The pale sunlight of the early afternoon cast long, stark shadows from the sturdy stone buildings of Dustreach, painting the dusty thoroughfares in contrasting patches of light and shade. ProlixalParagon, his white fur containing swirls and patterns of rich black absorbing the muted illumination, continued his quiet exploration of the Draggorian border village. The rhythmic scraping and clanging sounds that characterized Pella had been replaced by a more subdued hum of activity – the low bleating of sheep from nearby enclosures, the shuffling footsteps of villagers going about their tasks, and the distant, almost imperceptible murmur of voices. The metallic tang of black salt still permeated the air, a constant reminder of the village's primary industry, clinging to the rough stone walls and the coarse fabric of the villagers’ clothing.

  His digitigrade paws made soft, almost silent contact with the packed earth as ProlixalParagon made his way back towards the small alcove where he had encountered Marx, the one-legged woodcarver. He had been intrigued by the artisan’s dedication to his craft amidst a community seemingly focused on the more pragmatic aspects of survival. As he rounded the corner of a particularly solid-looking stone dwelling, the familiar sight of Marx seated on his low stool came into view.

  Marx’s single hazel eye was fixed intently on a piece of driftwood, his brow furrowed in concentration as his nimble fingers manipulated a small, sharp knife. Shavings of pale wood curled away from the blade, forming a delicate pile at his feet. ProlixalParagon could already discern the emerging form – it appeared to be another small animal, perhaps a desert lizard with intricately detailed scales. The quiet focus of the craftsman was a small island of artistic endeavor in the otherwise utilitarian atmosphere of Dustreach.

  However, the peaceful scene was soon to be disrupted. A gruff chorus of voices approached from the direction of the marketplace, growing steadily louder. ProlixalParagon, his large, rotating ears swiveling to gather the sounds, noted a distinct tone of irritation and disapproval in the approaching voices. He paused near the entrance of the alcove, partially concealed by the shadow of the stone building, choosing to observe rather than immediately intrude.

  A group of three villagers rounded the corner, their expressions tight with what seemed to be a mixture of frustration and scorn. Two were burly human men, their clothing worn and stained with the dark dust of the salt flats, their movements conveying a sense of hard labor. The third was a gaunt human woman, her face etched with a weariness that seemed to extend beyond physical exertion. They stopped abruptly upon seeing Marx, their initial boisterousness shifting to a pointed silence that felt more threatening than any raised voice.

  “Still at it, Marx?” one of the men finally grumbled, his voice rough as coarse gravel. He gestured dismissively at the pile of wood shavings at Marx’s feet with a calloused hand. “Another useless trinket taking shape, no doubt. Wood doesn’t grow on trees here, you know. Every scrap is precious.”

  The woman stepped forward, her gaze sharp and accusatory as she focused on Marx’s missing leg, the rough end of his crutch leaning against the wall. “Precious wood that could be used for mending fences, for reinforcing roofs against the wind. Things that actually serve a purpose. Instead, you sit here, day after day, whittling away like you haven’t a care in the world.” Her voice held a bitter edge, hinting at personal hardship. “Some of us have real work to do, work that keeps this village going.”

  The second man scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a wonder you even get your share of the wood, Marx. You contribute so little as it is. One good leg less doesn’t exactly make you the most productive member of our community.” His words were cruel, the implication clear that Marx’s disability made his artistic pursuits even more unacceptable in their eyes.

  A flush crept up Marx’s neck, his single eye flicking downwards to the piece of wood in his lap. He tightened his grip on the knife, his knuckles turning white. He remained silent for a long moment, his usual gentle demeanor seemingly overshadowed by a familiar weariness.

  “They bring a bit of joy,” he finally murmured, his voice low and hesitant, echoing his earlier words to ProlixalParagon. “A little… beauty in a hard world. The children…”

  “Joy?” the first man barked, cutting him off. “Children will be just fine without another wooden lizard, Marx. They need food, shelter, clothes that aren’t falling apart. Things made from wood that actually matter.” He gestured around the simple, functional buildings of Dustreach. “Look around you! This isn’t some fancy city where folks have time for such nonsense. This is Dustreach. We survive.”

  The woman’s gaze remained fixed on Marx’s crutch. “It’s a disgrace, really. A strong piece of wood like that, being used as a crutch when you could be using your good arm to make something useful. Seems like a terrible waste, just like all this.” She gestured to the wood shavings with disdain.

  ProlixalParagon felt a surge of indignation rise within him, a reaction to the blatant lack of empathy and the harsh judgment being leveled against the woodcarver. He recalled his conversation with Marx, the quiet passion in his voice when he spoke of finding the inherent beauty within the wood. The villagers’ criticisms seemed to entirely disregard this, reducing his craft to mere frivolous waste, especially given his physical limitations.

  He noted the subtle tension in Marx’s posture, the way his hand instinctively shielded the half-formed wooden lizard as if protecting it from their harsh words. The woodcarver’s resilience, which ProlixalParagon had admired, seemed to be straining under the weight of this public berating. The practicality of Dustreach, so evident in its sturdy stone buildings and focus on essential trades, appeared to have little room for the solace and small joys that Marx sought to create. The encounter provided a stark illustration of the values held by this border community, a harsh reality where art seemed a luxury ill-afforded, and where even physical hardship was used as another justification for their critical judgment. ProlixalParagon remained a silent observer, his luminous eyes taking in every detail of the uncomfortable exchange, his understanding of the complexities within the village of salt and wool deepening with this disheartening scene.

  The evening winds swept over Dustreach with a coarse, dry sigh, carrying with them the mingled scents of hot earth, wind-worn grass, and briny salt from the flats beyond the village’s southern edge. The settlement, though technically a village by census standards, was large by borderland measure — over five hundred souls scratching out a life where desert met the great southern flats, overlooked by the stern gaze of the Draggor Kingdom’s laws.

  ProlixalParagon walked the dusty lane between clustered stone-and-clay buildings, the sandy wind tugging at the edges of his cloak. The sky stretched out in endless orange and gold, the last light of the sun sinking toward the salt horizon. Dustreach was quieter in the evenings, but never quite still — a place where folk knew to watch shadows and mind who they spoke to.

  A raised voice reached his ears — sharp, mocking — followed by a brittle laugh. His large, black-tipped ears swiveled instinctively toward the sound.

  Ahead, in the shade of a half-built awning near a carpenter’s yard, three villagers had cornered a fourth. Marx, the old craftsman, stood with his crutch propped against a workbench, his weathered face unreadable. Beside him, a set of delicate wood-and-brass prosthetic components lay arranged on a rough canvas, the faint glimmer of mana etchings catching the dying light.

  “You’re wasting your time, old man,” sneered a thickset man with a crooked nose, jabbing a callused finger at the work. “That wood should be patching the east well cover, not strung up for your useless scraps.”

  “Aye,” added a sharp-faced woman with a long braid. “Gonna hobble around in the Wastes on fancy sticks now? Better folk than you have lost a limb and learned to crawl.”

  The third, a younger man with a crooked grin, snorted. “Could’ve at least made a decent club outta it.”

  ProlixalParagon’s jaw tightened. The scene tugged at something raw in him, old echoes of the slights he’d carried in both this world and the one before — the way people sneered when you didn’t fit their neat rows of what a man, a worker, a mind should be. ‘Lazy.’ ‘Scattered.’ ‘Not worth the effort.’ Diagnosed late. Dismissed early. The faces changed, but the poison was the same.

  He stepped forward, the sway of his long marbled tail catching the corner of their vision. The trio stiffened, scowling at the interloper, the glint of recognition souring their faces.

  “Funny,” ProlixalParagon drawled, his voice calm, carrying just enough weight to cut through the tension. “Folk who claim to know what’s ‘useful’ always seem to be the ones doing the least themselves.”

  The woman’s lip curled. “Stick to your fox tricks, caravaner. Dustreach doesn’t need strays telling us our business.”

  He smiled thinly, all teeth and unblinking gleam. “You think calling me a stray stings? Darling, I left better insults behind in cradle-song. Now, move along. Before I start naming the real dead weight in this village.”

  The crooked-nose man’s fists clenched, but the wind carried murmurs from nearby — others watching from doorways, from market stalls packing up for the night. The odds shifted with silence and sidelong glances.

  With a final glare, the trio backed off, muttering curses under their breath as they stalked away toward the salt-lit horizon. ProlixalParagon turned his attention to Marx, whose face remained impassive.

  “Didn’t need saving,” Marx grunted.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Didn’t do it to save you,” ProlixalParagon replied, crouching to study the delicate rune-carved prosthetic parts. “Did it because those words? They sound too much like ones I’ve chewed through myself. People act like you stop being worth something if you don’t walk, talk, or think the way they prefer. But they don’t get to decide.”

  A long pause. The wind tugged dry grass against the stones.

  Marx sighed, a sound like brittle wood snapping. “You’ve got a good tongue on you, fox. Not many here with the spine to speak it.”

  He hesitated, then motioned to a half-assembled leg brace of light ashwood and mana-threaded copper. “Working on something different. Not just for me. A prosthetic that moves like flesh, powered by a man’s own mana. Could be for soldiers, hunters, caravaneers. Folk the high cities forgot.” His voice roughened. “Only trouble is, the parts I need aren’t sold in Dustreach. Not by anyone I’d trust, anyway.”

  ProlixalParagon’s ears flicked forward, intrigued. “What kind of parts?”

  “Mana-threaded salt cedar. Obsidian resin from the Hollow Quarry. A fragment of Crystallized Echo — there’s a place east of the flats, near the old ruin spires. Dangerous country.”

  A soft shimmer appeared at the corner of ProlixalParagon’s vision.

  >Quest Available: Timber, Blood, and Salt<

  Retrieve the following rare materials for Marx: Mana-Threaded Salt Cedar, Obsidian Resin, and a Crystallized Echo Shard from the Dustreach Salt Flats and surrounding Wastes. Deliver them to complete his prosthetic.

  Reward: 750 XP, Unique Item: Marx’s Woven Cuff (Accessory — +1 Dexterity, +5% Mana Efficiency), Reputation with Dustreach +10, Reputation with Marx +10.

  ProlixalParagon flicked the prompt aside for a moment, tail swaying. “I’ll do it,” he said quietly. “But not because you need to prove yourself to anyone. Not because your worth comes down to whether you can walk or fight again.”

  He rose, his silhouette framed against the fading saltflat light. “You’d have a place with the Vermillion Troupe as you are. Because what you build matters. Because you matter.”

  Marx grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching toward something that might’ve been a smile. “Foxes. Never knew when to leave well enough alone.”

  ProlixalParagon accepted the quest. As the last of the sun slipped below the horizon, the desert wind carried the scent of salt and possibility.

  He was ready to find those materials — and maybe prove a few people wrong along the way.

  >Quest Accepted: Timber, Blood, and Salt<

  The last of the evening’s light clung to the horizon, streaking the skies over Dustreach in amber and violet. The scent of scorched grass and baked earth hung thick in the air as ProlixalParagon crossed the market thoroughfare, weaving past shuttered stalls and the occasional straggler heading home.

  The Vermillion Troupe’s camp sat in the lee of a low ridge on the village’s northern edge, a patchwork cluster of wagons, tents, and battered canvas canopies bleached by the relentless desert sun. Lanterns swung from posts, their flickering light painting long, wavering shadows across the sand.

  Lyra was by the main fire, hunched over a worn map spread across a crate, her copper hair catching the firelight in muted flashes. She was marking supply routes and safe watering spots, brows furrowed in the way she always did when planning out a caravan's next move through border country. Her dagger sat buried in the dirt beside her, half-forgotten, a casual reassurance.

  ProlixalParagon padded up silently, his digitigrade steps making barely a sound on the packed earth.

  “Got a minute?” he asked.

  Lyra didn’t look up right away. “If it’s about who took the last of the blueleaf root, it wasn’t me.”

  “Not this time.” He smirked faintly, tail flicking. “It’s about a man. A carpenter. Name’s Marx.”

  That got her attention. Lyra straightened, eyes sharp. “Marx? The old one with the peg leg?”

  “Yeah. Good hands. Better mind.” ProlixalParagon crouched beside the fire, tail curling around his feet. “Villagers’ve been on him. Prejudiced rot. Same old song — not worth the wood he works with because he’s got one good leg instead of two. Got a sharp tongue, though. And a sharper craft.”

  Lyra’s brow knit, a flicker of anger crossing her face. She spat into the dust. “Dustreach folk love to sneer, long as it’s someone smaller than them. Happens all along this border.”

  ProlixalParagon nodded. “I offered him a spot with us.”

  Lyra’s gaze fixed on his, and then, without hesitation, she gave a sharp nod. “Good. Troupe’s for those worth having, not those perfect by someone else’s measure. If he’ll come, he’s got a place.”

  ProlixalParagon’s ears gave a satisfied flick. “He’s working on something… special. A mana-powered prosthetic. Not just for himself. Says he’s done with killing, but not with being useful. Wants to prove it.”

  Lyra gave a slow, approving grin. “Sounds like our kind of stubborn.”

  “I told him he didn’t have to prove a damned thing to me,” ProlixalParagon murmured. “Or to anyone. He matters because he’s him. That’s it.”

  Lyra reached out, clapped his shoulder. “You’ve got a good gut for people, Paragon. ”.

  “There’s more,” he continued, grinning at the nickname. “He asked me to fetch materials for this build. Mana-threaded salt cedar, obsidian resin from Hollow Quarry, and a Crystallized Echo shard. Out in the flats and the Wastes.”

  Lyra whistled low. “Dangerous country for someone alone.”

  ProlixalParagon’s tail gave a slow sway. “I’ll manage. Been itching for something with teeth.”

  She considered him for a beat, then stood, brushing dust from her trousers. “You sure you don’t want backup? We’re not the fighting sort but I know there are many who would have your back if you but ask”

  “Not this time,” he replied, though his tone softened. “Better this stays quiet. Dustreach already chews on its own. No need to give them reason to start watching the Troupe too close.”

  Lyra’s gaze lingered on him, weighing his words. Then she nodded. “Fair. Just don’t go getting yourself killed. Ralyria will want you back and I’m not hauling your pretty furry hide back from the flats.”

  ProlixalParagon smirked. “Wouldn’t ask you to.”

  She tossed him a small, battered charm strung with faded red thread. “Take this anyway. Old luck charm from a trader up north. Might be nonsense, might be worth something. Can’t hurt.”

  He caught it, closing his fingers around the worn string. “Thanks, boss.” He said trying out a nickname of his own.

  Lyra grinned. “Bring back what you need. And bring that stubborn old bastard home when you do.”

  “I will.”

  Without another word, ProlixalParagon turned, slipping into the deepening night, the firelight painting the edges of his white-and-black marbled fur. The wind tugged at his cloak as he made his way toward the distant salt flats, where danger prowled, secrets lingered, and the Wastes waited.

  >Quest Active: Timber, Blood, and Salt<

  The desert ahead promised trouble.

  Good. He was ready for it.

  The Dustreach Salt Flats stretched out like an endless, bone-white sea, the cracked, shimmering surface catching the pale light of the twin moons overhead. Night had settled fully now, and though the heat of the sun had bled from the earth, the air held a brittle, stifling dryness, as though even the darkness itself was parched.

  ProlixalParagon moved with careful, swift steps, his digitigrade feet leaving barely a trace on the hard-packed salt crust. His cloak was drawn tight against the wind, which came in low, sighing waves, carrying the faint, metallic tang of the flats and the far-off howls of some hunting thing best left undisturbed.

  He’d left the flickering lights of Dustreach behind over an hour ago, the village now a dim smear of glow along the horizon. The emptiness out here was near-total, save for the occasional scattered outcropping of salt-hardened driftwood or jagged, pale stone. It was a dead place, and yet he knew better. Things lived in these wastes — things that could gut you faster than you could draw a blade if you weren’t watching.

  His first goal lay somewhere ahead: a stand of mana-threaded salt cedar, a stunted, pale-barked tree that clung to life in the shallow basin near a long-abandoned brine pit. According to Marx, the sap ran thick with ambient mana in places like this, the wood dense and resilient, perfect for housing etched runes.

  His ears twitched at every shift of the wind. Shadows moved strangely out here — some from tricks of moonlight on broken stone, others from things that didn’t belong to the world of men or beasts.

  ProlixalParagon moved through a shallow ravine, the salt crust giving way to loose, gravelly soil and old, sun-bleached bones. He passed the half-buried remains of a rusted caravan wagon, its frame twisted and weatherworn, half-consumed by salt deposits.

  A glimmer of faint blue light ahead caught his attention. Mana resonance. His heart gave a small, anticipatory thrum.

  There — a small copse of salt cedar trees, their ghostly pale branches knotted and gnarled, their roots coiled deep into the briny soil. The trees almost seemed to glow in the moonlight, the faint hum of their mana-saturated fibers detectable to his attuned senses.

  He approached carefully, ears swiveling, tail held low.

  As he drew closer, a soft sound broke the silence — a rattling, dry click-click-click, like bone on stone. He froze.

  Another click.

  Movement to his left.

  He turned in time to see the creature emerge from behind a salt crust outcrop — a spindly, long-limbed thing, hunched and gray-skinned, its eyes like twin polished coins, too reflective in the dark. A Salt-Hollow Stalker. Desert scavenger and opportunistic predator. Not deadly alone… but they rarely hunted alone.

  Of course it’s never easy.

  ProlixalParagon eased a hand to the bundle of wire-spring caltrops at his belt. He’d been working on an experimental design: tiny weighted spheres lined with mana-etched barbs that detonated in a burst of blinding dust on impact.

  He flicked one toward the creature’s feet.

  It landed with a soft clink — and burst in a sharp flash of white dust.

  The Stalker shrieked, lurching back as its sensitive eyes filled with grit. ProlixalParagon moved, fast and low, reaching the nearest salt cedar, his claws already pulling a small hatchet free. He hacked swiftly at one of the thicker branches, the wood parting with a sharp, almost crystalline crack.

  As he secured the mana-threaded branch in his pack, more clicks rose from the darkness. Two, no — three more shapes shifting between jagged stones.

  Time to go.

  ProlixalParagon turned and sprinted, the cracked salt crust scattering beneath his feet. The Stalkers gave chase, but his legs were made for this — built for speed, for agility. He darted between outcroppings, his ears twitching to track the pursuit.

  He reached a narrow gully, the edges lined with brittle saltbrush, and scrambled up the slope. At the top, he lobbed another caltrop behind him. The burst of dust disoriented the Stalkers long enough for him to gain distance.

  Minutes later, the howls faded. He slowed, panting, the dry air burning his throat.

  He reached for his waterskin, took a careful pull, and allowed himself a small, tight grin.

  One down.

  He pulled the salt cedar branch from his pack. The wood shimmered faintly, threads of silvery mana glinting beneath the bark.

  >Quest Progress: Mana-Threaded Salt Cedar Acquired<

  ProlixalParagon flexed his aching fingers, his tail swishing in satisfaction.

  Now… to the Hollow Quarry for the obsidian resin.

  And no doubt, whatever ugly thing guarded it.

  The Wastes were alive tonight — and so was he.