Poisonous Fox

My slumber, as restless as it was, had been interrupted that night, when Muleater insisted that the caravan depart once more. I had to acknowledge the lieutenant's perseverance. Whatever these wyrkwik were, she truly registered them as a threat. Naturally, the argument came when all of the caravan’s civilians protested, the caravan master most vocally of all.

“It simply does not make sense!” Caravan Master Stillson insisted. “We’ve seen no evidence of those dreadful creatures, and the only contrary evidence you’ve had is the word of a beast, and one that’s not even ours! We literally found it on the side of the road! Why should we risk our necks on this alone? Please, be reasonable.”

“Well maybe so,” Muleater said. “But see, I did my own research on your little outfit when my niece came back with a contract. It seems you’ve had run-ins with the creatures before. Now, I don’t know how it’s done in the Caravaneer’s Guild, but in the Low Guard, it sounds pretty coincidental that the first we hear of them north of the chasm is when we’re traveling with you.”

“And whose fault would it be if they made it across the bridge?” Stillson shot back, evermor irritation thick on his voice. “Surely you would never imply that your order would fail to keep the bridge clear.”

“Nice try guilting me,” Muleater said wryly. “But that’s my sister’s job. Besides, that’s neither here nor now. If the wyrkwik are nearby, then we need reinforcements, and fast–gods–we need to sound an alarm before they get themselves established!”

“Everyday this journey continues, I am reminded again and again of one thing,” Stillson complained.

“Yeah?”

“That I should have paid for actual mercenaries!”

Muleater barked a mean sounding laugh. “Would that you did. But they wouldn’t give you a contract, would they?” Muleater said, theatrically tapping her chin. “And I wonder why.”

“Yes, I wonder,” Stillson said with a dejected tone, crossing his arms. “But regardless of what you wish, it’s simply not possible for us to press any further. The animals are still exhausted, the lanterns have limited fuel, and we’re still resting from the slog of a marathon you enforced on us last night and this morning! We simply cannot.”

“Gargh!” Muleater through her arms and gave an exasperated growl. “If we were closer to Southbridge, I would have turned us around.”

“Bah,” the merchant spat, giving up some of his sophistication. “And forfeit the contract?”

“Godslickin contract!” Muleater shouted. “Some things are worth more than a few baubles. Not that you’d know, merchant.” She emphasized merchant as though it were a filthy word.

“There’s nothing more important,” Stillson said. “Not to a caravaneer, anyways.”

Muleater scoffed. Both of them came to an impasse, glaring at each other. While Muleater glowered, eventually, after Stillson refused to budge, she let out a groan, seeming to deflate. “Fine. Let’s wait for the scouts to return then. But if there’s any evidence we were followed, then you had better be prepared to haul.”

“Of course,” Stillson said. “If. If there is evidence…”

I drifted back to sleep, Kissen still humming and running her claws down my scalp.

Once more, I was pulled from my slumber, along with a vague sense of distress. I thought I caught a whiff of an acerbic scent. I felt the color ‘orange.’ It was nothing conclusive, but an almost-perception. Just on the verge of what I could define. Like an object always just out of view.

Even more strange, the fact that I felt as though I were eavesdropping, but not with my ears. It was layered over reality, not quite there. It was… strange.

And how these faint, vague, and ill defined feelings were enough to wake me up, I was still unsure. I had theories, but I lacked any way of testing them. That was, at least, until the caravan started moving and Kissen stirred awake.

“Do you smell anything… strange?” I asked her.

She chuffed in amusement. “This One just opened her eyes. What scent should be caught, except that of beasts and their waste?” The way her eyes flicked over the humans, I knew she was not considering us in the term ‘beasts.’

“It…” I struggled to find the description.

She paused, her eyes turning curious, considering. “What does this scent taste of?”

“That’s the thing. It’s almost at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t really describe it. Maybe bitter? With a hint of sour? But that is not quite it either…” I trailed off, flailing at words to help her figure out what it was I was smelling.

Kissen dramatically lifted air to her nostrils and inhaled in quick short breaths. She held that pose for several seconds, closing her eyes and scrunching her nose, leaving her canines showing in just a hint of a snarl. Then she snarled. She hissed and swatted both Larissen and Lorissen to wake them.

“...what has Kitten caused now?” Larissen asked while Issen coughed and cleared his lungs.

“Kitten was not the cause of this,” Kissen hissed. “Does Hysobla also invade your nostrils?”

“Hysobla?” I asked, while both males frowned, and Larissen began to repeat the same motions Kissen had implemented.

“A fragrance of the jungles,” Kissen answered, hushing me by answering my question.

Larissen frowned, then nodded. “Perhaps a merchant trades the ware?”

“Would this not have been noticed before?” Kissen asked.

Larissen shrugged, but he did not put his heart into the motion. “There is much unknown. Assumptions are unwise.”

If Hysbola was a fragrance of the jungles, which I took to mean that it was a spice commonly found to the south, then I would not be surprised if a caravan was trading it and carrying it north. However, it was curious that we never noticed this previous, not that this curiosity proved anything. It was just that, a curiosity. In fact, I was unsure that this Hysbola was even what I had smelled or felt.

How would a spice cause me alarm?

“Does this Hysbola cause strange feelings as well?” I asked. I was beginning to suspect that Hysbola was actually a drug, and that maybe I lacked a tolerance against it, or was sensitive, or had been exposed against its source, and I could think of a few places that could have happened.

“Describe,” Kissen commanded.

“Can this one not rest?!” Issen groaned.

Kissen chuffed, but refused to let the question go unanswered. She held me firm by my shoulders, I could feel her attention upon me, even though I was facing away. “Please, describe. This is of immediate import.”

Her focus left the hair standing on my back. My tail stilled. I worked my tongue for just a bit, gathering the description, which I still had yet to fully understand myself, and I was the one who had been feeling it.

“Your questions have frightened Kitten,” Larissen grumbled.

Kissen started to growl, but I hurried to answer her and cut off the argument before it could grow out of hand and draw the guards’ attention to us.

“I’m–this one–is not frightened, but I’m struggling to think of how to explain this.”

“With words,” Lorissen said humorously, before coughing.

“Right. Well… this will sound strange, but when I smell it, I think I’m feeling the color orange on my skin, and I’m picking up an incredible sense of unease and distress.”

“Is it your Marks?” Larissen asked.

“No,” I said. I almost gave more away, about how I lacked any glyphs like that, but I was unsure if people could read glyphs like I could, considering I had a seemingly supernatural ability to comprehend language. I also almost name dropped ‘Talents’ or ‘Skills,’ which, again, I was unsure about how commonplace either was.

“Mikuya were seen,” Kissen stated. “And the Furless seem ill at ease. Perhaps the scouts found evidence?”

Mikuya. Wyrkwik. Jungleborn.

That made sense. If they were close enough or upwind, we might have picked up their scent. Although, I had not realized that their scent caused these other, secondary symptoms. If they were releasing a chemical or pheromone as an attack? A possibility. What actions would I take? They had multiple chances to attack me, yet they did not. And while that was no evidence that they would continue doing so, it did imply they valued my survival, if for some unknown reason. The vegetal meohr I had seen yesterday had almost seemed to be waving at me. That would not be classically considered a hostile action. While I still had doubts, I decided how I would handle this.

“Should the Qari be alerted?” Larissen asked.

Kissen frowned. Issen coughed. I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “They should not.”

“Why?” Kissen asked me. “If the mikuya attack, the humans would be our only defense.”

“If the Jungleborn attack them, then that is their problem,” I answered.

“And ours once our cage is left undefended.”

“We could always use the chaos as an opportunity to escape.”

Issen spat. “And go where? How is escape even possible?”

“Do not underestimate me,” I said, perhaps too coldly. Kissen arched an eyebrow and her whiskers quivered. I added, “Besides, the Jungleborn did not seem hostile, at least to me.”

“Kitten does not know mikuya,” Larissen said.

“Kitten does not,” Kissen agreed. She saw my confusion, so she explained: “Mikuya only care for themselves. All creatures are wise to avoid them.”

The mikuya did not strike me that way. It turned out to have been a moot point anyways.

An hour after dawn saw us miles along the road, with the mules pulling the wagons at a brisk walking speed. The Kaiva did not speak much, but Kissen kept near me, and she kept her ears sharp. Occasionally, she would wrinkle her nose in displeasure. I had smelled it too.

“This is not Hysbola,” Larissen said.

Whatever the scent was coming from, it smelled alert and dangerous. A sourness that invaded my nostrils and left the back of my tongue tingling. It was getting stronger.

“No, not Hysbola,” Kissen agreed. Her voice sounded grim.

“It smells hurt,” I said.

The Kaiva exchanged uneasy glances, and Kissen motioned for me to sit next to her, against the back of the cage where we had one solid wall from the wagon itself. After I settled in, the two males went to either side of us, even the sick and weak Issen; they blocked Kissen and I in, almost shielding us, at least as much as possible. “A precaution,” Kissen explained. Her voice was strained.

Thirty minutes later, a call of alarm went out and the wagons jolted, several stopping which caused the rest to stop. The drivers shouted.

“Circle up, circle up!” Caravan Master Stillson bellowed. “Don’t just gawk! Circle up you! Guards! You better earn your pay!”

“Gods take it!” Muleater shouted back. “I told you! I godslickin told you!”