It was many days and nights of travel before the mist finally lifted and I truly was able to see where I had arrived. I emerged from the last tendrils of the Hollow in a lush and rolling jungle whose beauty was arresting. Endless fields of trees with foliage of searing emerald green, a bright blue sky punctuated with clouds, flowers of every shape and size. The animals were a riot of color as well, from birds with plumage the color of every rainbow, to great predatory cats with coats covered in spots and stripes. Great horned frogs hunted the rivers and lakes. Apes with dappled fur stalked through the trees. Once, I spotted something that was partway between one of the furred mammoths of Svarlskell, but bare of fur and with ears like flowers. The jungle was life in all of its chaotic beauty. Chala had taught me to survive her, and I did more. I thrived.
I dug tubers out of the rich black earth. I ate delicate flowers and succulent fruit from the vine. I hunted the colorful birds that strutted through the undergrowth. I was as comfortable as one could be in such savage conditions, and I knew a sense of happiness.
Yes, it was not true happiness. I whispered lies to myself to silence the naysaying voice in my mind. I would not know true happiness until I could feel the quiet lightning of Zhahllaia's touch, or Sarakiel's fragrant embrace. Here, I found the deception far easier. Call it instead contentment of a kind. My abilities had progressed to the point that I could exist comfortably outside the bounds of human civilization. It was a daily challenge, but one I could meet.
I never slept in the same place twice. Chala had called me a hunter, and hunters moved. I believed her when she called me that, more than I believed Iura or Xogra's views on me. Iura had called me a lover, and that did not apply when I was so far from my loves. Xogra had called me a lord, asked that I have purpose, but in this place, there was no purpose other than simple survival.
The heat in the jungle was oppressive, a sultry blanket that pulled the strength from my limbs. Rain was frequent, gray clouds gathering in the sky and dumping rivers for half a day, before vanishing back into the blue. I was grateful for the gifts of the boots and loincloth, for they were the only things that I could have worn without discomfort.
One day I found myself climbing a small slope along a narrow game trail. I emerged on the shore of a lake. The trees were gone, all along the eastern, western, and northern shore. Stumps ran along both sides, creating a bald spot in the jungle. Only a single grove still stood. On the south side of the lake, these trees were densely packed. Beyond the northern edge, a column of greasy black smoke stained the sky.
The water of the lake carried an evil smell like a campfire fed with rotten wood. I was thirsty, and retrieved my sweetwater goblet from the fold in the loincloth. It was still new, and the sudden reveal of a silver cup encrusted with old sea life from a fold in a garment formerly flat against me, still impressed. I knelt and dipped the goblet into the water. It filled, the gray water turned clear, its scent now sweet and pure. I put it to my lips and it was the most refreshing water I had ever tasted, a pleasant mineral kiss that rejuvenated me. Such was the magic of the goblet. The most useful object it has ever been my privilege to own. Gratitude to Thalalei for the gift bloomed in my chest.
I dipped the goblet into the lake several more times, peering about in either direction as I slaked my thirst. The grove caught my eye, as it was still standing. The destruction of the forest ended there, but that grove was like a finger poking into the devastation.
I replaced the goblet in the fold of my loincloth. Curiosity drove me from my spot. Such a strange impulse, isn't it? Not quite a virtue, not quite a flaw. I have it even now, in my old age, driving me to investigate the mysteries of this newly changed world. It was that demand that pulled me to the northwestern edge where a small river fed the lake.
Though my curiosity can be foolish, it is never reckless. I did not trust this field of destruction nor this dead lake. I went to the mouth of the river and crossed the flat rocks. I saw no sign of life in the water. The field of dead stumps stretched along both banks, reaching deeper into the jungle on the east side. This place was dead, and I saw behind that death an intelligent hand.
I made my way up to the ridge that paralleled the stream on the western bank, and though it made for a harder walk, put a screen of trees between me and the smoke. I followed the river for a mile or two before I came to the source of the column staining the sky.
A mill stood by the side of the river, the current turning its paddlewheel. A forge leaned next to it, belching greasy black smoke into the sky. A stable and another long building completed the cluster of structures on the south end of the encampment. A mine opened in the middle of the settlement, near a single watchtower. I watched filthy humans pulling rocks from the mines and transporting them to the mill under the watchful gaze of hobgoblins. Another cluster of buildings, one a long barracks and the rest smaller huts, made up the northern edge. The settlement was encircled in a wooden fence, ending at the river on the west, with a single gate on the eastern end.
Thanks to my lessons from Xogra, I recognized the powdery yellow stone the humans pulled from the ground and refined in the mill. Brimstone. They were harvesting the prime ingredient of demon powder.
The humans were short and ill-nourished. They had brown skin with a bronze cast to it, straight black hair and slanted eyes. They were nude, with a few marked by bands of tattoos around their limbs, or simple lines below their mouths. Their ribs stood out against their flesh, and they moved with downcast eyes and slouched shoulders.
The hobgoblins were a brighter green than the ones I remembered in Rhandonia, but they were recognizably the same people. They had the appearance of gracile orcs, lean where orcs were burly, their faces longer, their jaws smaller. These wore cloth kilts, pauldrons, bracers, and greaves, all with plates sewn in strategic places to make light and effective armor. They were armed with axes and shields, and some carried whips.
Greasy streaks of black ran from the mill and down into the river. Had they not cut the jungle away, the river would have killed the trees as effectively as their axes. This place was a blight. I would not leave such a place on the earth, and I crouched there, considering what I might do. Ur-Anu was powerful, and I was formidable, but there were too many hobgoblins to simply charge in and begin the slaughter.
My jungle-sharpened senses heard heavy tread coming up the game trail behind me. I rose, turning easily, curious about what would come next.
A pair of hobgoblins stepped around the bend in a path and paused as they saw me standing in their way. Their eyes widened in confusion, and then narrowed as they took what might have confused them and placed it into the understandable category of prey. They likely saw me as a potential slave, taller and broader than the ones they had. They were armed and armored like the guards in the camp, and though one of them glanced at Ur-Anu, grasped loosely in my hand, he did not seem overly concerned that I too was armed.
One spoke to the other in a language I did not recognize. The other responded. Then the first raised his voice, speaking directly to me. When I didn't respond to the unfamiliar words, they had another brief conversation. The first tried another language. Then, after a moment of consideration, in halting Eomet managed, "Spear down."
