was stained with all manner of bakery materials. He wore a grey and black checked scarf, as well, but it was threadbare and tattered.

  “Well I hope this one finds a good guide,” he said with a shrug, grabbing a baking sheet that was leaning on the racks and moving back toward the door he had emerged from.

  Robin wanted him.

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  “How much for this loaf?” the shaman asked, holding the apple and cinnamon bread up for Aunty to see.

  “Just a geld, my man,” she replied cheerfully.

  “When do you guys close up for the day?” he asked. “I may need to get some bread to take back with me.” Robin looked back toward the door to the ovens.

  “We are only open till an hour after lunch. But we usually shut the ovens off a few hours before that. I’m sure my nephew can show you around town after that. I would offer but I have so much cleaning to do.”

  Robin smiled. “That would be wonderful. I’ll see you all in a few hours, then!”

  Robin spent the rest of the morning walking, watching, listening, and eating the delightful sweetbread. Clothwork was the theme of the needs here. It seemed that a bout of pirate bombings of fields outside of Dawnbreak, as well as a lack of Paladins to help caravans go north meant new clothes had been hard to come by in the poorer neighborhoods Crossroads. The traders that could get hold of textiles bypassed the suburbs and went straight to the noble neighborhoods, then out of the city to make sure the fat citizens of The Throne and Duskfall stayed clothed.

  Robin’s mother was a stellar seamstress. This would be simple.

  With the work for the day more or less finished, it was time for pleasure. So Robin went back to the bakery to see Aunty making a sale while her nephew sat idly near the door to the ovens.

  “Oh, welcome back,” he called, noticing Robin’s entry.

  “Thank you! What would you recommend for lunch?” he asked.

  The boy looked around the racks at the other breads, but noticed through the corner of his eye that Robin never looked away. “I would say a slice of tomato and herb. Savory but not too dense.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Robin said with a nod. He looked to where the man was gesturing and snagged one of the dark, red flecked breads. “Your aunt said you all turn the ovens off around lunchtime?”

  “Yeah,” the man said, wiping his brow with the tattered scarf. “Spend all morning baking, bound to have leftovers if we keep up the volume all day.”

  “That makes sense. So what do you do with the rest of your day?”

  “Help move bread and clean up, mostly.”

  “Explains why this place is spotless.”

  The man laughed. “The trick is keeping a layer of flour on everything. Then nothing looks dirty.”

  “So tricky,” Robin winked. “But smart.” Robin watched as the man’s green eyes did their best to look elsewhere. But whenever he looked at Robin, the Windwalker smirked.

  As Aunty finished up her sale, she called over to the men. “Welcome back, Windwalker! Good news for us?”

  “Your nephew ain’t the only one who needs new trousers!” Robin called over, winking again at the red head. He looked down in embarrassment, but Aunty guffawed.

  “Good to hear! Hey, Arlo, why don’t you show our guest around town a bit? Make sure he knows what he may be getting into?”

  “Uh, sure,” the boy said, looking fleetingly at a grinning Robin. He moved from behind the counter. “He’s gonna buy the tomato herb loaf, there,” he told his aunt as he moved from behind the counter.

  “On the house!” Aunty sang.

  Robin and the redhead strolled through the town and Robin worked his magic. He asked about how Arlo spent his days, teased him for bad luck with the town’s girls, flicked his ear to get his attention, and fluctuated between deep questions about the man personally, and shallow questions about the scenery. Robin had dealt with folks like him before. Shy, lonely, and walled off. They had beautiful personalities but they hid themselves under layers. You had to dig in and find them.

  It took a while, but the red headed man began to open up. It started with him discussing his hobbies of visiting restaurants and how much he liked spending weekends in other parts of Crossroads trying new foods. And then slowly he began to tell stories from the past.

  When the former girlfriends came up over dinner, Robin was feeling confident. They sat across a small metal table on a patio. The restaurant was one of the surprisingly rare Syzzyth places. Both men had shallow bowls of spicy, lightly sauced noodles placed in front of them by a lithe, scale-covered woman that silently wove through the patrons.

  “She told me I was spending too much time with my aunt,” the man explained of his last girlfriend matter of factly. “When I told her that my parents had died trying to cross the Scorched Cities, she told me my family had too much history taking risks and I would have too much emotional distress. Our auras didn’t align, or something.”

  Robin laughed, but cut himself off quickly. “Sorry, but that is just disrespectful. Sounds like she just wanted to break up.”

  “Bah, it’s fine. She did this terrible thing where she would run her hand through her hair and sniff it. Like, habitually.”

  “Did she have special soap or something?”

  Arlo shrugged. “I don’t know. Never smelled anything myself.” He sighed. “What about you, Rob?”

  Robin grinned. “I think we should eat. If we wait until I am done telling stories of my lovers, we’ll both die hungry.”

  The redhead laughed and snagged his utensils. The two finished their meal, Robin sneakily paying for both, and began walking the streets again. The sun was finally starting to set later, but the chill of early spring was harsh. The cold was pushing the two closer together as they walked.

  “Did you get an inn room?” the redhead asked.

  “Nah, I just curl up in some trash, usually,” Robin joked. “Keeps me feeling alive!”

  “No, seriously. Where are you staying? There’s been some creepy stuff happening in the Crossroads lately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kidnaps, murders. I don’t know. It’s kind of spooky. I don’t think you should stay out all night.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?” Robin could pretty much guess what was coming. But he wanted it to be the man’s suggestion.

  The redhead took a deep breath. “I live alone up above the bakery. My aunt stays with her mom across town. I can let you use my old camping roll.”

  “Would Aunty be okay with me staying there?”

  The man shrugged. “I’m usually up and working before she gets there.”

  “If you think it is that dangerous here, then I would really appreciate it,” Robin said, patting the man on the shoulder. Hover for effect. The redhead leaned in, but just a bit.

  The two made their way to the bakery and up a set of stairs behind an inconspicuous door in the corner of the sales floor. The redhead’s apartment was a modest, studio-style tenament. A small couch at one end. A full-sized bed at the other.

  “Let me get that bedroll for you,” he said as he stretched and walked to a linen chest against the wall. Robin admired him for a moment as he dug through the box, then sat on the couch with a sigh.

  “Here ya go,” the man said, throwing the bundle of padding and a thick blanket on the floor in front of Robin.

  “Thanks! Here, sit down,” he said, patting the free seat. With a moment’s hesitation, the man sat.

  “Thank you for taking me around today,” Robin said.

  “Did you like that restaurant? I uh… I take all my dates there.”

  Robin’s heart fluttered. This was the moment of truth for him. The part of the guide experience that was the summation of his challenges. Robin always imagined it as him readying a bow, tracking onto a target, and waiting. When he loosed the arrow, it would whiz off toward its goal, hopefully striking the bullseye, possibly falling into the mud beside it.

  When Robin succeeded, he was gleeful. But when he failed, he was still happy because he could see how difficult it was for his target to rebuke him. They would squirm and search for excuses before letting him down softly. Either way, Robin’s ego was boosted.

  “So,” Robin said, imagining himself knocking the arrow and drawing back the string. In the apartment, he moved his arm around the redhead’s shoulder. “Was this a date, then?”

  The arrow was flying. The silence was building so much tension. And Robin delighted in it. When the arrow finally stopped, the relief would be a rush.

  “I don’t think so,” the redhead finally said.

  The arrow fell into the dirt with a thwack.

  “I know what you are,” the man added. “You’ll be gone tomorrow. And a week later, maybe I’ll meet your friends with the Host. No point in feeling like I’ve gotten to know someone real, huh?”

  Robin paused for a moment. He could see the man was uncomfortable. Heartsick, maybe. Robin felt sorry for him. His shoulders were tense under Robin’s hands. The Windwalker was doing just fine, but the young man was really struggling with this pedestrian conversation. That’s what Robin liked to see. “My friends? Oh, you don’t want to meet them.”

  The redhead laughed, easing up.

  “Look at me,” Robin said, flicking the man’s face with his hand. He guided his face so that Robin could look into those green eyes. He stared for a moment, then looked down at the tattered scarf. “What’s this scarf?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” the man responded, shrugging off Robin’s hand. “It’s sort of who I am, I guess? People just identify me by it. I’ve just had it for so long.”

  “Any emotional attachment?”

  “Not really, why?”

  “I think you should try a green scarf. It would bring out your eyes.”

  A week later, the redheaded man was walking down the main street of his neighborhood. His Aunt had let him off for the evening, so he was meeting the cute girl from the post office at the Syzzyth restaurant he loved so much. He was taking the long way to get there, though. Just as he had expected, the Market of Kraag’s Host had arrived.

  In fact, he had more or less forgotten about his day affair with the Windwalker by the time they had arrived. Sure, it had only been a week ago, but the triste had only been a few hours. The bright colors and boisterous attitudes had brought the memories with a smile, though.

  “Oi! You there! With hair like Kraag’s eyes!” The hawker called him as soon as he stepped amongst the market’s stalls. The woman had a Southern March accent so thick it certainly had to be fake.

  She barely waited for him to approach her stall, covered in piles of cloths, bolts of fabrics, and finished clothing, before she spoke. “Am I to understand you met wit’ our Windwalker?”

  The man blushed. So he ran home and told. How embarrassing.

  “Now, now, you’re turning red as your hair.” She cackled at his reaction. “Don’t be shy now. I’d be lying if I said we had nuthin’ in common, you and I.” She winked at him, and felt so exposed to her he could throw up.

  She just laughed. “Here, I have a gift for ya.” She leaned down beneath the stall’s counter and emerged with a square-shaped package wrapped in brown paper. “Open it now! Go on!”

  Arlo gently accepted the gift from the loud woman, tearing at the corner. He could not control the surprised smile. Inside the paper was a bright green scarf with forest green stripes.

  “This is amazing,” he said.

  “Made it meself,” she beamed.

  “What do I owe you?” he asked, reaching to his pocket.

  “Nothin at all’, dear. Friend of Robin is a friend of ours!”