“Our trees will die without enough water.”
“ Rita,” Ghora said.
“ Don’t even start, Chancellor. The trees are dying. They’re not getting enough water. The most effective means of—”
“ Look, your trees get plenty of water. We don’t have enough resources just to hand out whatever you want!”
“ Oh, you do too!”
“ Rita, I can’t manipulate the system.” Rita scoffed and stomped away.
Now, in the present, Franz said, “Hey, Chancellor,” awakening him from his thoughts. “Or should I call you ‘Mayor’ since you’re the acting mayor now?” He carried the crossbow slung on his back. Ghora once had asked what the crossbow was all about, and Phoenix replied: “I like it because it’s intimidating. People can see it.” This was even in light of the fact that in recent years there hadn’t been a more serious crime than Overholser’s boy scaring the horses and sending them running around the parish. “I just like it, you know?”
“ So, Ghora, let’s figure out a plan for the caravans. We need to be on top of this. You know them caravan-folk aren’t exactly the friendliest brutes, but you gotta love ‘em.”
“ Aye, I know, Sheriff.”
What happened the night before in the Waterman House still weighed heavily on his mind, especially the wolf attack—his arm was swollen, the bite marks far from healed; and he felt sick, absolutely sick, weak, powerless. But he didn’t remember much else from the time in the house. There seemed to be something blocking his memory.
Franz felt similarly about his memories from the night before. There seemed to be something missing from them. He remembered entering the house, and the wolf attack, and he remembered shooting it with an arrow that had also penetrated Ghora’s stomach. Ghora had not yet seen the doctor, and oddly had experienced no discomfort in that regard. But something was different. Something had been awakened in him: something sinister.
“ Let’s hatch this out, Ghora. Come on.”
***
The chancellor’s house stood past the cathedral on the southern end of the parish, the opposite side from the mayor’s residence; an inconvenience for someone currently assuming both roles, Franz was quick to point out, but Ghora didn’t mind. “I don’t know why, but I want to stay as far away from that place as possible,” Ghora said, tugging on his beard, and it was true.
The chancellor’s house was larger than the mayor’s residence. It held living quarters as well as a courtroom, which hadn’t been used in years. Infractions of the law were so often of such a minor nature, punishment could easily be handed down without the need of formal proceedings. This fact turned the courtroom into an artifact of an ancient time, as well as the ideal place for the sheriff and chancellor to discuss their impending dealings with the caravan-Folk, the Ujimati .
Not much was known about these nomads, but that did not stop the people of the Inner-Crescent from developing narratives detailing who exactly they were. Some of the information was good, some not.
Some said they were nasty savages, willing to eat their own young, often glorifying the act by dehydrating the heads, shrinking them to a fraction of their original size, and carrying them around their necks as a status symbol. These heads would often be passed down through generations so that every man, woman, and child in the caravan carried at least one shrunken head about their neck. Because of this, along with their sharpened teeth–another tribal tradition–they had gained a reputation for being demonic, satanic, cannibals the likes of which Noremway Parish should steer clear of.
In fact, this description of the Ujimati was part-fact, part-fiction. These people were in reality the remaining members of the Outer-Crescent parishes, all infected with the Darkness. Despite their demonic infection, they still needed water, and Noremway Parish often offered them some water rations in order
“ Rita,” Ghora said.
“ Don’t even start, Chancellor. The trees are dying. They’re not getting enough water. The most effective means of—”
“ Look, your trees get plenty of water. We don’t have enough resources just to hand out whatever you want!”
“ Oh, you do too!”
“ Rita, I can’t manipulate the system.” Rita scoffed and stomped away.
Now, in the present, Franz said, “Hey, Chancellor,” awakening him from his thoughts. “Or should I call you ‘Mayor’ since you’re the acting mayor now?” He carried the crossbow slung on his back. Ghora once had asked what the crossbow was all about, and Phoenix replied: “I like it because it’s intimidating. People can see it.” This was even in light of the fact that in recent years there hadn’t been a more serious crime than Overholser’s boy scaring the horses and sending them running around the parish. “I just like it, you know?”
“ So, Ghora, let’s figure out a plan for the caravans. We need to be on top of this. You know them caravan-folk aren’t exactly the friendliest brutes, but you gotta love ‘em.”
“ Aye, I know, Sheriff.”
What happened the night before in the Waterman House still weighed heavily on his mind, especially the wolf attack—his arm was swollen, the bite marks far from healed; and he felt sick, absolutely sick, weak, powerless. But he didn’t remember much else from the time in the house. There seemed to be something blocking his memory.
Franz felt similarly about his memories from the night before. There seemed to be something missing from them. He remembered entering the house, and the wolf attack, and he remembered shooting it with an arrow that had also penetrated Ghora’s stomach. Ghora had not yet seen the doctor, and oddly had experienced no discomfort in that regard. But something was different. Something had been awakened in him: something sinister.
“ Let’s hatch this out, Ghora. Come on.”
***
The chancellor’s house stood past the cathedral on the southern end of the parish, the opposite side from the mayor’s residence; an inconvenience for someone currently assuming both roles, Franz was quick to point out, but Ghora didn’t mind. “I don’t know why, but I want to stay as far away from that place as possible,” Ghora said, tugging on his beard, and it was true.
The chancellor’s house was larger than the mayor’s residence. It held living quarters as well as a courtroom, which hadn’t been used in years. Infractions of the law were so often of such a minor nature, punishment could easily be handed down without the need of formal proceedings. This fact turned the courtroom into an artifact of an ancient time, as well as the ideal place for the sheriff and chancellor to discuss their impending dealings with the caravan-Folk, the Ujimati .
Not much was known about these nomads, but that did not stop the people of the Inner-Crescent from developing narratives detailing who exactly they were. Some of the information was good, some not.
Some said they were nasty savages, willing to eat their own young, often glorifying the act by dehydrating the heads, shrinking them to a fraction of their original size, and carrying them around their necks as a status symbol. These heads would often be passed down through generations so that every man, woman, and child in the caravan carried at least one shrunken head about their neck. Because of this, along with their sharpened teeth–another tribal tradition–they had gained a reputation for being demonic, satanic, cannibals the likes of which Noremway Parish should steer clear of.
In fact, this description of the Ujimati was part-fact, part-fiction. These people were in reality the remaining members of the Outer-Crescent parishes, all infected with the Darkness. Despite their demonic infection, they still needed water, and Noremway Parish often offered them some water rations in order
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