Chapter 2: Chapter 2 — “A Mirthful Breeze”

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Grim Valley was a place in dire need of repair. Not by the humans who inhabited it, but by the gods who created it—its consistency was somewhere between raw sewage and monster guts.

The large ridges, often mislabeled as "hills" by those too young to have lived in the Upper North, were more accurately described as jagged rocks of slate and steel. The fog which often proliferated the ground was in-fact thin clouds of swirling ash, and the sky had not told time accurately since the start of the First Era; residents of the Valley told time using magical artifacts, called metiretur, which measured the passage based on the air's quality.

Large drops in air quality represented the Valley falling into night. Those born without strong constitutions would surely find it hard to breathe down in the wastes—but valley folk were a different breed, commonly accepted by the Great Civilizations to be human-adjacent creatures. On average, a resident of the valley lived with half the usual oxygen intake of someone above.

It was unknown which god created the Valley. It was often joked that it was an unfinished project that was discarded and forgotten about by Eyrie, and served as a convenient dumping ground for those who lost their Eyrian Blessing. The "landfill of the gods". In this simile, the average valley folk was worth less than a used napkin. Not that they needed any convincing—the despair and self-discrimination each member of Shadow's Pass harbored about themselves was the most pertinent type of oppression that any civilization could hope to achieve.

As you passed through the barrier (which spanned just a few hands from the edge of the red river), the pretend fog of ash and decay only grew thicker, turning from a light obscureness to something you could feel glide across your ankles with every step. The closer you got to the forest, however, the more it thinned—instead, it rose. From roughly ankle-height to about the lower-knee. The reason commonly associated with this change had to do with oxygen: the ash was denser than air, but as more oxygen entered the environment, it rose. As for why the amount of ash was so low within the barrier, since the barrier filtered out low-threat monsters, it was theorized that the ash was less a mix of soot and flame and partially composed of putrefied monster.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling, knowing that you were constantly covered in monster guts while outside the barrier, but just like remembering that you forgot to turn off the stove one morning after being propelled from the face of a large cliff, the situation regarding our sanitation was the least of any Runner's worry. Once you stepped out from underneath the protective guise of the barrier, you were playing with the switches that controlled your life. And despite decades of experience, there was never anything surefire about Running.

You either died, or you were lucky.

Thankfully, I held myself as quite the lucky person.

"The trees are outright mirthful today," Feran commented, his neck tilted upwards to gaze at the obsidian-colored leaves. Feran, as the vast majority of Runners, was instated into his position at the start of the new year. However, he had experience Running—three years ago, he was a participant of the ash runs, which also lasted the year before. He got out at the start of the 3162nd year of the Aidian Calendar. As shown by the past fourteen days of Runs, despite the three-year gap, he was not out of practice.

I glanced up to the skies, loosely admiring the Valley's trees with the same bemusement that a wife might offer her cheating husband. "Mirthful" was certainly a word to use—when the trees were eclipsed by joy, it spelled danger for us Runners. After all, one of the main ways a Runner could ascertain that they were being chased was by using the trees as a guide. If their ebony stalks shook, it meant a creature was likely stalking nearby.

However, there were some "windy" days in the forest. It was a term used more as an approximation rather than fact, since there was never any breeze in the Valley. Instead, the trees shook all on their own—one of the many strange happenings that have failed to be explained by any scientist or scholar in Shadow's Pass. Regardless of the reason why it happened, it made the threat of ambush a much more pertinent threat.

Gryff stroked his beard as Lashur—an older Runner with a head of wispy white hair—pulled the cart of supplies and listings by his side. It wasn't hard to imagine what was going through his head. Following Feran's observation, he was certainly thinking of which counter-strategy to employ this Run.

While us Runners did have tools to combat these unexpected winds, the safer grounds were now saturated. Every fifteen days, we were forced to swap to a separate quadrant of the forest. As shown by the mistakes of our ancestors, it was dangerous to think of the forest as a static resource that we could tap to get grim.

The forest learned over time, but it was lacking in any sort of semantic memory. The reason for this was unclear, but if we changed our position every few weeks, the high-threat monsters would quickly reacclimate to their new normalcy, revitalizing the effectiveness of the element of surprise for us the next time we Ran. The ability to reuse the same tricks was invaluable to a Runner, as we only had so many plausible stratagems that could be deployed against monsters of that strength.

Where things became unfortunate is that for Runners, there were only two or three hunting grounds where we could expect to get good returns on listings—and today, there would be a Ritual. This meant that each Runner had to gather an extra listing's worth of grim. That was four per Runner (and twelve for me).

For the amount of grim we needed, there was only option: the denser forests up north, near the entrance to the Aidian Peninsula, often seen as the gateway which barred valley folk from the Upper North. It was impossible to cross without an Eyrian Blessing, which meant our range of movement would be severely limited. To confront this issue, the Runners in each group would spread out to grant more room for evasion—which meant any magic tools that we could set-up in the forest to detect monsters would be too far on average to affect every group in a positive way.

Some groups today would be Running blind.

"Arte, can you be our blind runner today?" Gryff asked after a while.

"—What!" Nimia interjected, stepping forward to Gryff's group with a quick patter of steps, "Arte will collecting twelve listings today—that's an exponential increase compared to a Runner's usual load. And you want him to do it blind?"

"Sure," I responded.

"—Huh?!" Now Nimia was angry with me, the turn of her heel causing ash to lurch upwards and spread around the cart. Lechur gave a hacking cough in response. "Explain yourself!"

"Think about it from Gryff's perspective—I'm the only member of the Runners that Runs solo. If I'm one of the groups who needs to do a blind ash run today, then if everything works out, then life continues as normal. And if it doesn't, only I die—not an entire group. That's one versus three."

"So just because it makes logical sense, you'd put yourself on the chopping block with nothing to show for it?"

I tilted my head, "You're misunderstanding something, Nimia—I'm putting my head on the chopping block because it makes sense. The thought of 'getting something to show for it' was never part of the equation."

Nimia balked at me, "I can't believe you."

I shrugged, "Look at it this way—I'll be able to evade indefinitely. I'm sure Gryff took that into account; if there's anyone he doesn't want to die, it's me."

Gryff grumbled in response to my reasoning, "When you speak like a smartass all the goddamn time, sometimes I wish you would—but yes, Arte is correct. I have the utmost confidence that he'll survive today's Run, even if it's blind."

Nimia turned to glare at Gryff before turning back to me, her expression significantly pacified (although I could still see the anger behind her irises), "You don't have to do this, Arte. You have standing. If you tell the council about your workload, they'll give you a pass. You don't have to listen to Gryff."

What Nimia was referring to by "standing" was a rule the first Elder had established in the beginning of Shadow's Pass's history, that being the idea of right-by-merit—those who work the hardest for the survival of the village will always be granted clemency, no matter what. It was an exemption for crime, as well as treason. By disobeying Gryff's orders, who was the established leader of the Runners, I would be condemned and thrown to the wolves, dispelled from the barrier for the rest of my life. A death sentence.

However, since I would be collecting twelve listings today, when the average Runner would only collect four. Mathematically, my increase was the same: three times a normal Runner. However, another way to present it would to say that every Runner is collecting one more listing than normal, whereas I was collecting three more than normal.

That amount of extra effort gave me standing equal to Gryff, if not more. In short, I could disobey him here, and force him to enlist another group for a blind Run.

It was unfortunate for Nimia's argument, though, that I despised the idea of "standing".

"I'll do the blind Run, Gryff. You can count on me."

Nimia tensed her eyebrows and turned to face away from me, "Alright then, suit yourself. If they put your body in a funeral shroud, I'm spitting on it."

"I'll consider it an honor."

Nimia didn't humor me with a response, leaving me by my lonesome as she stepped up to the front of the wagon to join her group. Nimia usually walked with me to the hunting grounds, since I lacked any partners to talk with—now the only people left on the right-side of the cart were me, Gryff, and Lechur.

It had only been a few seconds since she left, but I already felt lonely.

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In contrast, Gryff clapped me on the shoulder, "Don't worry, kid. You made the correct choice."

I couldn't quite respond with the same amount of confidence that Gryff spoke with, so I merely nodded my head.

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Clementine was born in Shadow's Pass, but her ancestors were born in the Upper North. As expected, that meant she had a surname—but I never cared to ask her what it was.

Unlike most residents of the Valley, she maintained an Eyrian Blessing. It was the reason her hair was a beautiful blonde, and why her skin was flawless. Although she lacked the biological necessities to live down in the Valley, the numerous blessings she was granted by the gods allowed her to breathe our air. To live our life.

She existed as a transient thing—stuck in a cage, never to leave. She was neither a Mover, a Runner, or a Hunter.

She worked in the Vineyard. The worst fate for someone trapped in Shadow's Pass.

Clementine's mother was equally a woman born with an Eyrian Blessing, and equally beautiful. So was her mother's mother, and her mother's mother's mother. It was Clementine's great great grandmother that exiled from the Upper North and forced to live in the Valley. But unlike other valley folk, she wasn't exiled for a crime against the gods.

She was excommunicated by her own family, as she had fallen in love with a resident of the Valley. A noble of the Upper North, who was condemned by the state for an act against the gods. As she was determined to stand strong with him, they would fall to weakness together.

That noble man who was wed to Clementine's great great grandmother was the first Elder of Shadow's Pass, and the chief who would eventually forge a contract with Necrosis, the God of Nightmares. He was not the only one exiled from the Great Civilizations—his entourage of one-hundred and twenty followers were also expelled, which included his maids and retainers. He was our savior, and our doom. To some, it would have been better if he perished, rather than having children and bestowing us the gift of life.

Once you receive life, it's hard to get rid of it. The human body was designed to repel such thoughts as a display of necessity. Valley folk were born, and forced to live without a choice. That was the cruelty of life—and it extended to Clementine herself.

As someone with an Eyrian Blessing, her blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin were a constant reminder of the sins us valley folk committed—the sins of our ancestors, which we would be forced to pay back for the rest of our lives. She was a constant source of negative morale, and her very existence was sickening.

And so, as per the rules of the "standing", this meant she contributed adversely to the progression of Shadow's Pass. She couldn't complain for being forced to work in the Vineyard.

Just like us, Clementine was suffering for the sins of her ancestors—but unlike us, she had no-one to complain to. And even after we would meet, she would refuse to complain. All she would do was cry. But not a single tear shred was in protest.

I found her on a lone street corner, near the western embankment. She was sniveling silently. It was easy to pick her out in a crowd, since she was the only person around who wasn't carrying a vehicle. Yet nobody had stopped to help.

"Who are you?"

"...I'm a goddess."

"—I see."

I had motioned to her with an apple, like a young boy trying to attract ducks without fully understanding of their diet. Thankfully, though, this duck was rather stupid. She followed the apple like ambrosia.

"What's your name?"

"...It's Clementine. Clementine—"

"You can stop there. I don't care about the rest."

"...Okay."

The time between her mouth opening and words spewing forth took anywhere from several seconds to a minute. She felt like one of those old toys you needed to wind-up before they began speaking. It was annoying.

So why did I take her home? I wondered.

It was that day that Clementine and I began our severely dysfunctional relationship. A relationship based on truths, lies, and apples. To this day, she still ate them. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"You don't need to eat, so why do you always eat them? Apples, I mean."

Clementine paused and turned to me, her mouth agape. As usual, the words took several seconds to form.

"...I'm not sure."

---

"Alright boys, let's start setting up. Feran, you take the deprehen and set them up however you please—I'll leave the specifics up to you. Fido, you're on lookout. Serril, take your group and move up to the third quadrant. You'll be our second blind team today, don't screw it up. Especially you, Lothina—I don't want to have to explain to your wife that you were eaten by a bellum because you were a dumbass."

As all the Runners focused on responding and taking on Gryff's orders, I sat near the ridge of the cart and began sliding on my boots. Like most magic artifacts, they had a seemingly non-sensical name—curore—and were designed for ash runs in thick fog. They also condensed noise into the soles and pressed them into the soot, allowing Runners to completely mask the sound of their movement. Since attracting monsters based on footsteps was wildly unreliable, Runners instead relied on auxiliary sounds (noisemakers and self-actuated sounds like manually cracking branches or rustling through brushes) to start a chase.

As I prepared for the Run, Nimia took a seat next to me quietly. She already had her boots on. I continued tying up my own without words.

We continued in silence for a minute longer before I stood up. She and I turned to each other and exchanged glances.

Don't die, or I'll murder you. Her gaze seemed to say.

I, less adept in the traditions of eye-to-eye telepathy, gave her a quaint gotcha in response.

"Arte?" Gryff called.

I nodded, "I'm ready."

It was time for my fifteenth Run to begin.

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