Before I have the opportunity to fall forward over top of the wall that now seemed inadequately short for something that was supposed to stop people from tumbling down a thousand-foot cliff, I feel a cool, dry hand wrap around my forearm, and hear a low, even voice speak to me.


    “Sorry, I didn''t mean to startle you."


    Once the ground feels steady under my feet again, I turn to look at the person who was both the cause of my near death experience and my savior from it.


    He''s tall, enough so that I have to look up a ways to meet his eyes, but for a male member of the serpent folk I''d say he''s about average.  Medium build.  Well-dressed but in an understated way.  Dignified, but not that old -- maybe in his thirties.  His scales are a dark gray with yellow markings, his snout is short, and the scales on the back of his head spike up a bit.  His eyes are a violent blood red.  They stare back at me, level and even, and I can immediately sense an aura of calm authority radiating from him.


    "Um.  No, it''s my fault. I should have noticed there was someone else here," I concede a bit sheepishly.  "I was in such a hurry and so out of breath, I just got a bit of tunnel vision, I guess."


    He lets go of my arm, an action that makes me realize he was still holding it.  I rub it absentmindedly.


    "What were you in such a rush for?" he asks, glancing in the direction in which I had been staring so raptly moments before.  "The mountains aren''t going anywhere.  Not anytime soon anyway."


    He doesn''t smile, but it''s abundantly clear he finds my actions amusing.  I don''t much care for being made fun of, not by strangers anyway.  My lips purse.


    "Well, the mountains might not be going anywhere, but I am," I inform him, trying to be polite but unable to keep a degree of defiance out of my tone.  "I''m only in town for a week, and I''ll be busy for most of it."


    The man blinks, and his forked tongue flicks out from between his lips.  If he''s bothered by my rude tone, it doesn''t show on his face.  "I see.  What brings you to Dimos, then?"


    This question causes the deeply ingrained urge to give our spiel to bubble out of me unbidden.  I rattle off the words I''ve spoken a thousand times in my life with a practiced smile.


    "I''m a member of a troupe of traveling musicians and actors, the Restless Warblers.  We''re in town for the next week, putting on a different show every night.  Tomorrow night is a concert with food and drink provided by local street vendors.  The music and dancing goes late into the night, and all are welcome."


    He cocks his head and stares at me long enough for my addressing-the-public smile to falter.  Then he finally breaks eye contact to gaze out over the painted vista.  "Yes, I''d heard there was a group that just arrived today.  I hope your time here is lucrative."


    The obvious lack of interest in his tone and manner really rubs me the wrong way.


    "Of course our time here will be lucrative," I say, unable to keep the testiness out of my voice.  "We''re amazing, and if you''re not interested, you should at least spread the word to anyone you know who does appreciate art and fun."


    He gives me a strange look that I can''t read, and smirks almost imperceptibly.


    "I suppose I shall," he says, then looks away again.


    I feel summarily dismissed, not to mention a little mocked, and it lights a small fire in me.  He doesn''t want to keep talking to me?  Good.  I''d be happy to take the opportunity to pretend he doesn''t exist.  I''m not here to talk to anyone anyway, I''m here to enjoy the majesty of nature and light.  I suck in a deep breath and turn away from him and towards the sunset, determined not to let his grating presence ruin this experience for me.


    The view is perfect.  The shadows are blue and purple and everything touched by the light is in pinks and oranges.  The landscape is all jagged peaks and deep canyons, stretching out over an impossible distance.  The earth seems barren, yet I know that even in the most improbable corners of this wasteland, there is life just beneath the surface.  It''s everything I remember and more.


    And I can''t enjoy it at all with this guy standing next to me.


    I keep sneaking glances at him, but he''s never looking back at me.  I might be unable to ignore him despite my best efforts, but he doesn''t seem to face the same problem.  He seems so at ease, which I envy greatly.


    The silence between us is making me so antsy.  I shuffle my feet as I try to reign in the urge to tell him to piss off and find his own lookout spot.  Because I can''t say that, can I?  I can''t tell someone who has technically done me no wrong to get out of my airspace.  If I don''t say something, though, the urge is just going to build until it bursts out of me like trapped steam.  So, I blurt out the first innocuous subject that comes to mind.


    "I came here once before, a long time ago," I say.  "We got to play in the castle that time.  I really fell in love with the scenery."


    I glance over.  He''s looking at me now, expression inscrutable, waiting for me to continue.


    "I''ve wanted to come back ever since," I go on,  "I''ve been all over the continent and seen a lot of beautiful places, but nothing has really called to me in the same way."


    He looks out into the distance, a faint smile playing across his lips and a far off look in his eye.


    "Yes," he says reverently, "I feel the same way.  In all the years I''ve lived here, I never tire of it.  I come here all the time when I need to think.  It never fails to clear my mind."Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Good, he said something that didn''t piss me off.  I can work with this.


    "Have you traveled much?" I ask.


    He chuckles lightly.  "You could say that."


    What, is he trying to be mysterious?  That''s back into the realm of annoying again.


    "I''ve never not been on the road," I say.  "I wouldn''t have it any other way, and my troupe is my family, but some places make me wish we could at least linger for a little while.  Tell me, as a Dimos native, what should I make sure to prioritize seeing before we leave?"


    He takes a long time before answering, taking deep breaths as he mulls it over.  "Honestly?  It doesn''t get much better than this.  Prioritize coming up here as often as possible."


    "Yeah…"  Maybe next time I would even be alone.  "I just wish that our campsite were closer to the summit.  We''re all the way back next to the east entrance of town. It was a long way up here and it''ll be a long way back, though thankfully I won''t have to go uphill the other way too."


    "You have to go all the way back across town?" he demands with some urgency.  "Are you serious?"


    "Well yeah, but it''s no big deal," I say dismissively.  "My whole life is walking long distances, and I have a great sense of direction."


    My answer doesn''t seem to please this guy.  His brow furrows deeply.


    "It''ll be dark the whole way back," he says as though I don''t know this already. "Dimos''s crime rate isn''t high, but it''s far from non-existent.  A woman walking alone at night… You could get mugged, or worse."


    I scoff and try to cover it up by coughing, but it''s not really convincing.


    "Look, I''ve been out alone at night in way sketchier places than this and still have yet to be effectively mugged," I reassure him smugly.  "Don''t worry, I''m more than capable of taking care of myself."


    My reassurances aren''t convincing.  His brow furrows deeper still, and I can see his tail lashing sinuously behind him.


    "I''ll go fetch a carriage for you," he says in a definitive tone.


    "That''s really not--“


    "I insist," he interrupts with some force.  "Please wait here.  I will return shortly."


    And he turns and walks away without another word.


    I splutter uselessly at his receding back.  The reasonable part of me knows that this is a kind and gentlemanly gesture.  My wounded pride, however, is overpowering all reason, and I''m becoming more irate by the second.  He doesn''t think I can handle myself?  Well, he has no idea who I am and what I''m capable of, and I''m not fond of being underestimated.


    Rather than watching my beautiful sunset as planned, I am now pacing vigorously back and forth and mentally playing out arguments I would like to have with this stranger when he returns.  I''m also arguing with myself, because my reason has found its voice a little, and I''m recognizing that I can''t just tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, when, again, he hasn''t technically done anything to me.  I have to be nice.  I have to express gratitude, even, for this objectively generous offer.


    No matter how painful it is to do so.


    When he returns, the sun is gone and I have worn a path in the grass.  I try not to meet his eyes, because if I did, I''d be giving him a death glare.  It''s not suppressible.  He walks across the small park and holds out his arm for me to link it with mine.  I oblige, biting my tongue so hard I must be leaving teeth marks.  We walk to the carriage in silence before I take a deep breath and turn to face him and issue the remarks I have prepared in my head for this occasion.


    "Thank you," I say from between gritted teeth, "this is very kind of you.  I appreciate your concern for my well-being."


    I manage to get it out, but I was aiming for cordial and missed the mark by a long shot.  I don''t succeed in wrangling my expression into anything even remotely polite, either.  Since I look directly at him to address him, he''s getting the full brunt of the death glare.


    At my words, he makes a pained expression that it takes me a minute to realize is a rapidly failing attempt not to smile.  I feel my face heat up to unprecedented levels.  He has to break eye contact in order to get himself under control.


    "You''re quite welcome," he says.  "I couldn''t very well let you wander the dark streets alone."


    He holds a hand out to help me up into the open carriage seat, and I glare at it for a few seconds, then ultimately take it.  When I''m seated, he''s finally wrestled his smile into something that''s more polite rather than openly mocking.


    "You know, I think I will come to your concert tomorrow," he says, to my complete and utter shock.  "I''m finding it hard to imagine you expressing anything other than poorly-concealed hostility, and that''s something I''d like to witness for myself."


    My mouth opens and closes but no words come out.  The audacity… I can''t believe that… How dare he…!


    "By the way, I don''t believe I ever caught your name, Miss…?


    "Catarina," I say, voice dripping with venom.  "And yourself?"


    "Khysmet," he replies.  "Please to make your acquaintance, Miss Catarina.  I look forward to seeing you again soon."  He signals to the carriage driver, and suddenly he''s receding into the distance.


    Khysmet, Khysmet… I mull the name over in my mind.  I''ve heard it before, I know it, but I can''t place it.  Someone politically important, a Veilsung lord or count, or maybe a general.  The name rattles around in my head the whole way back to the campsite.  It''s a long ride, actually.  Maybe I should be grateful I didn''t have to walk all this way.  That doesn''t stop me from stewing the whole way back, though.


    I stomp back into camp with a black cloud over my head.  Folks are gathered around scattered campfires, talking and laughing and singing.  I see Portia and Suzanne sitting outside our tent playing cards.  Portia waves as I approach, swaying a bit, clearly having gotten into the alcohol.


    "Cat, you- you have to come play and help me keep an eye on Suzie, ssshe keeps cheating," she slurs.


    "You''re back sooner than I thought you''d be," Suzanne says, ignoring Portia''s drunken accusation.  "I figure the stars would be out well before you could walk your way across the whole city, but there''s still light in the sky."


    "I met this asshole while I was out," I explain irritably "and he got me a ride back."


    Suzanne raises a quizzical eyebrow.  "Ah yes, nothing more asshole-ish than making sure you get across town safely after dark," she says dryly.


    "He was an asshole," I insist.  I don''t, however, have anything of substance to back up this claim, so I just scowl.  "I''m going to bed," I say tersely, and storm off toward our tent.


    It takes hours to get to sleep, partly because I would normally stay up late talking and laughing with everyone else.  But my mood is sour in a way that I don''t want to talk about it or even really think about it, so I just lay there with my jumbled up thoughts until finally slipping into a restless slumber.