The smell of breakfast reached him before he fully entered the kitchen.

Momo paused in the doorway, one hand still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he surveyed the scene before him. Morning sunlight filtered through the windows. The hearth crackled softly. Merifrith was already hard at work, Osytha had somehow managed to be awake and functional at this ungodly hour, and Guffy was conducting his usual campaign against a bowl of food as though personal honor depended upon its complete destruction.

For a brief moment, he simply stood there.

Then Osytha spoke.

Her smile was bright. His own expression, unfortunately, was not.

The foxkin looked as though he had been dragged backwards through a hedge.

His hair had escaped entirely during the night and now spilled in every direction around his shoulders and down his back, tangled beyond all dignity. A stubborn lock stood nearly upright along one side of his head. His yukata hung slightly crooked, one sleeve twisted, while faint creases suggested he'd spent most of the night locked in mortal combat with the bedding. Even his tail looked disheveled, the fur puffed up unevenly as though it too had participated in whatever catastrophe had unfolded in that room.

At Osytha's question, he blinked once.

Then twice.

A long sigh escaped him.

"... The bed won."

His voice carried the solemn gravity of a man reporting a military defeat.

Momo shuffled toward the table and lowered himself into the offered chair with all the grace of a collapsing scarecrow. The sight of the food waiting for him immediately improved matters, however. His ears perked slightly, and some life returned to his expression.

"I slept," he admitted after a moment. "Which was the problem."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"The dreams were less unpleasant than usual, so apparently my subconscious decided to compensate by attempting to strangle me with blankets instead."

His eyes drifted down toward the breakfast and lingered there appreciatively. The smell alone was enough to make his stomach remind him just how little he'd eaten before arriving in Hræfn Leah.

"Good morning, Meri," he added warmly. "And thank you. Again."

Then his attention returned to Osytha.

Unlike the night before, she looked energetic. Alert. Purposeful. There was a spark in her expression that immediately made him suspicious.

Momo narrowed his eyes slightly.

"...Why do I get the distinct impression you've already been awake for several hours and are planning something?"

The accusation was entirely friendly, but no less genuine for it. Experience had taught him that people who looked that pleased with themselves this early in the morning were rarely innocent.

His gaze dropped briefly to the wrapped parcels sitting nearby before returning to her face.

"And should I be concerned?"
 
Momo’s account of his ordeal with the bedlinens has Osytha nodding thoughtfully, and Merifrith casting him an anxious sort of look.

“Startin’ to see a pattern wi’ you an’ inanimate objects,” observes the former.

The latter tuts at her daughter, before glancing back at Momo from the pan. “Tha’rt quite welcome, love,” she says in regards to his breakfast, “an’ there’s enow for seconds, so don’t be shy now.” Then, over the fresh hiss of hot oil as she starts on another serve, her fretful expression returns. “Ah’m sorry if t’bed was too ’ard. Or — too soft? Or was et t’pillows? Um. Please tell, so’s Ah can sort et aht for thee…”

Meanwhile, Osytha pours off steaming water into the teapot. It’s a brown-glazed, broad tank of a thing, and quick becoming one of the more familiar sights within the household. She glances up at Momoshiro’s allegations, long enough to catch him looking at the cakes, before her more critical duty of teamaking reclaims her focus.

“Well past plannin’ I fear,” she replies, clacking the lid on and going to hang the kettle back up. “Et’s already been taken care of. Got you a bit of a present, but I don’t reckon you need be concerned. Should prove useful, ’appen even be enjoyable. Now, as for these…”

Osytha walks over to the parcels, picks one up, and brings it over to Momo. “Beech-cakes,” she says by way of explanation, uncovering the top to reveal three flat, scorched-gold, crispy little disks. An aroma rises up from them of butter, honey, and yes — beechnut, rich and fatty, reminiscent in profile to both hazel and chestnut. “Mum made them for us to bring along with, ’cos she’s literally an angel an’ we don’t deserve ’er.”

“Tha speak’st such nonsense,” mutters the older woman, putting another plate of breakfast down for her daughter. But, she smiles as she says it.

“I sure does, but that weren’t et,” Osytha replies, taking a seat. “Food looks grand, ta muchly.” Then, as she starts to tuck in, turns back to Momo. “Speakin’ of, ’ow soon did you want to head back aht there?”
 
Momo looked from the breakfast to Merifrith, then back again, his expression softening almost immediately at the concern in her voice.

"Oh, no," he said gently. "Please don't think that. The bed was wonderful."

A faint smile touched his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"If anything, I'm afraid the fault lies entirely with me. I have a habit of moving around in my sleep. I've woken up on floors before." His ears twitched with quiet embarrassment. "Compared to that, your guest room was exceptionally comfortable."

He met her eyes for a moment, wanting to be certain she believed him.

"Truly, Meri. I slept better than I have in... quite some time. Thank you."

The sincerity in his voice lingered before his attention was stolen by the small parcel Osytha placed before him. As the cloth folded back, the warm scent of butter, honey, and roasted beechnut drifted upward. His ears perked instinctively, and for just a moment he simply admired them.

"They smell wonderful."

His gaze shifted toward Merifrith again, a quiet warmth settling over his expression.

"I don't think Osytha is giving you enough credit. It's a rare thing to make someone feel welcome so quickly."

He carefully picked up one of the little cakes, turning it over in his fingers before setting it back beside his plate, as though reluctant to spoil something made with such obvious care.

When Osytha asked about leaving, Momo considered the question for a few moments before answering.

"I'd like to head out once we've eaten."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the kitchen window where the morning light spilled across the glass.

"If all traces of my battle truly disappeared as suddenly as it seemed, then every passing hour gives the world a little more time to erase its footprints. Even if we find nothing..." He shrugged lightly. "I'd rather know we looked while the trail was still fresh."

His fingers wrapped around the warm teacup before him.

"Still, there's no need to rush. Mysteries have a habit of punishing impatience."

The corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile as he looked toward Osytha.

"And I have the feeling we'll think more clearly after enjoying the breakfast your mother has so generously prepared."

For a moment, his eyes wandered between the three of them—the warm kitchen, the steaming tea, the quiet rhythm of a family settling into another ordinary morning. The feeling that had found him the night before returned, subtle but unmistakable.

He almost thanked them again—not just for the bed or the breakfast, but for making him feel at home. Somehow, the words didn't seem big enough. Instead, he simply offered them his usual warm smile and took another sip of the tea.


Once breakfast had been finished and the last of the tea had disappeared from their cups, Momo excused himself for a few minutes. He returned not long afterward looking considerably more like the foxkin Osytha had first met upon the road. The wrinkled yukata had been exchanged for his familiar traveling robes—cream and gold layered neatly over black, the garments settling comfortably across his tall frame. His long white hair, while still bearing stubborn evidence of sleep, had at least been brushed back and gathered into its usual loose tie, with only a few rebellious strands refusing to obey. His katana rested once more at his hip, and though he still looked as though another night's rest would do him good, there was an unmistakable lightness to his expression.

Whatever exhaustion lingered, it no longer seemed to weigh quite so heavily upon him. With a small, appreciative smile toward Meri, he gave a gentle pat to ensure everything was in its place before looking towards Osytha.

"Ready when you are."
 
Fare lies demolished, tea drunk, and dishes scrubbed off in the scullery. Teeth likewise cleaned, rather more discreetly and by means of a fray-ended hazel twig plus herb-and-dilute-vinegar rinse. Breakfast went down a treat, sure enough, but some flavours do tend to outstay their welcome on the tongue — and the breath. Just because Leah folk are a bit rural doesn’t mean they don’t have standards.

Osytha’s not long back in the kitchen after all that, warming her hands by the fire. Merifrith is sat down at the table and working on the home stretch of her current knitting project, while Guffy lies bored in his basket. That background click-clack ceases, more tangible in its absence than when the sound is actually there.

Meri’s voice pipes up after a moment to fill its gap. “Osytha, love,” she begins, quietly. “Um. ’Appen tha shold’st tek a sea—”

But she cuts off at the sound of Momo’s return, even before he rounds the doorway. Guffy perks up sharply as well. The exorcist hasn’t been gone ten minutes, but it might as well have been an aeon for how excitedly that little hound springs out the bed to pester at his heels. Osytha gives her mother a brief, curious glance, before turning her head toward their guest as he enters the kitchen.

Tired as Momo yet seems, the man is looking a little more put-together now; in demeanour as well as the personal grooming department. In fact, as Osytha takes in his striking ensemble of pale hues and bee-black-and-yellow, she can’t help but glance down at her own humble outfit. Plain, padded black gambeson, simple wool hosen — one forest green today, the other wisteria — plus belt, baldric, and scabbards. Practically no ornamentation beside the buckles on her shoes (which are still by the rear entrance). She does have a chrysanthemum pin hidden away, but it’s hardly a fashion accessory and rarely sees the light of day. It’s fairly close-fitted, robust, travelling raiment all in all, but nothing special.

She remembers, suddenly; I used to tie ribbons in my hair, didn’t I? Until… up until I went to Astenvale. Osytha touches a hand to the simple, undyed cord she now uses to keep it all tied back. Belike I thought it was ‘un-knightly’, or some such nonsense. Then just stopped thinking about it altogether.

I used to love when mum got me a new colour…

“Ready when you are.”​

Blinking vapidly, Osytha slowly rejoins the present. “… Reight. Um. Aye.” She lowers her hand, and tucks her thumbs into her belt. “Aye,” she says again, a little more certainly. “Trails only grow cowder, as you say. Let’s be bahn.”

Then she gives Meri an apologetic look. “Sorry, mum. Might whativver et is wait ’til we’re back?”

“Well, it… I…” The older woman fidgets with her needles. Anxiety mounts in her expression, until it seems to collapse under its own weight, leaving behind… sadness? Resignation? Something which has her respond with a reluctant nod. “… Alreight, then. But — as soon as tha’rt done, come find me. Please?”

This earns another puzzled look from her daughter. “Will do,” Osytha replies, though, and finds a smile for Meri. “Guess we’re off. Hopefully won’t be long, but don’t wait up on us for tea. An’… ta again. For t’cakes.”

Osytha rounds on Momo next. “Time for your present,” she tells him, her smile widening further.

She leads him to the back door again, Guffy scampering ahead and Meri trailing behind to see them off, clutching her shawl a little tighter about her shoulders as she leaves the kitchen’s drowsy warmth. Osytha swaps the house-clogs she has on now for her shoes, opens the door, and steps out into the brisk morning air toward her horse.

Her horses.

Well, not quite. There’s Forbítter, sure enough, tied up to the same hitching post she’d used yesterday. Not that he’d spent the night out in the open, no; Bealdhild the wainwright a couple houses back has a few stalls that Osytha’s welcome to use whenever she’s in town, so the courser had spent a snug enough evening lodging there. But aside from him, there’s another equine here as well. And just like Forbs, the creature has been kitted out in full riding tack. Only, it would be wrong to call it a horse. ‘Horse-adjacent’ would be better.

“This is Driwe’s ass,” Osytha declares proudly, walking on up to the beast. The animal stands fourteen hands tall, covered in dusty-brown hair besides a white belly and points. It lifts its large, dished head as she gets close, and steps forward to rest it on her shoulder, nuzzling back and forth. “She’s a jenny, or a— hey, gi’ower now!” Osytha laughs as the creature steps even closer, pushing enough to make her stagger slightly. “—or a female donkey… an’ your steed for today. ’Er name’s ‘Nise’. From ‘nesan’, which means ‘to escape’ or ‘be saved’, since Driwethen rescued ’er durin’ a blizzard some years back.”

When Osytha looks back at Momo, she’s beaming from ear to ear. The woman reaches into a saddlebag at Nise’s flank and withdraws a tantalising, juicy carrot. Which she holds, with some difficulty, out of the donkey’s reach over toward him.

“Care to try ridin’ an ass today?” she asks. “Figured et’s still easier than walkin’, an’ Nise is a sweet gel once she warms up to a body — which is where t’carrots come in.”
 
Momo followed Osytha through the house at an unhurried pace, returning Merifrith's smile with one of his own as they stepped outside. The crisp morning air met him immediately, cool against his face and carrying with it the earthy scents of damp soil, woodsmoke, and the distant promise of autumn. He paused for just a moment on the threshold, drawing a slow breath before descending the steps after her.

Behind them, he caught one last glimpse of Meri standing in the doorway, shawl pulled close against the morning chill. She offered another small wave. Momo answered it in kind before turning back toward the yard.

He noticed the second animal almost at once.

His eyebrows lifted.

"...Oh."

That was certainly not a horse.

He walked a little closer, curiosity replacing confusion as the long-eared creature leaned enthusiastically into Osytha, nearly bowling the knight over with affectionate determination. The sight drew an unexpected laugh from him, warm and genuine.

"I like her already."

When Osytha announced, with unmistakable pride, that this was Driwe's ass, Momo bit down on the inside of his cheek. His lips twitched despite his best efforts.

"I will be mature," he murmured to himself. "I will absolutely be mature."

The resolution lasted perhaps half a second before he glanced back at Osytha.

"...I'm choosing to believe you introduced her that way on purpose."

His expression betrayed him completely.

By the time she produced the carrot and explained Nise's story, however, the smile had softened into something more sincere. He accepted the vegetable carefully, studying the donkey for a moment before stepping forward with slow, practiced movements.

"I've worked around horses," he said quietly, holding the carrot out on an open palm. "But never a donkey."

His crimson eyes remained on Nise as she regarded him with what seemed an almost suspicious intelligence.

"I've always thought they had rather unfair reputations."

He let the donkey decide the final distance, smiling when she finally reached forward.

"Hello, Nise."

His free hand rose cautiously to scratch behind one of those impossibly large ears.

"I think we're going to get along just fine."

Only then did he glance back toward Osytha, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"So..."

He gestured toward the saddle.

"Any important differences I should know before I make a complete fool of myself?"

He paused, eyeing Nise once more.

"...Or is that simply considered part of the experience?"
 
“Ha! You catch on quick. Mekkin’ a fool of yoursen’s allus to be expected wi’ summat new, though. If et ’elps any, I’ll be fain to tell you a few of my own misadventures once we’re bahn. Et’ll mak t’journey go by faster, anyroad.”

Osytha stands by, Nise’s reins in hand as she watches the two make their acquaintances. That tender, easy smile is back on Momo’s face as he scratches the donkey’s ear. It’s not just Guffers and Forbs, then. Man seems to have set a bit of kindness aside for animals in general. She would have been surprised to discover otherwise at this point, but still, it’s good to see.

The way a body treats beasts is a litmus test of the heart, in Osytha’s opinion. And Momoshiro’s has yet to show the limit of what it holds. Nise might be able to sense that, too. She’s certainly warming up to the exorcist fast enough.

“… I s’pose t’main diff’rence,” Osytha continues, watching Nise crunch her messy way through the carrot, “is that asses is a bit more canny than ’orses. Meks ’em more stubborn, aye, but ne any less loyal. An’ they don’t bolt like ’orses do, neither. When a donkey notices summat they don’t like, they dig their heels in an’ prepare to fight.”

Over from the other hitching post, Forbítter glares at Nise’s snack with a jealous eye. In a moment, my flower, promises Osytha. Keeping hold of the reins, she walks around to Nise’s flank.

“Et’s why I got a couple of amenable jack-asses brokken in for ridin’ at t’monastery,” Osytha says, and if she’s taking some crude delight in using that word so often, her face betrays nothing of it. Well… no more than her usual impish demeanour would imply, at least. “A well-trained ’orse will follow any command, even t’bad ’uns. A donkey won’t let you get away wi’ that. I train us prospects on Roke or Howsyourday when I can, ’cos et teaches ’em to respect the animal, an’ pay attention. To try an’ see things t’way they does.

“Mind you, startin’ ’em on an ass also means you don’t get some terrified bairn sobbin’ an’ holdin’ on for dear life ’cos their steed’s been spooked, an’ is tekkin’ off full gallop toward t’sunset.” A strange memory for Osytha to smile at, perhaps, but she does so anyway while scritching Nise thoroughly along her withers. “That’s ane of ’em ‘misadventures’ I can share as we ride.”

Then, the knight takes some riding gloves from her belt and, slipping them on, turns that grin toward Momoshiro.

“Give you a hand up?”
 
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Momo listened with quiet interest, his hand still resting lightly against Nise's neck while the donkey finished crunching through the last of the carrot. Every so often one of those oversized ears flicked against his fingers, earning a faint smile that never quite left his face. He had spent enough of his life around spirits to know that living creatures possessed a wisdom all their own, one untouched by words or reason.

"That sounds less like stubbornness," he observed thoughtfully, "and more like good judgment."

His gaze lingered on Nise for another moment before drifting toward Forbítter, who was making little effort to disguise his envy. A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"I think your horse disagrees."

As Osytha continued explaining the differences between horses and donkeys, Momo found himself watching her as much as listening. There was something quietly infectious about the way she spoke whenever the subject touched something she loved. Animals. Her village. Her family. She never seemed to realize how animated she became, how the corners of her eyes brightened or how easily enthusiasm found its way into her voice.

"I like that philosophy," he said after a moment. "Most people try to teach animals to think like us. You're teaching people to think a little more like the animals instead."

He considered that for a beat before smiling.

"I suspect the animals are winning that exchange."

When Osytha mentioned frightened children clinging desperately to a runaway horse, he laughed outright.

"I would very much like to hear that story."

His crimson eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Though something tells me you'll insist it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as you're making it sound."

At her offer of a hand, Momo looked from her to the saddle, then back again. He hesitated just long enough for his pride to stage a hopeless, doomed defense before surrendering completely.

"...Yes," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "I think accepting help now will spare both my dignity and Nise's patience."

He stepped closer, extending a hand toward hers without ceremony.

"I'd hate for our investigation to begin with your mother's beech-cakes scattered across the road because I underestimated a donkey."
 
“See? I kenned you was a fast learner.” Osytha slips her hand about his and guides the exorcist into position. “Now, take them reins in your left ’and, along wi’ a bit of ’er mane. Right ’un on t’cantle — that bit there, aye. Left leg bent just so, an’ I’ll hold et as you push off wi’ your reight. On ‘three’, ready? Yain, tain… tethera—!”


* * *​


With the woodland border of Hræfn Leah well behind them, the three riders — two sitting astride their respective steeds, one tucked snugly into his little bed behind the saddle — find themselves surrounded once again by a pale sky and gently rolling hills of pasture. It’s another fine, bracing backend morning; a good day for a leisurely ride along scenic pastoral roads.

A wonderful morning to share one’s most mortifying encounters with the equine kind.

“… now, when they said Hasu weren’t that fond of rain, I thought, ‘oh, that’s fine, there’s a strip of eller on t’other side of t’field, belike ’e’ll jus’ head for those an’ we’ll both wait et aht under cover’. You reckon that’s what ’e did? Nay. T’bugger walked up to this wee hawthorn alongside t’road, stuck ’is head in et, an’ refused to budge.” Noble, dignified Syr Osytha keeps her head pointed forward, but tries to catch Momo’s reaction out the corner of her eye. “Apparently that counted as ‘aht of t’rain’ to Hasu. Meanwhile et’s pissin’ down, I’m beggin an’ pleadin’ an’ pullin’ on ’is reins as I gets soaked through, wi’ all t’other prospects watchin’ t’show from that stand of trees. Syr Sando ’ad to come rescue me in t’end… after they’d all ’ad a good chuckle, of course.”

Now, she can have one as well. Osytha huffs softly at the memory, and gives the back of Forbítter’s head a fond look. She reaches out to rub him about the shoulders, and the grisliard responds with a gentle little snort.

“Gods, but that rouncey were a daft ’a’peth. Et was part of ’is charm, though. Was allus mekkin us laugh for ane silly reason or another.”

Osytha glances around at their surroundings. They’ve made good time, all in all; Nise had been hesitant to cross a little wooden bridge at one point, but all Osytha had to do was walk Forbs across to show it was safe and the ass soon followed suit. And while most donkeys would be too small for Momoshiro to ride, Nise isn’t most donkeys. She’s an Ase Urdshawlà, a behemoth breed from the eponymous free state down south. The jacks are mostly used to sire mules, but Driwe hasn’t bothered to try and get any hinnies out of her, and so Nise mostly works as a pack or riding animal when she isn’t acting as a companion and guard to some of the village’s other livestock.

“An’ ’ere,” Osytha remarks, drawing up to a drystone wall running beside the road, “we are. Again.”

Rifemont’s grazing pasture stretches away before them, dipping down into into a narrow haugh through which burbles a little brook, past the year’s fading efforts of dandelion, bellflower, and grass. Beyond that the land rises back up again; up, up, up… in the kind of hill that catches your eye and beckons you over; the perfect slope to lie upon and watch clouds go by in a peaceful afternoon.

The first thing Osytha does after she’s dismounted is free up Guffers. Then, while he goes off to perform some vital doggy business against the jigsawed run of limestone, she retrieves a slightly pear-shaped fir-wood case, a little over a foot in length, from one of her saddlebags. Sits down in a patch of yellowing grass and clicks it open.

Inside it are three objects. The first is something like a very small lute: six strings running along a stocky yew body and short neck. Osytha’s hands move very carefully as she lifts it out of the case and sets it in her lap. Next, she takes out a tuning fork, which slots into a hole drilled into the case and lets it act as a stand. And finally, a small brass disk, just the perfect size to fit into her palm. Its face has a triangular opening to reveal a symbol engraved underneath, and this plate can be rotated clockwise by means of a button beneath the thumb, to reveal a different symbol, of five in total.

“Jus’ need a moment to tune up,” she tells Momo, brow creasing slightly as she very, very gently begins to turn the brass pegs on that lute-thing. “Shouldn’t tek too long, sorry…”
 
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The ride out of Hræfn Leah passed far more pleasantly than Momo had expected.

For a while, the mystery waiting ahead seemed content to let them alone. The morning was cool without being cold, the roads quiet save for birdsong and the steady rhythm of hooves against packed earth. Even Nise's gait possessed an unhurried confidence that made the journey feel less like an investigation and more like an excursion through the countryside.

It was... nice.

Perhaps too nice.

By the time Osytha reached the part of her story involving a thoroughly unimpressed horse sheltering beneath a hawthorn scarcely larger than itself, Momo had already begun smiling. He managed to hold it together for another sentence.

Then Syr Sando entered the tale.

The foxkin covered his mouth far too late.

A laugh escaped anyway.

Not loud enough to mock, but genuine enough that his shoulders shook beneath his traveling robes. He tried to compose himself, failed entirely, and finally looked over at Osytha with an expression somewhere between sympathy and poorly concealed amusement.

"I'm sorry," he managed between chuckles. "I truly am."

He wasn't.

"I was with you right until the tiny hawthorn."

Another laugh threatened.

"I can picture it so clearly."

He shook his head, smiling to himself.

"I think my favorite part is that Hasu wasn't frightened or confused. He simply made a decision." His voice adopted an almost scholarly tone. "'This branch shall suffice. The rain may negotiate with me from there.'"

His ears twitched innocently.

"I respect the commitment."

The laughter faded into something softer as he watched Osytha rub Forbítter's shoulder. There was affection in the gesture that needed no words, and the grisliard answered with the easy trust of an animal who had known kindness all his life.

"I've noticed something," Momo said after a moment.

"You speak about your animals the way most people speak about old friends."

His gaze wandered over Nise's broad shoulders before settling on the countryside stretching ahead.

"I think they return the sentiment."

As they rounded the next bend, Momo's eyes drifted instinctively toward the stretch of road ahead. Recognition came almost immediately. A lone tree. The gentle rise in the hillside. The weathered stones lining the verge. It was here. The place where exhaustion had finally claimed him, where he'd collapsed onto the roadside believing himself utterly alone.

Only he hadn't been.

His gaze slid quietly toward Osytha.

It was strange how much had changed in the space of a single day. That stretch of road had begun as little more than another place to pass through. Now, somehow, it had become a place he knew he would remember for the rest of his life.


The conversation gradually gave way to a quieter sort of anticipation as the familiar stretch of countryside came into view. Momo slipped from Nise's back with a grateful pat along her neck before allowing his eyes to wander—not toward the field itself, but toward Osytha as she busied herself unpacking the curious wooden case from her saddlebag.

His ears perked almost immediately.

The little instrument she lifted free was unlike anything he had ever seen.

It bore the rough silhouette of a lute, yet far more compact, its proportions subtly different from the stringed instruments he knew. Beside it came the tuning fork, then the curious brass disk whose face concealed a series of engraved symbols beneath a rotating plate. Each object was handled with deliberate care, the practiced confidence of someone retrieving familiar tools rather than treasured possessions.

Momo found himself stepping closer almost without realizing it.

Whatever expectations he'd carried about how the Knights investigated disturbances in the Shroud, this had not been among them.

He lowered himself into a crouch nearby, careful to leave Osytha enough room to work, his crimson eyes following each careful adjustment of the tuning pegs. He watched her fingers more than the instrument itself, studying the practiced motions with the same fascination another man might reserve for a master craftsman at work.

"You've become very focused," he observed quietly, almost to himself.

There wasn't a trace of teasing in his voice.

"Different from yesterday."

His gaze drifted from the strings to the brass disk resting beside the case.

"I've spent most of my life studying spirits, rituals, and the ways different cultures perceive the unseen." A small smile touched his lips. "And yet... I've never encountered anything quite like this."

He tilted his head slightly, curiosity plain across his features. His ears were perked up and his tail was swaying excitedly.

"Is it an instrument that became a magical tool..." he asked thoughtfully, "...or a magical tool that simply happens to resemble an instrument?"

The distinction seemed genuinely important to him.

His eyes lingered on the engraved symbols before returning to Osytha.

"And those markings... are they different techniques? Different aspects of the Shroud? Or do they change what you're listening for?"

For a moment he caught himself.

A sheepish smile crept across his face.

"I apologize. You haven't even finished tuning it, and I'm already asking enough questions for an afternoon lecture."

He folded his hands loosely over one knee, perfectly content to wait.

"...But I would very much like to learn."
 
If Momo is concerned he’s being a nuisance to the knight, the look he receives when she glances over is enough to tell him otherwise.

“Et’s nay bother,” Osytha assures, and in fact, seems more pleased than anything else by his interest. She only frowns when her attention turns back to the array of devices, wondering quite where to start; decides after a moment’s thought to go with the instrument itself.

“This is called a ‘lutinċil’,” she begins, holding it so Momo can see the thing in its entirety while her hands demonstrate the different elements. “Which jus’ means ‘little lute’, really. But you can’t go pluckin’ t’strings, since they snap at t’drop of a hat.” A slender digit runs down its neck, just shy of touching the bottom string, as she expounds: “That’s due to armonium content in their metal. Each attuned to a different kind of weavin’… which is where this ’un comes in.”

Osytha presents the fat, bronze disk for closer inspection, gradually clicking through each symbol while giving Momo a few seconds to study each one. Her speech likewise slows, but, not in that demeaning fashion the arrogant use when lecturing those they consider dim-witted, i.e. everyone else. It’s the careful, deliberate enunciation of reverence.

“The order teaches us according to the Principles of Five Pursuits.” Click. “Flame. Represents artifice. And yet no matter how sophisticated, at their root, all things are forged out of the rawest of elements.” Click. “Loch. The mind and et’s perceptions. Even the clearest mirror shows nowt but a reflection.” Click. “Life. Determination, will; the struggle against entropy. To be, and become. A cancerous growth.” C-Clack. “Death. That ’un’s allus a bit janky, don’t read too much into et. Anyroad… the other side of the coin. Cessation, and decay. That entropy from which Life springs. A forest giant falls, and a score of saplings thrive in its wake.” Click. “Wyld. All things free and untamed. The earth’s bounty upon which we rely, even as we wall et off and devour et at the source. Chaos emergent from universal constants.”

Click. Osytha brings the device back around to Flame, then, resumes her very, very careful winding of those pegs atop the lutinċil’s neck, starting with the second-topmost string. Her eyes watch it like a hawk, fingers monitoring its tension, as the slack slowly straightens out.

“As a result, each string tends to resonate wi’ diff’rent shroud signatures. Flame ’ere, for example, might sing in t’presence of magitech or raw elemental magic, whilst Loch pipes up around illusions an’ scryin’ spells. Findin’ t’exact pitch at which they does so via these frets, that tells you even more abaht what you’re dealin’ with. Shroudstone inlays to amplify t’signal, so et can pick up even trace disturbances. An’, well… there’s a tad more to et than all that, but them’s t’basics. So if we’ve a cursed nature spirit on us ’ands, I’d say we’re belike to ’ear yon strings of Death an’ Wyld give us a wee ditty.”

She leans forward and flicks the tuning fork with her finger. A crisp, sustained middle C peals out and hovers upon the morning air. Then, soon as she’s done that, Osytha holds down on the middle fret with one hand, and clicks a different button beneath her forefinger on that odd pocketwatch held in the other.

Another note whines forth, this time out of the lutinċil. That string beneath Osytha’s touch blurs as it picks up the burst of magic.

“Low B,” she mutters. “Still a mite flat. Easy now…”

Another tiny little twist, another calibrating note, and Osytha appears satisfied as the two blend into one. She looks back over to Momo.

“You can ’ave a go if you like,” she offers. “Got some spare strings, so don’t fret ower breakin’ a few. An’ I’d be ’appy for you to use et once we’re in Jenny’s paddock. I’ll walk you through t’process.”
 
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Momo listened with the kind of quiet attention that made it clear he was not merely hearing her explanation, but genuinely trying to understand it. His crimson eyes followed each careful movement of her hands as she turned the bronze dial, lingering on the engraved symbols before shifting back to the delicate strings stretched across the little instrument. There was something almost ceremonial about the way Osytha handled it. Not simply practiced, but respectful, as though she had been entrusted with something that deserved patience rather than proficiency.

"The Principles of Five Pursuits..." he repeated softly, tasting the words as though committing them to memory. "Your Order has a remarkable way of teaching philosophy through practical craft."

A thoughtful smile found him.

"I've met warriors who could intimidate entire armies with just a look and scholars who buried themselves in books like an ostrich with it's head in the ground. But this..." His gaze returned to the lutinċil. "This feels like listening to the world instead of forcing it to answer."

The idea seemed to genuinely delight him.

When Osytha offered the instrument, Momo hesitated—not out of reluctance, but reverence. He accepted it with both hands, careful to support its weight exactly as he had watched her do. For a few quiet moments he simply held it, studying the impossibly fine strings and the tiny imperfections left by its maker.

"It almost feels alive."

His thumb hovered near one of the strings before he thought better of it.

"I believe you when you say they'll snap."

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"I've broken enough things by accident for one lifetime."

Still, curiosity eventually won.

At Osytha's instruction, he settled the instrument against his knee and, with exaggerated care, placed a fingertip against the indicated fret. The motion was hesitant at first, almost overly delicate, as though he feared breathing too heavily might upset its tuning. When he finally pressed the button and listened for the note, his ears twitched instinctively, searching for the subtle difference between the tuning fork's clear tone and the string's softer reply.

"...There," he murmured after a moment. "I think I hear it."

Another tiny adjustment followed, scarcely more than the width of a fingernail. This time the two notes settled together until they became almost indistinguishable.

His expression brightened with quiet satisfaction before he carefully handed the lutinċil back.

"I can see why you enjoy this."

For a moment, he simply watched the land breathe. Gentle winds combed through the grasses, carrying the scent of earth and distant wildflowers. His tail moved in a slow, thoughtful rhythm behind him, while one ear twitched almost imperceptibly, as though listening to something only the morning could say.

"It demands patience. Attention. You can't rush it, and you can't bully it into agreement. You simply..." His eyes drifted back to Osytha, warm with quiet admiration. "...learn to notice what was already there."

A comfortable silence settled between them before Momo's gaze wandered toward the hillside. It only made it halfway before those crimson eyes found Osytha again. Morning suited her. The breeze teased loose strands of hair from her face, and there was a quiet contentment in watching her work with such gentle care. He smiled to himself before she could catch him staring.

"Shall we see if your little lute has anything to say about yesterday?" he asked.

As they set off together, he naturally fell into step beside her. Close enough that his shoulder just slightly brushed hers as they started toward the hillside together. He made no effort to widen the distance.
 
“This feels like listening to the world instead of forcing it to answer.​

“… It demands patience. Attention. You can't rush it, and you can’t bully it into agreement. You simply... learn to notice what was already there.”​

A bassy sort of wooden note hums forth as the instrument passes back, sliding into Osytha’s lap; an impromptu little song of fingers and knees. Both of them mindful of those strings, though watching you, it’s hard to imagine anything could be unsafe in those hands. She glances up, expecting Momo’s eyes to still be on the lutinċil, or enthralled by the placid slumber of quiet morning pastures. No; he’s looking at her.

Osytha doesn’t think she’s met any man so… so gentle as him before in her life. It’s in every word he says, in the way he sees the world. “I think my favorite part is that Hasu wasn’t frightened or confused. He simply made a decision. ‘This branch shall suffice. The rain may negotiate with me from there.’” That’s the part he’d found amusing about that story: not an anxious, embarrassed child getting soaked through in the rain, but rather, the lack Hasu’s own distress at that situation. No cruelty there. Not a single mean note in his laugh.

She snaps her focus down to the lutinċil. Lightly clears her throat. Suddenly, and for some reason, Osytha’s feeling very clumsy, herself.

“… You could say the Pursuit of Wyld ’olds a special place amongst the five.” Is it just her, or is it already feeling a bit warmer than yesterday? “Et were the ane closest to Anathaeum, us founder’s, heart. Um. Anyroad. Sounds like you’ve got that ’un in tune… nicely done.”

Osytha absorbs herself in the remaining four strings. Three of them follow the same process as the others; tuning them to a middle C on the central fret, with the aid of that fork and controlled twangs upon the Shroud from corresponding sigils on her disk. But the sixth is a bit different. There’s no sigil for that one. Instead, she touches lutinċil to tuning fork and strikes, letting sympathetic resonance transmit through their joined bodies, before separating them both and lowering her ear toward the wooden cavity.

“This is called the null string,” she explains. “Sort of, a negative control? The armonium’s not attuned to aught — could say et’s attuned against pickin’ up any signs of weavin’. Anyroad… if this ’un starts mekkin’ noise, that basically means there’s somethin’ very odd goin’ on. Aaand… aye, that should do et.”

She packs away her clicker and tuning fork. “Let’s,” she agrees, toward Momoshiro’s suggestion. Osytha climbs to her feet, then slings that small yew case off the back of her belt before picking up the lutinċil. “Thanks for your patience. Time for round two, eh?”


* * *​


The ride here had been very pleasant, to Osytha’s mind, and that only continues once they begin proceeding on foot. The whole thing so far has felt more like a leisurely outing than like she’s on the job.

The slopes aren’t so steep nor precarious as to pose much risk of causing a slip. That touch of chill on the breeze simply becomes refreshing once mild exertion’s warmth sets in. Backend’s earthy tones of senescence and mast seeding drift upon the wind, seasoned by some distant collier’s smoking mounds. Guffy trots happy swathes around the pair, sniffing this and snuffling that, at times running playfully towards and away from them. Never quite straying too far.

Momoshiro and Osytha stroll along. The latter’s hands are busy with the lutinċil, constantly shifting her fingers up and down the frets to scan for a frequency strong enough to set those strings a-humming. Every now and then, she feels the brush of a yellow haori against her shoulder. Not jostling her, not crowding her space. Just a nice, comforting sensation, like the bit of springiness which yet lingers in the grass underfoot, or that cool breeze across her flushing face.

They descend into the little dip before Jenny’s pasture sweeps back up into hills. Its little brook is only a couple yards across in places, and someone long ago has nabbed a few slats off the nearby drystone to span its narrowest point with stepping stones.

“By the by,” Osytha says, skipping over the rocks. Her shoes touch down on the far bank, and she leans forward to beckon Guffy along next. “You mentioned you en’t exactly a conventional weaver.” The dog hesitates at the far side; flicks his tail as he runs some vital calculations. After a false start, though, and some more encouraging noises from Osytha, he makes an awkward yet successful flop through the air to the first stone. “Is et alreight to share your process for this sort of thing — ’ow you’d go lookin’ for signs?” Another couple of fake-outs before Guffers commits to his second leap, but then he flows straight into the third and final one to plop down by Osytha’s shoes. “Good lad! … er, so long as I en’t stickin’ my nose into trade secrets, or owt like that. But I would like to ’ear more on what your own work’s like.”

The crossing shouldn’t be a challenge for Momo, she doesn’t think. And if they’re really lucky, their path will take them across a proper ditch or suchlike; get to introduce him to the art of fierljeppen. Still, he was passing out on his feet only yesterday, so Osytha plays it safe and stands by ready with a helping hand.

“Middle ’un’s a touch wobbly,” she warns. “Though belike you could skip et altogether, those long legs of yours.”
 
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The brook murmured softly over smooth stones, its voice scarcely louder than the breeze weaving through the amber grasses. Momo lingered on the near bank for only a heartbeat, watching Osytha and Guffy negotiate the crossing with quiet amusement. The dog's hesitant calculations drew the faintest smile across his face, one hand instinctively reaching out to steady the lutinċil's case where it rested against his shoulder.

"Good jump," he said as Guffy finally committed himself, the praise offered with complete sincerity.

His attention shifted to the stepping stones. Osytha's warning earned a small nod, though his eyes remained fixed on the middle stone she had indicated. Rather than stepping immediately, he crouched for a moment beside the brook, extending two fingers into the cold current. Tiny ripples spread outward, dancing around his hand before disappearing downstream.

"They're happy."

The observation came so casually it almost sounded as though he had commented on the weather. He withdrew his hand, shaking a few droplets free before rising once more.

"The little spirits."

His crimson eyes drifted toward the flowing water.

"They like places where things keep moving."

With that, he stepped lightly onto the first stone. The second shifted beneath his weight exactly as Osytha had warned, but rather than correcting himself, Momo simply flowed through the movement as though he had expected it all along. One final stride carried him easily onto the opposite bank, where he brushed a damp sleeve absentmindedly before falling back into step beside her.

Her question lingered between them for several moments.

Momo didn't answer immediately. Not because he was unwilling, but because he seemed to be searching for words that had never been necessary before.

"I don't really look."

His fingers idly brushed against the prayer beads hanging at his waist.

"I listen."

The distinction seemed important to him.

"My father used to tell me that people spend too much time staring at the world." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "He said the world gets embarrassed when you stare at it. It hides."

He glanced toward a stand of birch trees ahead, where sunlight spilled through the branches in shifting patches of gold.

"So... I wait."

His pace remained slow and unhurried, matching Osytha's without either of them seeming to notice.

"Spirits are always talking. Not with words." He paused, searching for the thought. "More like... habits."

He gestured vaguely toward the brook they had just crossed.

"River spirits stay where the water sings. Tree spirits don't like loud people. House spirits get lonely when families leave." His expression softened with quiet fondness. "If enough of them start behaving differently, it means something else has changed first."

His eyes drifted upward as a pair of birds burst from a nearby hedgerow.

"So I don't chase the strange thing."

He watched the birds until they disappeared beyond the hill.

"I chase everything that isn't acting like itself."

Only then did he look back to Osytha, almost as though remembering she'd asked the question.

"I'm sure it sounds slower than your way."

His gaze flickered toward the lutinċil resting comfortably in her hands.

"But I think..."

A thoughtful pause.

"...they're both listening."

Another silence settled comfortably between them as they continued along the winding path. Momo found himself matching his footsteps to Osytha's without thinking, his sleeve occasionally brushing hers whenever the trail narrowed. This time, he noticed.

"...I like walking with you."

The words came as easily as every other observation he had made that morning. There was no hidden meaning behind them, no hesitation or embarrassment once they had left his lips. To him, it was simply a truth he had noticed.

"It feels like home."

He tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the thought against the gentle breeze and the warmth carried within it. The feeling lingered for a moment, familiar in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

"Safe... comfortable. Warm."
 
Those careful hands, dipping into the brook. Momo… watches? Listens? Feels, perhaps, with his two fingers touched to flowering water, connected to more than Osytha herself can sense. They’re happy. The little spirits.

She crouches down on the far bank. Looks to his face, then lower to his fingertips carving their tiny wake in babbling water. She closes her eyes and tries to listen, too.

No use. The Sanctum’s arduous conditioning can only do so much for one born without the Sight such as she. When spirits manifest enough of themselves in the mortal realm, when they exert their power over it, then she can catch a glimpse. That generally means she only sees the big ones, the mighty Raakguui, and only when the time is right.

They’re beyond her, the small ones. Not to Momo, though. They like places where things keep moving. He speaks of these little spirits the way she might call her squires to halt in the middle of a field exercise to remark on a hen harrier’s curious low glide, or brackets of razorstrop growing upon a birch. Asking him about this as ‘work’ was short-sighted of her. For Momoshiro, Raakgui are simply part of the world he lives in; something he navigates every day of his life.

As he navigates his way over the stream, passing in fluid motion. Then they’re side by side again, and walking. Grass and herbs whispering underfoot, but, what else can he hear now?

It’s not about looking. ‘The world gets embarrassed when you stare at it’, eh? Osytha thinks she can understand that. Moreso now, having stood with Momo beneath the stars. Because when he’d looked at her then, it felt like there wasn’t anywhere she could hide. And with her bluster from this morning lost somewhere along the way here, once again, every crimson glance leaves Osytha feeling more and more exposed.

“… I like walking with you.”​

Something misses its rhythm in her chest. A sharp, sudden pinch.

“It feels like home.”​

A yellow sleeve caresses against her black one. She notices too. Just as she noticed each time before.

“Safe… comfortable. Warm.”​

It’s strange. To feel as though a piece of you has been laid bare, tender as the skin beneath your fingernail. Vulnerable… yet hardly afraid for it. Not at all uneasy here beside this gentle man and his careful hands.

There’s a brief, heavy silence, which belies the words roiling inside Osytha’s head. Her gaze, lowered slightly to something on the ground straight ahead, while her hand rests still against the lutinċil’s neck. Instrument quite forgotten. A couple more steps go by. And then she says, simply and quietly;

“I like et, too.” Another little pause. “Very much.”

And there’s no hiding the blush of colour over her face. Probably no blaming it on the cold breeze, nor the effort of this easy stroll.

“Slow en’t so bad,” Osytha remarks. She lifts her head, looking up the hill which has begun to bend their path. “Et’s amazin’ what you miss when you’re in a hurry. Slow can just mean bein’ careful, or… gentle. Slow can mean affordin’ yoursen an’ others the time they deserve.”

She likes this — walking without a real destination in mind; every unhurried step a purpose in itself. Simply a reason to be here beside someone, and maybe, to ‘accidentally’ brush his sleeve from time to time.

“Slow can make a good thing last.”

And yet. Can it make this last long enough?

Another late-blooming head of fuzzy dandelion catches her eye. Patches of wilting grass, dead stalks of purple betony, their flowers recently retired, while striking blooms of azure cornflower labour on late into the year. But now Osytha wonders about all the things she cannot see, nor listen for. She wonders if the small flowers have their spirits, same as trees and rivers. Wonders if there are Raakgui of the soil, twining around with the earthworms and the mowdiwarps and the badgers down there below their toes.

“Could you… tell me more?” She finally looks over, up past a high shoulder to Momo’s soft countenance. “Abaht the Raakgui, an’ what meks them ’appy? Even if I can’t tell they’re around, I… I’d like to be mindful.”
 
Momo walked quietly beside her for several moments, his attention wandering between the path beneath their feet and the soft movements of the world around them. The stream had long since fallen behind, but he could still feel the little spirits lingering in his awareness, their presence faint now as the distance grew between them. Some followed the water. Others remained among the reeds and flowers, content to return to their little corners of the world.

Osytha's question, however, drew his attention back to her.

He looked up at her, ruby eyes lingering on her face as he considered what she had asked. There was something different in the way she spoke about the Raakgui now. Not the cautious curiosity of someone studying something strange, nor the careful interest of someone trying to understand a tool of her profession. She wanted to know because they were part of the world he lived in.

That made him smile.

It was small and quiet, but genuine.

"They like being noticed,” he said at last. “Some of them. Not stared at. Just… noticed.”

His gaze drifted toward the hillside ahead, though he wasn't really looking at it. His awareness stretched farther, following things that Osytha could not see: the faint stirring of spirits nestled among roots, the lingering warmth of sunlight upon stones, the gentle movements of things that had no need for names.

“They're all different, like people. Some are kind and like when things are cared for. Others like being mischievous and daring.” He paused, then added with the same certainty he might use to describe the weather, “They like honesty.”

His fingers brushed lightly against the little flowers growing beside the path, careful not to bend their stems. A tiny smile returned.

“Some are very small. Smaller than this.” He indicated one of the blossoms. “Some are bigger than houses.”

He glanced toward Osytha again. A moment of thought passed.

“The stream spirits like movement. They like when the water sings around stones. Forest spirits like quiet things. Moss. Roots. Animals moving through the grass and branches.”

His expression brightened as though she'd unknowingly asked about one of his favorite subjects.

“There's even ones in the ground. They like worms. And badgers. And things that dig. They don't mind when roots grow through them because roots are supposed to be there.” He paused, considering. “I think they like being useful.”

His gaze dropped to the ground.

“Sometimes they get sad when things are hurt. Sometimes they get angry. But most of them don't know how to fight. They just… feel it.”

His voice softened at that.

“So I try to be careful.”

For a few steps, he said nothing. Then his hand shifted slightly at his side, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers again as they walked.

“You don't have to see them to be mindful of them.”

He looked at her, expression open and earnest.

“You already are.”

There was no teasing in the words. No attempt to make them sound sweeter than they were. Momo simply said what he believed to be true.

“You walk carefully. You don't hurt things when you don't need to. You listen when someone asks you to.” His eyes flicked briefly toward her hand resting near the lutinċil before returning to her face. “And you care.”

A quiet breeze moved through the grass around them.

“That is enough for them.”

He walked on for another few paces, thoughtful silence settling between them once more. Then his head tilted.

“You might not be able to see these, but I can show you one.”

He slowed to a stop, glancing down at himself.

“Not one of the big ones.”

There was a faint note of amusement in his voice.

“I'm still recovering.”

The words were almost an afterthought, but the weariness behind them was real. Momo knew better than to reach too deeply into the Shroud while he was still recovering. Calling forth one of his stronger cursed spirits would be too much. However, he could summon one and manifest it in a solid physical form. For a bit anyway.

He raised one hand.

The Shroud stirred.

Unlike the effortless sensation of the little Raakgui around them, this required something from him. A small pulse of pressure gathered around his fingers, and Momo's expression tightened for only a moment as he carefully drew the spirit toward the world of the living. Wisps of black and purple swirled about his hand before fading just as quickly.

A shimmer of color appeared beside him.

It began as a tiny point of light, then unfolded into a delicate shape no larger than a housecat. Scales shimmered across its serpentine body in shifting bands of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet, each color bleeding softly into the next. Four tiny legs tucked beneath its body, far too small to support it properly. Not that it needed them to. It floated effortlessly.

A dragon.

A very small dragon.

It hovered in the air for a moment before giving an indignant little flutter and settling onto Momo's shoulder.

Momo's expression softened immediately.

“This is the Rainbow Dragon.”

He lifted a finger, and the tiny dragon followed it with its big yellow eyes.

“It isn't really supposed to look like this.”

He glanced toward Osytha.

“When I fought it before, it was much much larger... I swear.”

A tiny, almost embarrassed smile crossed his face.

“But I'm still recovering, so I can't give it enough Shroud to make its body as big as it should be.”

The little dragon puffed its cheeks.

A tiny plume of shimmering, multicolored mist escaped its nostrils.

Momo blinked at it.

“…Don't do that.”

The dragon looked pleased with itself.

Momo turned his attention back to Osytha.

“It is still the same spirit. Just smaller.”

The little dragon crawled from his shoulder onto his forearm, its tiny claws making almost no sound against his sleeve. It turned its head toward Osytha, blinking large, curious eyes at her. He extended his arm towards her and the dragon followed his gesture, crawling down towards his hand.

Momo smiled.

“You can see this one.”

The dragon gave a tiny chirping sound.

Momo looked between the two of them.

“I think it likes you.”
 
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