Page 14 of Whisper Woods

Once, I asked him if he would like to leave. As a Tavisher I could more than adequately set him up in the Mundane. But he declined the offer, insisting he needed to stay. To be here. Maybe it’s the dragons, whom he loves dearly, and us dragonkin are so rare. Or maybe he feels that tie to the land that most of us do.

Or maybe he is just hoping he will eventually find acceptance here if he just does his penance long enough.

Sure, they trade with him for the things I bring from the Mundane—both magic and human. And there are the rare few who have befriended him. But outside of my home, there is nowhere he truly belongs.

“You work with me because you love the work. Speaking of which, I need to pack. Why don’t you go through the lists and see what requests I didn’t manage to fulfill on my last trip to the Mundane. I may have some luck in between everything else.”

Trade is the primary purpose of Tavishers. Tathys may be largely self-sufficient, but there are still things we require that are outside of our abilities.

Leaving Brydon, who only grumbles under his breath a little bit, I make my way upstairs to pack for another venture into the Mundane.

***

Well, I can certainly confirm for the High Council that there is something wrong with the Whisper Woods. Since I crossed the portal last night, there has been something different about the magic here in the Woods. It is subtle, the barest shift in the energy in the air. I followed the feeling through the Woods until I eventually needed to rest.

The disturbance grew stronger the longer I walked, following theishke, ignoring the beings and creatures of the Woods going about their business. My instincts led me here, to an abnormally large clearing in the middle of the Woods.

Sitting in a bright patch of sunlight, are the charred remains of… something. Sweat pooling at the nape of my neck, I survey the wreckage seeping magic into the air in the middle of the grassy field. The magic feels familiar, tasting almost like Tathissian magic—only different in a way I cannot seem to place.

Against every instinct in my body I approach the site. The place is—was—a pulse point; a place where magic converges for the Gods to draw on. But the energy here is fractured. Whatever happened here damaged the Whisper Woods itself.

Entering the broken circle that confines the rubble, I allow my scales and talons to surface. I would much rather not tear my skin while I poke through the remains of what appears to have been a stone dwelling of some sort, surrounded by what I assume was a garden. I step carefully, unsure of what lies beneath the char, turning over whatever I can find.

Not that there is much. The remains have been scavenged and picked over. It is not surprising; who knows how long the Godsforsaken wreckage has sat here for?

I scour the site until the burning sun dips below the treeline and I’mconfident there is nothing left to find. Everything of note is securely tucked away with the rest of my belongings, in a pocket of the astral realm. The collection, which includes several pieces of dragon glass and stone that is only found within the boundaries of Tathys, will go to Brydon upon my return.

Leaving the site, and its overwhelming aura of foreboding is a relief, even if the humidity in the Woods is not.

Sprites light up the undergrowth as I follow theishkefurther into the Woods. When I’m forced to make camp for the night, I find a comfortable spot between the raised roots of an ancient tree and set up my wards and camping bed, thanking the Gods that it's still warm enough that I don’t need to bother with a tent or fire for the night. I’m not concerned about sleeping exposed, after all these years my instincts are well honed.

It’s rare that anything dares to disturb me, and they certainly don’t do it again after I’ve changed into my other self.

Before settling in for the evening I make notes in my journal about the remnants of the fire I came across. The strange find only raises more questions. Not just in regard to the Tathissian objects I found, but what beings in the Mundane have the power to contort and corrupt a pulse point in such a way? And moreover, who were the beings strong enough to destroy it?

But as my thoughts chase themselves around my head, one question pushes all the others from my mind.

When will I run into Seff again?

***

It takes another day and another night to reach Twin Heads. In between my constant fixation on a particular golden wolf, I find the time to make more notes in my Tavisher’s journal—not that there has been anything as remarkable as the decimated pulse point—and grumble to myself about the distance between our last remaining portal and the town.

After spending three nights and three days hiking through the Woods, I arrive at the hotel in a rather disgusting state. I am almost shocked that they rent me aroom, even though I’m sure they are used to beings blowing in from the Woods for a short time.

The hotel itself is not unlike most buildings in the metropolitan areas of the Mundane. Depressingly neutral and sterile, lacking any personality or style. At least it is clean, and relatively comfortable—aside from the persistent itch of electricity buzzing in the air.

I only just manage to shower before collapsing on the bed for a much needed sleep. Not that the mattress is that much more comfortable than my camping bed. When I wake, it’s dark and I’m momentarily confused about where I am. I take a moment to lie in bed and recalibrate before collecting my phone from where I’d blessedly left it charging.

Slipping back and forth between the Mundane and Tathys can be a shock for the system, especially for a new Tavisher. All Tavishers are set up for a life here in the Mundane. We have identification, most of us have learned to drive, and we have bank accounts which we pass on to each new generation. A Tavisher’s greatest skill is their ability to adapt flawlessly. Though the increasing prevalence of modern technology causes more headaches than it is worth.

Ignoring the notifications for messages from Mundane contacts wishing to organise trades and the updates from other Tavishers, I do a quick search on my destination for the night to better prepare myself.

I’d made the mistake many years ago in the city of Osneau in Ulydessia when I unknowingly visited a club on a fetish night. I have never felt more overdressed in my life. Which was odd because there were beings dressed from their scalp to their toes in full body leather, with only their eyes exposed and some strategically placed holes.

Blessedly—or perhaps not—there are no events, fetish or otherwise, advertised for tonight at Slash. I take my time getting ready, tidying up my beard, which I prefer to keep closely cropped, and changing out some of the more simple golden studs and rings in my ears for something a little more dramatic to match the golden rings I slip onto my fingers.

I have nothing as flamboyant as seems to be preferred by the beings and humans in some of the photographs I saw, so instead I pick a black shirt of the softest linen, leaving the first few buttons undone to show off the dusting of hair on my chest, and my tightest black pants.

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