Months blurred into a rhythm as Lirael, Varyn, and I journeyed eastward through Aetheria’s uncharted lands, where prairies mingled with woods, the seasons shifting from spring’s bloom to summer’s heat under Solara’s unrelenting gaze. Lirael always took the lead, her smaller frame setting a steady pace, her flowing dress and long hair swaying like the grasses of Nuahaven. I followed, my craftsman’s eye noting the land’s measure—plains stretching toward unseen ridges, groves where strange, furred creatures darted. Varyn brought up the rear, his ruggedly handsome form, with short curly hair and a strong jaw, ever vigilant, his new leather boots—crafted by Lirael—silent despite his muscular build.
Our pattern settled like the three moons’ cycle. Varyn rose before dawn, slipping into the mist to hunt, returning with game—new beasts unlike the Velithons or Hexapods of Nuahaven’s shores. One, a swift, four-legged creature with thick silver fur and tufted ears, we named “Lunthars,” for their gleaming coats under Luneth’s light. Another, larger and shaggy, with a mane like woven thorns, we called “Korbeasts,” their reddish fur echoing Korath’s hue. Varyn slung these over his shoulder, their weight no burden to his strength. Lirael, by the campfire, mended our gear with her needle, her hands deft under Sylvara’s silver glow. Her true craft shone in tanning hides on the move, a skill honed in exile, suited for wanderers.
She used brain tanning, evaluating each Lunthar or Korbeast hide, trimming flaws with my knife on a flat stone. Fleshing followed, scraping flesh with a bone blade or metal scrap, her hands steady despite the mess. Soaking in streams we crossed, she weighted hides with rocks, stirring daily until hair slipped free. Scraping the grain and membrane left the skin pliable, demanding her forceful yet precise touch. Braining was key—she mashed the animal’s brain, or sometimes Korbeast eggs, into hot water, creating a milky emulsion. She kneaded this into the hide, softening its fibers. Wringing out excess, she twisted the hide around a pole lashed between trees, squeezing it damp. Stretching it taut over a branch frame or staked to the ground, she worked it soft as it dried. Smoking over a fire of punky wood infused durability, turning hides into supple, weather-resistant leather. From these, she crafted Varyn a wardrobe: sturdy boots, a cloak, pants, and tunic, replacing his rags to withstand summer’s heat and thorns.
As we walked, Lirael raised theological questions, her voice weaving through the prairie’s hum. “Heth, if Nua’s eternal, why create time? The Chronicle speaks of her shaping clay, but why bind us to seasons, to aging, when she could make us timeless?”
I pondered, my boots crunching grass. “Time marks growth, Lirael. The Chronicle tells of Elyria’s seasons shaping unity—trials like Tanes’s exodus forged the Covenant. Without time, we’d lack the will to choose harmony over Boana’s shadow.”
“And Nua’s justice?” she pressed, dodging a root. “Why punish discord so harshly? My fall cost me kin, yet I live. Is her mercy selective, or does she judge with a hidden scale?”
“The trinity balances justice and mercy,” I said, recalling elders’ words. “Discord breaks the triangle’s strength—three genders hold where two falter. Nua’s mercy lets us rise, as you did, but her justice guards harmony.”
Varyn, trailing behind, showed little interest in my answers, his wild eyes scanning for Lunthars or Korbeasts. Yet toward Lirael, he was reverent, carrying her pack without prompt, nodding at her words. I saw then: to sway Varyn, I must convince Lirael, her insight his guide. She persuaded him to wear her creations, saying, “Varyn, these boots shield against thorns; the cloak guards against chill. Nua provides through craft—honor it.” He relented, his new leathers fitting like a second skin, his primal grace enhanced.
We wondered how Varyn felled such large game—Korbeasts, heavy as young Gloomtreads—without visible weapons. “Don’t jinx it,” he’d grunt, knife in hand for skinning, guarding his secret. One summer eve, a Gloomtread ambushed us in a wooded glade, its roar shaking the trees. We scattered, but Varyn whirled, a long-stringed sling materializing from his belt. A whir and snap rang out; a stone struck the giant’s head with a crack, felling it instantly.
Lirael gasped, eyes wide. “Someday, they’ll write of the young man who brought down a giant with a sling, Varyn. A feat to echo through Aetheria’s tales.”
Varyn shrugged, stowing the sling, but I saw pride in his jaw.
As summer waned, we reached thick woods, their canopy dense as the Titan Spires’ caves. Far beyond, over the treetops, a giant wall loomed—hundreds of feet tall, stretching endlessly, its smooth stone seeming man-made, a marvel rivaling the Chronicle’s ancient wonders. We camped, staring at its silhouette under Korath’s crimson glow, our trio bound by Nua’s unseen purpose.
spikosauropod 