Chapter 94 (Patreon)

Chapter 84

Authors Note: New section with Orange - (In this chapter, all of the uthra were shown doing their day by day activities, before finding a reason to all gather at Isaiah)

~ [Orange] ~

Uthra, Female, Worker {5}  

Location: The Tower Grounds, Riverside

Orange is on her hands and knees, walking on all fours on the grass as she softly rams her head into the monk’s side.

The woman, who was meditating down by the river, looks at her. “Yes?” asks the monk, opening her eyes and turning her head to look at Orange.

Orange blinks, craning her neck to look up at her and the two of them stare for a while.

“Why aren’t bats birds?” asks the uthra.

“Pardon?” The monk looks at her.

“You know, bats,” says Orange. She rises up, sitting on her knees, and lifts her hands, holding them together and flapping them as if they were a set of wings. “They’re bird-shaped, right?” she asks.

“I suppose they are,” remarks the monk.

“But why aren’t they birds then?” asks Orange. She spins around, sitting with her back facing the monk, and then flops over, her head landing on her leg as she stares up at the red-haired human. “Who decided that bats aren’t birds? I think they’re birds.” The uthra shakes her head.

“Perhaps because they do not lay eggs,” replies the monk, turning her head straight back and closing her eyes again.

Orange stares at her face for a time. “Do you think Isaiah could make bats that lay eggs?” she asks.

The monk nods, not opening her eyes. “It is possible,” she replies.

The uthra purses her lips and blows air up at the monk’s face until she’s out of breath. Then she takes a long inhalation and does it again. The monk opens her eyes.

“How do you wash your hair?” asks Orange.

“Vigorously,” replies the monk.

“Oh, huh…” Orange lays there, leaving her head on the monk’s lap, but she, still lying on her back, rolls her body from side to side as far as it can go. “So if you could lay eggs, would you still be a human?”

The monk does her best to maintain a straight posture. “A good question. It would be best to ask Isaiah,” she replies. Orange gasps, realizing that she’s right. But then she stops. “Wait…”

“Yes?” asks the monk.

“Are uthra birds?” asks Orange, her eyes going wide. “Do we lay eggs?” The monk, without opening her eyes, lifts an eyebrow. “I mean, Isaiah laid eggs, and it made us, right?” asks Orange. “So… no… wait, am I bat?” She looks down at her wings.

“It would be best to ask Isaiah,” repeats the monk.

“I don’t want to have eggs,” replies Orange. “My nest is already really full with just me in it, you know?”

“I am confident that you won’t do so without great effort,” replies the monk. “But again, it would be best to ask Isaiah.”

Orange nods. “But if I had eggs, would you help me take care of them?” she asks. “I’d ask the others, but I don’t think they like me.”

The monk seems to give up on her meditation and opens her eyes, looking at Orange. “I am sure that they do and that they would,” replies the monk. “Go ask Isaiah.”

Orange frowns. “So, no?” she asks, her face starting to turn sad. She wobbles. “Aren’t we friends?”

“We are and I would.”

Orange’s face lights up. “Would we still be friends if I was a bat?” she asks excitedly.

“Communication would be difficult,” replies the monk.

Orange stares back at her for a while. “What if I was a fish?”

“I would stop by the river to visit you now and then,” says the monk.

The uthra tilts her head. “…Would you eat me if I was a fish?”

The monk stares at Orange for a time. “Fish lay eggs, you know,” she replies.

Orange stares, her face becoming distraught. She sits upright. “Wait… Are fish birds then?” asks the uthra, rubbing her head in confusion. “Why do fish lay eggs?”

“Lots of things lay eggs that aren’t birds,” explains the monk.

“Then why don’t bats get to be birds?” asks Orange, perplexed. “I don’t get it.”

The monk shrugs. “Let me know when you find out,” she says.

Orange, having too many loose thoughts now, decides she needs an answer and gets up, flying off to the roost without another word. Isaiah will know for sure; it’s smart.

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Chapter 94

The sons and daughters of the gods.

It is said that the gods of an age past had once sired children, often with each other but also often with members of the common races of the world. These offspring, while not controlling a god’s full power, still had a considerable advantage in strength over their counterparts. However, over generations, this magic waned and weakened with each diluting act of procreation, and now, while we know that the god’s blood trickles among us, it is next to impossible to discern the descendant of a god from any other man because the magical boons have simply been washed out of the blood.

In a way, this is proof of the strength of the human bloodline that dominates all other races’, slowly washing them out of existence. It would seem that not only does the human potential win out over the blood of the elves, orcs, and dwarves, but even over that of the gods.

This only speaks to our incredible potential as a species.

~ Excerpt from Wicker Marvin’s banned book on the topic of human superiority

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The Humming Man

???, Male, Chronomancer

Location: The City

The smell is in the air.

The smell of changing seasons. Time has really flown, hasn’t it? It feels like only yesterday that summer began, and now it will soon come to an end, bringing on the golden autumn of what promises to be a very dark year. Many things will happen, but this is exactly what is supposed to be.

The humming man sits on a fountain next to a man with a journal, who pays him no mind at all, not seeing him. The man with the journal, a member of the witches’ sect, has plucked a flower and pressed it. It rests now in his book, as he is sketching it on the other page.

Spring and summer are bright, warm, and lush seasons, and it’s good this way. But they must one day make room for autumn and winter, which can bring cold, bitter bites to the people of this world.

— And that’s good this way.

“Brother Anderwal,” says a voice. The man with the book looks up from his journal, staring at the man who has approached. The humming man leans over, grabbing the flower from his journal, as the man looks up at the other member of the witches’ sect. “It’s almost time.”

Anderwal nods.

He looks back down at his journal, but the flower is gone. Perhaps it was blown away by the last wind of summer?

Curious.

Not saying anything, Anderwal looks around and shrugs, then closes his journal, rising to his feet as he goes to fulfill his task.

The humming man hums, watching him go, and then looks down at the flower in his grasp. It’s a soft, gentle thing, ripped free from its roots. Now that it has been plucked, it has no choice but to die. Cut flowers make him sad because of this. But this is the way life is.

Sometimes, beautiful flowers must be cut for no other reason than their extravagance.

Taking it with him, he walks, having a place to go. The work is never done, in spring or autumn or whenever. There’s always another nudge to make, another push, another twist.

But what else would he do with all of his free time, if not this?

He takes Anderwal’s flower and walks down the street.

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Caeli

Human, Female, Battle Alchemist

Caeli looks at Rorate. “I mean, they’re growing,” she replies. “But this isn’t exactly what I’m used to doing, you know?” she replies in response to Rorate’s question, turning her head to look at the rows of mushrooms that are growing in a series of encased planters. “It’s hard to keep up,” she explains. “What are you doing with all of these, anyways?”

“Preaching,” replies Rorate, bending over to poke a mushroom. “They’re a lot smaller when they’re dried, and also, Isaiah wants us to stockpile a lot of the powder for emergencies.”

Caeli shrugs, looking back at the mushrooms that she has been tending to for a while now.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” says Rorate. “Isaiah wants us to take a batch of the potions downstairs to Seide and her goblin-tribe,” she says.

“To drink?” asks Caeli. “That sounds terrifying. Can you imagine what those goblins are going to see?”

Rorate shakes her head. “Not for the goblins. For the pilgrims,” she explains. “They’re already here,” she says, standing back upright. “Thousands of the faithful have traveled from all around the world,” she explains, looking at the alchemist. “We can’t let them down, right?” she asks. “They’re expecting to find revelation, and it’s my job to give it to them,” says Rorate, picking up a bottle of mushroom-brew.

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The Humming Man

???, Male, Chronomancer

Location: The City, A small house

There is a smell in the air of sweet bread being baked, a woman with blonde hair stands in the kitchen and hums to herself in delight as she runs around and cleans up the area, after taking great lengths to try and bake a cake. Fire crackles in the hearth out in the living room. Vapors of fragrant steam rise from the cup of tea that is sitting next to a quiet woman with white hair, who sits there alone and reads a book.

By all accounts, it’s quite the comfy little home that the witches have nestled themselves into here. He quite likes it.

Sure, it’s not actually theirs. The real owner of the house is dead, but, ignoring that, they’ve definitely made it very comfortable.

“Spoodles!” calls a voice from the kitchen. Witch Perchta leans out and looks at the woman with white hair, Witch Spillaholle. “Help me clean this up, would you?”

Witch Spillaholle looks over her shoulder towards the kitchen. “Witch Perchta. I refuse. I told you that I am not hungry.” As she does so, the humming man takes his opportunity and leans down, gently lifting a page and sliding the pressed flower into it, before quietly retreating back a few steps.

“It’s cake, Spabbly-wabbly,” replies Perchta. “You don’t have to be hungry to eat cake.”

“Witch Perchta. No,” says Spillaholle.

The woman in the kitchen purses her lips, puffing out her cheeks in annoyance as she disappears back inside. Spillaholle returns to her reading, taking a calm sip of her tea.

In general, one often attributes certain things to certain seasons. Springs are for love and rebirth, winters are for death, and so on. Yet, funnily enough, anything is possible in any season, be it spring, summer, autumn, or winter, despite any previously held convictions. The experiences of life are not locked to one in particular, and, while some might offer stronger opportunities for such happenings, it does not exclude them from happening in other seasons.

Sometimes these things happen through nature.

— Witch Spillaholle sets her tea down and flips the page of her book, watching as the pressed flower falls down to her lap.

Sometimes these things happen with a little nudge from the universe.

Confused, the woman looks around the empty room and then down to the flower, picking it up and examining it. As a creature that has lived a very peculiar and uniquely introverted lifestyle, this is a new thing to have happened to her, and the humming man watches in quiet fascination, as he would watch any other event that he causes, as a strange curiosity washes over her quiet, stiff face as she smells its pressed petals.

Witches are curious creatures indeed.

He doesn’t have much to do with them, which should be obvious, given their small numbers these days. But their ability to sense traces of magical influence is very keen. Their connective reasoning, even if sometimes muddled, is fairly sharp, given the ironically unobstructive sharpness that is offered by their one-sided world-views.

He watches a little light of spring move through her autumn eyes as she connects some dots.

— Someone screams from the kitchen, breaking the spell.

Spillaholle looks over her shoulder, watching the smoke waft out of the oven. Someone had clearly burned their cake.

The witch slowly rises to her feet, spinning the flower once between her fingers, before resting it back into her book that she sets down and closes snuggly. “Witch Perchta. Cease this nonsense,” she warns. “I am trying to r-”

“SPILLIEEEE~!” howls Perchta, running past the doorway, carrying a flaming baking tray in her hands.

Witch Spillaholle sighs, shaking her head as she heads to the kitchen to defuse the situation. Though she does stop to look back at the chair and the book, at least until another scream gets her attention and she has no choice but to help put out the fire.

Surprisingly enough, the cake turns out okay.