The Bird of Paradise docked at Aramole a few hours after noon, after an uneventful three-week voyage. The ship plans a two-day stopover, allowing the crew some rest before re-loading the vessel with goods and passengers destined for its next stop, New Elamoore.

Lochinvar, having picked up his pack, heads towards the center of town figuring to look for information about transportation to Triston, as well as using some time to stock up on maybe a little bit of food supply for his journey.

Aramole seems to be dominated by Vartans and Jupani. A few cast curious glances towards Lochinvar as he makes his way through the square, but most occupy themselves with their business, negotiating trades in a hodge-podge mixture of their native languages and Rephidim Standard. One vendor, selling meat pies, watches the winged Hekoye walk past her during a quiet moment at her stand.

The smell of the pies catch the winged coyote's nose, and he pauses slightly after walking past the stall, then turns, going back to it, taking a look at what is on offer.

The seller, a coyote herself, swishes her tail and smiles at the ranger, gesturing to her wares but saying nothing. She appears to have a few varieties of meat and vegetable pies, some smelling strongly of spices, others milder. At one end of her cart rests a small ale barrel, with tap.

"How much for that one?" Lochinvar asks, pointing to one of the pies that smells somewhere in the middle of the spice range.

"Two shekels, sir," she replies, pushing it a bit closer to the man as if to help him decide. "If you buy one, ale's only one shekel more."

Lochinvar takes another light sniff at the pie, trying to determine what kind it is without actually having to ask.

It smells strongly of an unfamiliar red meat and grease, with a tinge of kyootcumber extract flavoring it. While he sniffs at it, a Jupani approaches and she quickly sells one of the spicier pies to him.

"Out of curiosity," asks the Vartan/Hekoye, "what kind of pie is this?"

"Abaddon hog," she replies easily.

Lochinvar quirks an eyebrow a little. "Hrm… a little exotic, but all right," he says, and digs around for money, eventually handing three shekels over. "I'd take an ale also."

"Do you have your own flask or will you be drinking here, sir?" she inquires as she accepts the money and wraps the selected pie in waxed paper. "You must be new to the area. Abaddon hogs are quite common 'round here now. Very tasty," the seller adds reassuringly.

"I've my own," the winged coyote says, taking off his pack to fish around in it. "As for being new around here… it's more like I've not been back here in a while. In fact, I'm trying to get passage to Triston. Might you know anyone around here who makes that journey and may be inclined to a passenger?" Lochinvar eventually finds his flask, and hands it to the vendor.

She tilts her head to one side at the inquiry, reaching out automatically for the flask. One foot taps against the ground while the vendor fills it from her barrel, and she repeats the word, "Triston … Mmmm, I'm not sure. I think there may be a postal run to there. Perhaps you'd best ask Crawsk. He owns the Glass Shekel – that's the inn just up this street two blocks, and then on the corner to your right," she says, gesturing as she describes the way. "Most all the ground traffic goes through there."

"Glass Shekel? Hmm, okay. Thanks," Lochinvar says, picking up the pie and waits for his flask to be filled.

The merchant returns the filled flask and smiles at her customer. "Safe journeys to you, sir, and the Star be with you."

Lochinvar accepts the flask, and nods with a slight smile. "Thanks," he says, then continues to make his way through the marketplace following the directions to the "Glass Shekel".

The Glass Shekel's "sign" has no lettering, just a dozen or so round, shekel-sized glass tokens hanging like a windchime over the doorway. A large stable beside it smells of Drokars and leather, while more Drokars stamp their feet, hitched to a carriage outside which blocks most of the cross street. A human woman with an elaborate hat holds it firmly on her head while she appears to be instructing servants on loading bags onto the carriage.

The Ranger, after pulling himself away from watching the glass tokens glint in the light, heads into the inn.

The inn seems dark by contrast with the bright sun outside, and Lochinvar's eyes take a moment to adjust. When they do, he notes a large brown Vartan – with a scar marring the feathers along the side of his neck – stands behind the bar, leaning against it and chatting in Vartan with a rangy Kattha seated on a barstool. A few Vartans lackadaisically play "Airships" at a corner table, while two Jupani lean against the wall beside several trunks stacked against the wall, exchanging quiet comments and shaking their heads.

Lochinvar seems to relax a notch, then walks up on over to the bar, taking a seat next to but one away from the Kattha.

The bartender glances towards the newcomer, and the Kattha's conversation trails off as his companion falls silent. The feline turns to look at Lochinvar, as well, then the Vartan scrawks, in his native tongue, "What can I do for you?" His tone is neutral.

The winged coyote replies back in fluent Vartan, "I'm looking for Crawsk. A merchant down at the market said I might be able to get information on how to get to Triston here."

The Vartan seems to relax as he replies, "Aye, that's me. This here's who you'd want to talk to about Triston, though," he adds, jerking his head towards the Kattha.

The feline, taking his cue from Crawsk, says in accented Vartan, "I'm Corian – I carry the mail from New Elamoore to Triston."

"Ah, right," Lochinvar says, nodding. "Well, putting it simply, I'm wondering if you might have room for a passenger on your way there."

The feline scratches his chin. "Should be room enough on the wagon, at least until Juse. Sometimes Kilver's got some big deliveries for me to pick up there, so I don't know if I'll still have room after that stop."

Lochinvar nods. "That's fair enough. Thanks," he says.

They leave the next morning, near dawn. Corian's wagon is a simple box-like affair with room for several stacks of boxes in the back, and a bench at the front for the driver and his passenger. Two Drokars pull the wagon along a winding road through gentle, forested foothills, while the postal worker makes occasional conversation. "What're you heading to Triston for, anyway?"

"Another connection," the Hekoye replies. "It's the nearest town to my home village."

One contraption of particular note on the wagon is a device rather like a giant crossbow, mounted on the roof behind the driver, on a platform that swivels 360 degrees. The weapon itself appears designed to pivot to face up or down, although not with the same range of motion as the base, and it has a large crank hooked to an intricate series of gears, presumably designed to draw the string on it back. Several brilliant yellow quarrels are lashed down with a thong beside it.

Corian grunts. "So you're from around here, eh? Going home to visit the folks?"

Lochinvar nods. "That's the idea, yes. It's been a while."

The wagon rolls past some damaged trees, and a swath of disturbance shows clearly in the woods to the right of the road – trampled plants and bushes that have been stripped of most of their foliage. The postal carrier shifts nervously in his seat, starting to snap the reins to hasten the Drokars, then curses as he spots a fallen tree ahead, blocking the path.

The winged coyote catches Corian's nervous shift out of the corner of his eye, and looks around. "Something up? Something about this region?" he asks.

The Kattha nods, bringing the wagon to a halt a few yards before the fallen trees. "This kind of damage, probably means hogs," he tells the Hekoye. "Let's clear these trees out of way, pronto. I don't want to hang around until they come back."

"They?" Lochinvar asks, looking around again. "Who is 'they'?"

"The hogs." He hops lithely to the road and bounds over to the tree. Stripped of most of its leaves, it presents less of a challenge to shift, but the feline looks for a spot with few branches to interfere with his pushing at the trunk. "Give me a hand here, willya?" he says as he finally bends aside a few branches to brace his hands against the rough bark and shove at the trunk.

Lochinvar dismounts from the wagon and goes to assist. "Hogs?" he asks, still confused.

"Oof!" The Kattha twist around and uses his back to push. With Lochinvar's help, the tree starts to move, shifting in an arc from its top, still partially connected to its trunk on the right side of the road. "Abaddon hogs. I thought you were from 'round here?"

"I am… but I haven't been back here since contact was made with the Abaddonians through means of the Gateway Tower," the coyote replies.

The coyote's ears catch a low rumbling to the right.

The Hekoye turns to look at the source of the sound. "Someone's coming," he notes.

"Someone?" The mailman doesn't look reassured. "Where?" He shoves harder, and they manage to pivot the tree far enough to clear almost half of the road. As Lochinvar looks for the source of the noise, he catches a hint of motion, something gray and black moving among the mangled plants, maybe a few dozen yards away.

"Over off that way," Lochinvar motions. "I thought I saw something just a moment there too."

"Oh, Vhai." Corian's eyes flick in the indicated direction. "You sure? Nevermind, good enough, let's get back to the wagon." He sprints towards the vehicle, while the two Drokar shift and snort nervously.

The Ranger hurries back to the wagon too, taking note of the contraption up at the top. "I'm assuming now that's what that's for?" he asks.

Another motion to the right catches the Hekoye's eye, several yards from the first, and the rumbling noise is more distinct, like a kind of animal growl. Either whatever's out there is moving quickly, or there's more than one creature there.

"Definitely something out there," Lochinvar says, after climbing onto the wagon.

Corian scrambles into position and snaps the reins, nodding curtly to the Hekoye as he joins him. The Drokars shift towards the narrow aisle of the road cleared, snorting their discomfort and using less speed than their driver would clearly like. Meanwhile, a long shape almost seems to slither into view, circling around one of the trees about ten yards distant. It has bristly fur mottled in black and gray, and more legs than the Hekoye would have expected.

"Out there!" Lochinvar says, pointing out to his right. "That's an Abaddonian Hog?"

The feline looks and almost jumps from the seat. "Vhai yes!" He reaches for his whip and lashes at the Drokars, who surge forward at the encouragement, causing the whole wagon to rock as they drag it past the tree, trampling on stray branches. The Abaddon hog moves sinuously closer, its body low to the ground. Big black tusks glint on its face as it moves through the foliage towards the wagon, closing the gap faster than the hindered Drokars can widen it.

Lochinvar feels the pie he ate earlier sit somewhat strangely in his stomach now. "It appears to be gaining," he notes to Corian.

"Well what do you want me to do?" Corian snaps back, voice filled with anxiety, as he lashes the Drokars again. The wagon scrapes to a halt as one of the wheels snags on a branch, then the limb tears as the team strains, and the the vehicle lurches forward again, nearly unseating the Hekoye.

"Maybe there's something I can do?" the coyote offers. "That cannon you have? Is that for driving these hogs off?"

"It's for killing things – ah – here, do you want to drive ordo you want to try using the arbolast?" The Kattha tries to get a little calmer, though a glance back over his shoulder does little for his nerves. The Abaddon hog has almost reached the road behind them, and Lochinvar can see now that the creature has eight stumpy legs attached to a long, supple torso. Its head is broad, flat, and heavily tusked, with two on its lower jaw and one on the end of its nose. The ominous rumbling sound appears to come from within it.

Lochinvar says, "'arbolast'? That what you call that cannon? All right, and I'll leave the driving to you."

His head whips back around to stare fixedly at the roadbefore them, and Corian nods in response. Having cleared the tree, the Drokars break into a dead run, the wagon jouncing on the road behind them, and the good news is that the gap between them and the Abaddon hog starts to widen. The bad news is that another mottled gray and black shape pulls itself on to the road just ahead of the Drokars, causing the beasts to swerve and falter as they shy away from it.

The Vartan/Hekoye climbs onto the top of the wagon, and attempts to figure out how to use this "arbolast".

The device seems a lot like a crossbow, with a crank for winding back the zolk string, a trigger at its rear, and a set of quarrels strapped to the roof beside it. The swivel and pivot mechanism on it works, perhaps, a little too well. Without anyone holding it, it bobs and swerves with each bounce of the cart. It looks like it could point in most directions, although it could not get the right angle to shoot at anything too close to the sides or the rear of the wagon, mounted as it is fairly close to the front.

Lochinvar grabs hold of the "arbolast", winds the crank back and loads it quickly, taking aim at the closest "hog".

The weapon is painfully slow to crank, though the Hekoye puts some muscle into it to force it faster. Nearest is the hog towards the front of the wagon, and as Lochinvar takes aim, it gathers its many legs beneath it in preparation for a pounce towards one of the Drokars.

"Hold it steady," Lochinvar calls back to Corian, then fires off a bolt.

The feline keeps a firm grip on the steering column, about the closest he can come to controlling the wagon at the moment. The quarrel rockets out of the arbolast, shaking the vehicle further with its recoil, and slams into the back end of the Abaddon hog's long torso as it pounces for the Drokar. The creature keens and writhes, its leap falling short. The frantic Drokars continue to bolt ahead, dragging the wagon with them.

The Ranger silently hurries to reload the weapon again.

Lochinvar's hand aches as he cranks the string back a second time, and he's further jarred by the motion of the wagon as it lurches over the body of the fallen hog. When he turns to look for the second beast, he sees it losing ground slowly behind them, perhaps seven yards distant now.

Lochinvar almost loses his grip on the cannon as the wagon bumps along, but keeps hold, watching the second hog, waiting to see if it's going to continue trailing behind or catch up again.

Seconds trickle past, and the hog loses another yard, then another. Its tusked face seems peculiarly determined as it moves with its weird, rolling gait towards the cart. Corian calls out to Lochinvar, "Good shot! Where's the other one?"

"It's falling behind us," replies the Vartan/Hekoye. "We're losing it."

"Great! But I don't know how much longer the Drokars can keep on like this!" The Kattha shouts back over the clatter of the wagon's wheels on the dirt road.

"Try and keep them going for a bit longer," Lochinvar replies. "If we continue to gain ground, maybe it will lose interest."

"Take another shot at it – those things are mean," the feline advises.

Lochinvar nods, though Corian can't see that, and fires off another shot at the trailing hog.

Surprisingly, this shot, too, finds its mark, landing in the beast's shoulder. It squeals in pain and rage, sounding, in that moment, a great deal like the animal it is named for. It crashes into the ground as its momentum prevents it from easily stopping, tusks gouging ruts into the road.

"Hey, 'd you get it?" Corian asks, his ears pivoting at the squeal.

"Yes!" the Ranger calls back. "Looks like it's down, too."

"Whoo hoo! Vhai, you're a good shot! Where'd you learn to fire one of those things?" The driver settles his whip back into its holster on the wagon and eases back on the reins. The spent Drokar, recognizing that the threat is gone, take a few moments to calm but soon slow from their gallop to a panting, ambling walk.

Lochinvar climbs back down to the front of the wagon, taking his seat. "Never actually used one of those before, actually," he notes.

"No way!" The driver stares at Lochinvar in disbelief, then laughs. "You're joking, right?" He tugs on the right side of the reins, and the Drokars shift and stamp as he starts to turn the cart around, heading back towards the fallen animals.

The Hekoye shakes his head. "No joking, really. I've never really used weapons much at all," he replies.

The feline seems wholly unconvinced as the Drokars pick their way forward towards the twitching body of the last fallen hog. He brings them to a halt several yards back and dismounts cautiously, drawing his knife. "Hey, plug it once more to be sure? There's good meat on these critters, hate to see it go to waste."

With a nod, Lochinvar climbs up onto the roof of the wagon again, loads up the crossbow, and fires one more bolt at the creature.

With all the time in the world to aim carefully, shooting from a stationary platform, at an unmoving target, the winged coyote manages to miss the Abaddon hog by a good two feet, sending a quarrel plunging into the road. Corian starts, blinking, and turns to stare back at the Hekoye.

Lochinvar shrugs and smiles a little. "As I said, I've never shot one of these before. Beginner's luck?"