The mail carrier's wagon made slower progress than the winged Hekoye would have preferred, having detoured to deliver mail to a number of small towns along their way, but after a few weeks of travel, they have, at last, arrived. As the wagon rumbles down the road to the general store that serves as Triston's post office, a small group of Jupani children screeches in delight and halts their game to follow behind, sing-songing "Mail's here" until the words blur to a nonsense sound – "Maylsheer." The call echoes familiarly in Lochinvar's ears; it has not changed since the first time he came to Triston, many years ago.

A teen-aged, brown-feathered Vartan boy flies side-by-side with a winged Hekoye of about the same age. "I don't see what you're in such a hurry over, Lochinvar," the Vartan grouses, looking wistfully towards a distant waterfall. "Triston'll still be there even if we make a little delay. We don't even know that the mail cart's arrived yet."

"Our hurry?" Lochinvar asks. "This is our first time picking up the mail for out village. I'd like to make a good impression by getting it back timely."

The other flier sighs and tilts his wings, gliding a yard further away from his companion. "Oh, sure. Let's just rush right there and run home in time to help at the slaughter-shed when they bring in the Dromodons," Dalton grouses. "Let's just say that I'm not dying to get home." The dock of Triston can just be made out between the treetops, along the thread of the river beside it, and echoes of a high-pitched sing-song call, "maylsheer!" drift towards them.

Lochinvar rolls his eyes and groans slightly at his friend's comment, and pushes forward so he's in the lead. "Hear that?" he asks.

"Hear what?" the Vartan asks, then adds, "And why do you keep getting ahead of me? I'm supposed to be leading, remember. You've never even been to Triston before."

"The calls out there seem kind of excited. As if something's happening," the coyote says. "Could be the mail. As for edging ahead, can't help it. Deep down you know I'm the better flier!" He grins, edging forward a shade more.

"You are not!" Dalton counters indignantly. "I can fly circles around you!" Forgetting all about his determined dawdling, the Vartan beats his wings powerfully, surging ahead of his companion as they soar towards the village.

"Hah, right!" calls back Lochinvar. "So you want to race now? Guess I'll just have to beat you … again!" A few beats of his wings, and he easily catches Dalton up.

A scrawk of outrage emerges from the Vartan boy, and he folds his wings back to shed altitude, using gravity to boost his speed. "You will not!" he declares, preparing to dive in amongst the tall trees and presumably towards the village just beyond them.

Lochinvar chuckles at how easy it is to raise Dalton's competitive streak, and makes to follow him in kind.

Dalton bobs and weaves between the trees with a teenager's indifference to the potential hazards, the wind whistling past his ears as he plummets towards the village. Glimpses of a few of its tall houses are now visible between the foliage as they close on it.

The winged coyote follows his friend – not quite behind but off to one side a little. Moving at this speed through this many trees, he tries to keep focused. One small slip could hurt for a long time.

Dalton bursts into the clear and spreads his wings wide, crowing with delight. "Told you so! Told you so!" he exults. As Lochinvar passes the last tree and emerges above a nicely-tended flower garden, he is suddenly struck by the size of Triston – the smallest house is twice the size of the log buildings his villagers live in, and there seem to be a hundred times as many of them, more houses then he can even see from this vantage point.

Lochinvar slows noticeably, ignoring Dalton's exultation of victory for the moment. "Whoa," he comments to himself.

A broad path leads next to the garden, and between the house before it and the one beside it. Through this gap, the two visiting boys can see a small wagon roll, pulled by a single Drokar. A crowd of Vartan and Jupani children follow it, chanting, "Maylsheer, Maylsheer!"

The Hekoye-Vartan hurries to catch up with Dalton. "'Maylsheer'?" he says. "Sounds a little similar to 'Mail's here', wouldn't you say?"

As soon as he says it, the words of the chant resolve into their respective components, like looking at picture of a cup, and suddenly realizing that it's also the silhouettes of two faces. The Vartan folds his wings at his sides, and nods to Lochinvar. "I guess we're just in time," he admits, heading down the path towards the gap.

"Yeah, I guess so," replies Lochinvar, and follows Dalton down the path.

The two are almost to the intersection with the main street as the crowd of children finishes walking past, and behind them approaches another surprising sight. Riding on a tall charcoal-grey Drokar, a female Vartan follows the procession. Her attire is simple and of sturdy cotton, though the cut of the pants and tunic-top is unusual to Lochinvar's eyes. Far more striking, however, is her plumage – a gray so light and fine it shines like burnished silver in the bright sunlight, along the top of her head and neck, and on the backs of her arms, while it lightens to pure white over her face and under her throat. "Whoa," whispers Dalton, stopping in his tracks as she rides past.

Lochinvar turns to his friend, and asks, "Who's she, do you know?"

"Never seen her before," the Vartan boy asides to Lochinvar, "and you bet I'd remember her. I'll bet somebody'd've mentioned her, too, if she was from around here, too." Another Drokar rides past a few yards behind her, this one bearing an older Vartan. As the two emerge onto the street, they see adults emerging from the houses and pausing in their work, and notice that the Drokar-riding pair are attracting more adult eyes than the mail wagon is.

"She seems pretty important," the winged coyote says. "Not to mention kinda pretty," he adds, with a slight grin.

"Yeah," Dalton murmurs back. As they speak, the young lady's Drokar missteps, and the silver-white Vartan turns her head at the odd motion in her mount's stride. For a moment, her eyes, a sky-blue, seem to brush over Lochinvar's face. her beak parts – in a smile, perhaps – then she's facing forward again, riding towards the general store with the mail wagon.

Lochinvar nudges his friend. "See that!" he exclaims. "She looked at me! Coulda sworn she smiled, too."

"She was smiling at me!" Dalton insists, elbowing Lochinvar in return. "You dumb bird! C'mon, let's get the mail, maybe we can find out who she is." He starts down the road in their wake, carefully avoiding the fresh Drokar droppings from the mounts' passage.

"Sure, in your dreams maybe, Dal," replies Lochinvar, again letting his friend lead the way.

"In her dreams," the Vartan counters. They reach the base of the steps to the front porch. The mailman has halted his wagon and turned to open his bags, pulling out packages and calling out names while people lean forward to claim their mail. The packages that go unclaimed the carrier passes up onto the porch, where a Jupani piles them onto a cleared table.

Lochinvar's reply is only a shrug. "So, what happens with the mail, then?" he asks.

"They take it inside when the postman's done and the crowd's gone," Dalton answers, puffed up knowledgeably. "Then Mr. Keos – that's the store owner – he keeps it behind the counter until people come to claim it."

The Hekoye/Vartan nods. "Okay… so we wait for now then?"

While the mail call continues, the silver Vartan dismounts and ties her reins to one of the posts of the store, slapping dust from her clothes. The older male Vartan, with plumage of an unremarkable brown, who rode behind her, does the same, and she smiles at him. The two lean against the porch, the female scootching to sit on the porch edge, raised as it is a couple of feet above the ground.

Dalton nods. "Until they call for someone who lives in the village, then we step forward." At that moment, the mail carrier cries out the name of Lochinvar's cousin.

Lochinvar's face falls a little as he sees the two Vartans apparently together, then looks back towards the mailman as he hears a name he recognizes. "We go up now, or wait until it's taken inside?"

By way of answer, Dalton steps forward and says, "I stand for Jorge Arves," delivering the words like a solemn ritual. He stretches out his hand, and the postman places a thin envelope into it. Stepping back out of the way, the Vartan continues to his friend, "We're here, might as well get it now. We can check with Mr. Keos when we're done; he always sorts out our village's mail into one neat pile. Another good reason to get here later," he adds emphatically.

"If we'd gotten here any later," counters the winged-coyote, "I might not have gotten to see how the mail works here."

Dalton heaves the sigh of the eternally abused, and the two wait while names are called out, one after another. By the time the man is done, the packs the two brought to carry the mail back in each have a few missives in them, and two largish packages. The crowd largely disperses, though a few stay to gawk at the silver Vartan and her companion. By then, Lochinvar has heard enough whispers about those two to know that they are new here, and no one else knows who they are, either.

"Now we go and talk to this Mr. Keos, I guess?" Lochinvar asks Dalton, still eyeing the two Vartans by the porch.

"Mmm-hmm," the slightly older Vartan replies. He follows Lochinvar's gaze to the strange Vartans, and doesn't move yet himself.

Lochinvar starts to walk inside, then notices Dalton hasn't moved. "Are you coming?" he asks.

"Umm. Yeah." The other boy guiltily stops his staring to follow his companion into dimness of the shop. The two wait near the counter as a few other customers are taken care of, with one Jupani behind the counter closing sales, while the other Jupani takes a bag full of unclaimed mail and sorts it into piles.

Lochinvar's keen ears catch a young female voice saying in Vartan, "All right, Dad," in a clear, slightly amused voice. Bells on the door ring as it's pushed open again, and the silver avian enters the store.

The winged coyote looks around from his place in the queue, then turns back quickly, hoping that she didn't notice his eyes go wide on glancing at her. After a moment, he glances around again.

When the winged Hekoye takes a second look, his eyes lock onto the silver Vartan's, and she definitely parts her beak to smile at him, as he catches her watching him, before she turns her own gaze to look at the shopkeeper. The Jupani taking purchases is done, and he glances from the boys to the female before clearing his throat. "Yes?"

Lochinvar carries on watching her for a moment, hardly noticing a small sigh escaping him.

Dalton starts at the shopkeeper's word, momentarily absorbed by the unspoken apparent exchange between the newcomer and his friend. He coughs, and then says, "Ladies first!" gallantly.

The silver Vartan smiles again, this time at Dalton, and steps to the counter. "Hello, sir," she tells the shopkeeper, in accented Jupani. "My father and I are travelling to a small village near here, to the northeast, I believe. A Vartan named Arques lives there."

Dalton jabs Lochinvar with his elbow when she smiles at him, and thereby completely misses the question she asks the shopkeeper.

Lochinvar ows, and rubs his side then glares at Dalton.

The shopkeeper rubs his chin at the girl's question. "Yes'm, there's a Vartan round here by that name. I believe these two fine boys," a slight stress on the word 'fine', "are from his village, fact is. Aren't you?"

The winged coyote gives the shopkeeper a confused look. "I'm sorry – from whose village?" he asks, then gives Dalton another glare.

"Ar-ques," the shopkeeper drawls, emphasizing each syllable carefully, as he leans forward to look at the boys. The girl, too, has turned to watch them, a smile in her blue eyes.

"That's my father's name!" the Hekoye almost blurts out.

The Vartan girl almost laughs at Lochinvar's exclamation, looking pleased. "That's wonderful news. I hope you will be able to show us the way back to your father's home, um… " She pauses, flicking her tail and looking a little embarrassed suddenly. "I'm Ariecha. My father is Vycosil … I'm afraid I don't know your names?"

Lochinvar, for a moment, looks a little embarrassed at his outburst, but recovers quickly and smiles in return. "My name is Lochinvar, and my friend here is Dalton," he says, "and it would be my pleasure to guide you to our village."

Ariecha smiles again, the silver fur of her tail glittering as she swishes it again. "Thank you, Lochinvar! And you, too, Dalton. It's so wonderful to be near the end of our journey at last," she sighs.

"You've traveled far then?" Lochinvar asks Ariecha.

The silver Vartan nods her head repeatedly. "Oh yes! We've been riding for weeks, and it was near a month on ship before that. I will be so glad to settle down again."

Lochinvar smiles and nods. "I would imagine," he says. "However, our village is still a couple of days away, and unfortunately over terrain not too accessible by wagons. We walked and flew here."

"Only a couple of days?" Ariecha clicks her beak in pleasure, and her smile seems to light the whole shop. "My father will hate it if we must leave the Drokars behind, I know, but if journey's end is only a few days away, I think I could fly without a break if needed!"

The Vartan/Hekoye chuckles. "I wouldn't recommend flying straight through," he suggests. "It's a nice simple enough trip, but maybe a bit too long."

The silver Vartan laughs, then folds her hands meekly together before her. "I am sure your advice is very wise, Lochinvar. And as you are to be my native guide, I will be sure to follow whatever directions you give," she adds, and gives a little bow to the winged Hekoye, while Dalton watches her, open-mouthed, then shoots a glare at Lochinvar, as if to say, "No fair!"