Edited!


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    Salem could sense the continual shift in Valerian. Knew when her friend was pushed out and away by the mind of his second self.


    On the one hand, this was upsetting. On the other, it backed his claim that they''d come to another plane; that the Tristan she''d last seen cornered and fighting for his life was not, in fact, hers.


    She had to be certain, though. Had to find out for sure, and that was not possible, trapped in this awful place.


    Unarmed and closely watched by at least three elven bowmen, the Tabaxi was not foolish enough to steal, or attempt an escape. Not while the sun was still up and those archers attentive, anyhow.


    But darkness would come, in which inky black fur was an asset. Watchers would tire, lose focus and then… Well, an enterprising and clever young thief could safely add to her fortune, whilst finding things out.


    "Cap''n," she called to her monkey. The small noble beast had been wandering about the containment circle with Kitten, looking foolish and idle while testing the wards that now confined only them.


    "Aye," he responded alertly, scampering over. "What be yer will, oh least gifted an'' able o'' thieves?"


    Salem growled but held her peace. Mostly.


    "I will a distraction, and information. Have you found any breaks in the ward circle?" she inquired, scratching the monkey''s harsh golden fur. Being covered in stiff, shiny bristles, he enjoyed a good scratch as much as Salem did.


    "Nay…" he replied with half-shut eyes and a satisfied grunt. "No breaks, as such… but I think, if we was t'' put on a show, we might lure someone into scuffin'' the mage line a bit from outside, while th'' lass collects coin."


    Unlike the wards that Mrowr… off someplace, instead of doing anyone any good… had set up in the forest, this circle was meant to contain, not repel. Backed by the magic of cursed high-elves, that glittering line in the dust formed an impassable, one-directional barrier. But there were ways around anything, given ambition, talent and perseverance. And Salem had plenty of each.


    "Saucy dance, or comic?" she wondered aloud, scratching Cap''n ''s back.


    "Eyaaar…. This lot seem a bit stuffy. Disinclined, as it were, t'' throw coins at an honest night''s sultry gyrations. P''raps we''d be best off goin'' comic, with Kitt f''r th'' straight man. We c''n try th'' Trodden Tail an'' Circle Chase routine. Guaranteed t'' bring down th'' house."


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "Whilst we rob them naked and blind, then make good our escape. Only… what of Mrowr? My curse has singled him out, and I cannot stray until all is resolved."


    She had been forced to leave home, departing family and Distant Sands Oasis, by the strength of that curse and its prophecy; learning the hard way to listen, and go whence directed.


    Cap''n stretched, then moved off to pick through his fur with busy, searching small fingers.


    "Eyaaar…" mused the monkey, eating something he''d found in his armpit. " ''Ee be a good lad, if disputatious an'' simple. Bound t'' show up around mealtime, I''d wager. ''Ee ''ll be wantin'' t'' check on ye an'' the lass."


    Salem rumbled a short, intense fret noise. She and Cap''n were stuck here for no reason at all. Mirielle-Kitten because she wouldn''t go back with the villagers and the elves did not trust a half-drow.


    Pain and captivity were too near a thing for Salem to rest easy in even the kindest, most open of prisons. She wanted out.


    "If Mrowr comes soon, he can break the ward circle and free us, himself. If not, Trod-Upon Tail, it is."


    The Snowmonters were already gone, having been shifted into the care of Filimar, who seemed not to know her well, here. Beyond a raised eyebrow and speculative smile, the dark-haired young noble had made no attempt to communicate. Nor had he freed her… wretched, milk-nosed hairball that he was.


    No, she did not resemble anyone else in this loathsome bare-hide encampment. Yes, she''d been found in possession of a number of small, portable, easily concealed and valuable items.


    …but that was no reason at all to confine her, when everyone else but the half-drow girl had been freed and sent home with a gift.


    At any rate, there was now ample room by the pickets and cook-tent for the show that would breach their magical cell. Carefully, little by bit, she, Cap''n and Mirielle set about gathering props and rehearsing their dance.


    Chair, broom, bucket and folding table… food tray with pie… even a live, pecking hen they lured over with bread. There were several dogs in the high-elven camp, but these did not trust the Tabaxi.


    Well, she''d be quit of them all, soon enough, Salem reasoned. All the plan needed was darkness, an audience and better than usual luck.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Years earlier, in a sideways, other-plane past: Gildyr had lain unconscious and raving for many long candle marks, as Grey Fang the goblin battled to heal him. The boy had lost a tremendous amount of blood and one arm, all of which had to be magically replaced. He should have died. Very nearly had.


    Only, Grey Fang called upon the hidden life of the forest, itself. Of those things which grew in the darkness and burrowed unseen. Tree roots and fungus. Earthworms and moles.


    Grey Fang drew on their power to first stabilize Gildyr, then graft and integrate a dryadic limb-bud. A difficult process, helped along by the lingering blessing of Karus, the boy''s slaughtered noble beast.


    Together with Squinty and Dog-bait, he''d hauled the boy away from the chaos of thundering hooves, screaming manticore and whistle-shriek-CRUMP of fire bolts. Hauled him down into their tunnel and off of the battlefield.


    See, to the lordly high-elves, goblins were nothing but vermin; fit only for extermination. But the woodlings… aye, now. Those might listen. Might find something of mercy, deep in their hearts.


    So Grey Fang had seen his chance and he''d taken it, snatching a horribly injured boy from certain death; setting him back on the path to recovery, then sneaking him home to his sorrowning folk, along with a note.


    ''Help, please,'' he''d written, in powdered oak-gall and spit. ''Our people are dying. Our lands are near gone. Please, please help us.''


    Gildyr still had that carefully folded up note; worn in the faerie pocket nearest his heart. Had vowed to answer that plea and win peace for elf and goblin, alike.