DG-Pat Sang a song about ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, with instrumental beeps and whistles. Draven gritted his teeth and, not for the first time, regretted his creation – and wondered if he would be tethered to this – he didn’t even know what DG4 was anymore.

  Mitzy bounced her boots against his chest as she popped a bubble, “We’re going to need some supplies soon, Drave.

  She smacked her lips around the mouth-watering, sticky substance, as she crossed her legs, mercifully ending the terrible, torturous tandem of her bouncing and their singing, “ These mallows are going to revolutionize the game – I’m talking a sugar empire to rival that of the great and tasty Lekker Smekker Province!” She mimmed a grand display with her hand and claw.

  Draven, who absolutely did not appreciate his new nickname, grumbled, “What's the Lecker Smeker Province?”

  Mitzy jumped up on his shoulder, her mouth hanging wide, “DRAVE! Have you not heard of the sweetest place in all the Realms of the Fey? The streets are paved with pastries, homes made from barley cakes, and gummy fish jump from the rivers – directly into the open mouths of smiling children, who always do what they're told, mind you.” Mitzy made like a tea-pot as she tapped her foot, “Oh – Draven, you poor thing, let me tell you about a thing we call gnomish types call heaven.”

  Draven listened attentively as Mitzy laid out some of her people's history, rooted in the lands of the fey. Their pace increased once they reached a well-traveled road. One from built-up mud and plas-crete, stacked and packed – growing with water lilies and willow reeds. Their flowers and strips lining the sides of its winding path – forking and splitting in what had to be countless miles, networking across the mire.

  Pat’s voice, a fusion of robot and monotone human, interrupted Drave’s lesson, “Who made these roads? DG4 seems to be a bit limited in their knowledge…”

  Draven nodded, “Nobody knows.”

  Mitzy gave Drave the side eye, “Really? That seems – a bit far fetched.”

  Draven sighed, “The roads build themselves mostly. Once started, they tend to grow rapidly – most believe it's a system phenomenon.” He shook his head.

  Mitzy shrugged, “An interesting question for a later date – for now, we have more essential pans to strike.

  Mitzy chuckled at Drave’s look of confusion, “Have you never made candy be – look, never mind, where is everyone? Are there no travelers here?”

  Draven stopped, “I mean – it's just a slow day, must be bad weather in the tribelands.” He scratched his neck, looking around.”

  Mitzy hopped back up on Draven’s shoulder. She seemed to move around a lot. Her head dish spun in lazy circles, letting out a soft ping at set intervals. “Hmm, something's wrong, team…I, Draven, stop.”

  Mitzy flipped to the ground, landing in a three-point stance, her pigtails bouncing. “Stay here – please.” She rocked, boosted herself into the air, tucking into a front flip as she sailed over the mire – disappearing into the verdant foliage, like a gumball dropped into puffed frosting.

  Worry knit Draven’s brow. DG4 let out a low whistle, “What do you think it is, Draven?” Pat’s visor displayed a bouncing sign wave.

  Draven pulled out a rollie, his only answer a stream of smoke rings.

  Mitzy stuck her head out a few minutes later, shaking her head, “It's not good,” she said, landing back on the road with a soft thump. She walked toward Draven, who unconsciously kneeled for her to mount up.

  Mitzy pointed straight ahead, “Let's pick up the pace.”

  —

  Mitzy had pushed the pace, and she was worried about her mount. They had gone for a half day since her discovery and were nearing the outskirts of the Tribe Lands.

  The mecha-gnome in charge looked down at Draven, “You sure are sfelt, I thought I might have to use a travelling skill on you.”

  Draven nodded, “You will understand when you meet my people, the Grumakh – we – they are an ocrish tribe. But first, we will pass through the Plateau, where many tribes live. I can see the clearing ahead.

  DG-Pat hovered over Draven's opposite shoulder as Mitzy’s perch, sunlight spilling across the packed path ahead – a clear indication of the zone change.

  Draven picked up his pace, frantic – Mitzy had filled them in on the bodies she’d seen, decomposed, and partially digested – like they’d been submerged in layers of muck, vine, and mire.

  Finally, they broke into a clearing, a strange thing to see, above a thin mist rolled like a clouded sky, allowing in more light than found beneath the canopies of titans. They continued up a gentle sloping ridge before cresting onto a plateau.

  Villages of all types spread as far as the eye could see, covering up the horizon, making it impossible to know the size of the expanse. Watch towers stood at intervals, guarding major hubs and standing inside larger villages. Sharpened spikes stood like fences for some, while others were burrowed from mounds of dirt: tee-pees, leen-tos, domed huts, and rectangular buildings with thatched roofs; no one standard set the scene.

  What the party did not see – activity. No carts were being pulled by mire-mander, hunting bands, children playing, or even farmers tending patches of bok root, in the damp soil around the base of the clearing.

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  Draven drew to a halt, his dark green skin almost pale, “Gone – all gone.” He shook his head before breaking into a run. The nearest village was within earshot, and the party arrived in a cloud of dust. Fields surrounding the village’s exterior lay empty, their content torn from the ground – evident by the scattered soil, loose dried leaves, and stems. It looked like a tornado had torn through the area, sucking up all the farmers’ products.

  Inside the city’s outer ring of domed huts, there was no wall here, but simple concentric rings of grass huts. There was not a soul to be found as they moved towards the city center, in the center rows of tables, for trading lay on their side, knocked over in a struggle, but still no bodies, only bits of vine and leaf, as if the mire had blown through the area.

  Mitzy jumped to the ground as the party split up and began searching inside each shelter, storage crate, and lean-to – desperate to find some sign of life.

  —

  Mitzy sat on the edge of an overturned table, one boot on a leg, the other dangling, elbow on her knee. She gripped her chin, “I found nothing, the only oddity, besides the missing people, and signs of a struggle,” she waved at the general state of chaos, spilled wares, and upturned baskets. “Are the bits of vegetation, it's like whatever army came through here forgot to wipe their boots after exiting the swamp.” She looked beneath her boot at the last, before realizing she’d hitched a ride here.

  Draven stood tall and alert, his vision locked to some distant point across the plain, as he fished a small case from his duster pocket. “I have a feeling, this is what we are going to find all across, the Plateau – a trader can always be seen traveling between villages, or a hunting party…”

  Mitzy's head dish spun in a slow circle. DG-Pat dropped down from their aerial position, “We can see really far – like way too far.”

  Mitzy looked up, “What?”

  Pat’s eye triangles shifted in her direction, “Is this planet flat?”

  Mitzy nodded, “That's ridiculous, it's the shape of a gumball, a heavenly form.”

  Pat’s eyes flatlined, “Are you sure? If it's round, it must be supermassive, but then the gravity would crush us.”

  Mitzy shrugged, holding her hand up for Draven, “I think we should pick up the pace. We can talk about planetary bodies later, something of a gnomish specialty.”

  Drave flicked his rollie to the ground while hoisting up Mitzy. Pat interrupted, “Are you just going to litter like that, in this beautiful natural environment?”

  Draven sighed, “Am I going to what?” Mitzy sniggered. DG4 beeped in annoyance.

  Mitzy spoke up, “Pat, we may need to get your head checked out. I can run a diagnostic – well, I could if we were at my workshop, as it is, I’m going to have a hard enough time building a sucrous processing station, I’ve not seen – never mind, [Gumball on a Stick].”

  Draven felt the overwhelming urge to chase after a sweet scent, just out of reach. His strides lengthened, and his mind relaxed, allowing him to push his pace.

  DG-Pat stayed on Draven’s heels, easily keeping up in their new turbo form. Mitzy smiled at Draven’s reaction to her skill. It didn’t work the same on all mounts, but for those like him – well, she’d known he had a sweet tooth.

  —

  The next tribal village was reached in a little over an hour at a solid run. Mitzy leaped to the ground as they passed beneath, two guard towers constructed of woven vine, wrapped around beige plas-crete piers, like polysnthetic poles, stretching three stories to a walled rectangular guard house. The roofs, including the guard houses, were thatched, and the homes were rectangular. A sign reading ‘Smolderville’ stretched between the guard towers, its blocky red lettering reminded Pat of a Jurassic Park.

  “This place feels less tribal and more, safari west?” Stated Pat, DG4 gave a beep of affirmation.

  Mitzy looked over her shoulder as she scampered off in the direction of the nearest empty hut, Draven standing still, his eyes scanning the empty dirt roads, “This is the Smoldering Tribe – they have the finest smolderleaf this side of the Quaking Bog –”

  He took off at a sprint, not bothering to finish his sentence; he had one goal in mind.

  The supply tents were lean-tos – their tent poles, containing the same pillars as the inner core of the watch towers, and near to the same height. Sheets of stitched hide, stretched down the length of one side, allowed for the sun to dry out the hanging leaf bundles.

  Draven’s duster flapped behind him as he skidded to a halt on the tent's open side. There was nothing; it was all gone. He ran his palm across his bald head as he strode under the overhang. His head moved from left to right, as his eyes lingered on empty hooks and bare storage. Shelves ringed the tent poles, stretching the height to their tops, and wheeled ladders lay on their sides, as if their last jobs had been complete.

  Tears ran down Draven’s cheeks. This had been one of his favorite places to visit. The sight of all the drying leaves, hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds per tent –

  Draven ran out of the lean-to, entering the next, and the next. His pace accelerated as he moved through each tent head on a swivel, only to discover the same in each of the rows upon rows of drying areas.

  When Mitzy strolled up a while later, DG-Pat floating directly overhead, Draven knelt on the ground, staring out at the empty fields, in the distance – soil churned, and stalk missing.

  Mitzy placed a hand on his shoulder, “There were a few smolderleaf – fresh samples, I’ve collected them, DG-Pat can store them safely for us.”

  The tears on Draven's face dried like the [Summoners] empty heart. “What did this? Who could have…

  Draven shook his head, pulling a rollie out, and lighting it with a deep inhale, “Not a who – this must have been a what, only a monster could, could–”

  The mecha-gome gave him a few gentle pats. “Whatever they are, they are of the soil, of vine and nature –

  Mitzy gestured to the area empty of any agriculture, “They have left not a trace – no footprints, and hardly a struggle. It looks like the people left, abandoning their homes.”

  Draven set his jaw before pushing himself to his feet. He’d been a fool; the people of this village had treated him with kindness after his banishment, and all he could think about was missing smolderleaf.

  He trodded towards the nearest shelter, sturdy, dusty, a doormat – a smiling owl, an important beast for keeping the rodent population under control. Draven pushed past the threshold. Something was wrong; he could feel it right away. It wasn’t the upturned tables and chairs, or myriad dishes spilled into the wash basin. Those signs alone would be cause for concern; these were an organized and clean people.

  It was the small details that bothered Draven, and what he should have noticed right away. Photos were missing from frames, dust rings on shelves, where small keepsakes had been taken.

  The door had been left open, and the windows askew. This was a home that had been abandoned; its occupants had no plans to return. Worse than that, they’d barely taken anything with them, leaving in a hurry.

  Mitzy and DG-Pat approached, a look of apprehension on her tiny features, Pat’s face displaying a single flat line, a small bump periodically running, not even a low whistle from DG4. Draven thumbed his runes as he lifted his head, “They must have gone somewhere, Grumakh – but…”

  A rumbling swept across the land, low and steady. The party exchanged glances. Water in a nearby bucket rippled.

  DG-Pat flew into the air, far above the guard towers. Pat called down, “I don’t...the Mire – it's coming..."