Chapter 43| Not Mindless
The war party halted at the ridge’s edge, close enough now that Allen could make out individual faces beneath the crude, painted markings — weathered, human-adjacent features, eyes that tracked their small group with clear, deliberate calculation rather than the glassy, instinct-driven hostility of every dungeon beast he’d faced before.
"They’re not attacking," Vivian observed quietly, muscles coiled and ready despite her assessment. "They’re assessing. That’s restraint, not hesitation."
"Everyone stay calm," Allen said, keeping his own posture deliberately open, hands visible, Ashfall Talons still secured but not drawn. "No sudden movements. Let’s see what they actually want before we assume the worst."
A single figure separated from the war party’s front line — taller than the rest, scarred heavily across one side of his face, carrying a massive, crudely forged blade with the easy confidence of someone who’d wielded it through considerably more battles than Allen could count. He raised a hand, and the drums fell silent, the entire war party going still with the kind of disciplined obedience that spoke volumes about the structure underlying whatever society these people belonged to.
The scarred warrior spoke, voice guttural and unfamiliar, words that carried no immediate meaning but an unmistakable weight of authority.
"I don’t suppose anyone here happens to speak whatever that was," Irene muttered, flames still flickering restlessly at her fingertips despite Allen’s earlier warning.
"No," Myria said, "but watch his hands. He’s not gesturing toward weapons. That’s an open palm."
The warrior repeated himself, gesturing more deliberately this time toward the sky, toward the rift-torn horizon behind them, then toward his own chest, tapping it twice with clear, intentional emphasis.
"He’s asking where we came from," Allen realized slowly. "Or telling us where he’s from. Maybe both."
Everlyn stepped forward before anyone could stop her, notepad tucked away, moving with the same quiet, fearless confidence she brought to coaxing life from barren soil. She mirrored the warrior’s gesture, pointing toward the sky, then toward herself, then extending an open palm in clear, universal offering of peace.
The warrior’s scarred face shifted, something that might have been surprise flickering behind his weathered features. He studied Everlyn for a long, considering moment before repeating her exact gesture back, slower this time, deliberately teaching rather than merely testing.
"She’s establishing a shared vocabulary," Vivian breathed, quiet astonishment coloring her voice. "In real time. That’s either extremely brave or extremely reckless."
"With Everlyn, it’s usually both," Irene said, though the fondness in her voice entirely undercut the words.
The exchange continued for several tense, careful minutes — simple gestures, repeated patiently, Everlyn’s natural patience and Allen’s steady, watchful presence gradually easing the war party’s rigid readiness into something closer to cautious curiosity. By the time the scarred warrior finally lowered his blade fully, several of his companions had already begun murmuring among themselves, expressions shifting from wary hostility into something Allen recognized, with quiet relief, as reluctant welcome.
"Ashkar," the warrior said finally, tapping his own chest with clear, deliberate emphasis.
"Allen," Allen replied, mirroring the gesture.
Ashkar’s scarred face creased into something that might have been the beginning of a smile, and he turned, raising his blade toward the sky in a sharp, decisive gesture that sent the assembled war party into motion, forming a loose, escorting formation around the five of them rather than the threatening perimeter they’d first arrived with.
"I believe," Myria murmured, falling into step beside Allen as they began moving, "we’ve just been invited somewhere. The question is whether that invitation is entirely voluntary."
"Only one way to find out," Allen said, though he kept every sense alert regardless, Guardian’s Instinct humming quietly at the edge of his awareness as they crossed the cracked, alien wasteland beneath Ashkar’s watchful escort.
---
The journey took the better part of an hour, the harsh amber sky gradually shifting toward something resembling dusk as they crested a final ridge and found themselves looking down into a sprawling encampment nestled within a natural rock basin — tents crafted from stretched hide and salvaged material, cookfires dotting the settlement in clusters, children darting between dwellings with the same restless energy Allen recognized instantly from every human settlement he’d ever encountered.
"They’re not just warriors," Everlyn’s notepad read, held up with quiet wonder as she took in the sprawling, clearly organized settlement below. "This is a whole civilization."
"Barbarians," Vivian murmured, testing the word carefully. "That’s probably not what they call themselves, but I suspect it’s close enough to whatever the Association’s eventual survey reports will settle on."
Ashkar led them down into the settlement itself, curious eyes following their procession from every direction, murmured conversation rippling through the gathered crowd in a language none of them yet understood but which carried unmistakable undertones of astonishment rather than hostility.
They were brought before an elder woman seated near the settlement’s central fire, her weathered face marked with considerably more elaborate painted patterns than Ashkar’s, eyes sharp and assessing despite her evident age. She studied each of them in turn with slow, deliberate attention before her gaze settled, unexpectedly, on Allen.
She spoke a single word, unfamiliar but carrying unmistakable weight, and gestured toward the sky, toward the distant, still-visible tear where the rift had first pulled them through.
"I think," Myria said slowly, piecing together the fragments of context available to her, "she’s asking if more will follow us. If the tear is going to bring more outsiders through."
Allen considered the question carefully, weighing honesty against the very real possibility that whatever answer he gave might determine whether this encampment’s cautious welcome held or shattered entirely.
"I don’t know," he said finally, meeting the elder’s sharp gaze directly, trusting tone and sincerity to carry meaning across the language barrier where words alone couldn’t. "But we didn’t come here to hurt anyone. We just want to find a way home."
The elder studied him for a long, considering moment, something ancient and weary behind her dark eyes, before she finally, slowly, nodded — and Allen understood, with quiet, growing certainty, that whatever this world actually was, it held considerably more depth, and considerably more danger, than any dungeon he’d faced before.