Not very simple. Everything is uptight, the world as we know it comes before the demons, Antra likes to say with a giggle. But how can we explain the niches that have formed, the counter-culture of details.
And the party seems never to end, the party of a new structure, we are oppressed, drained, fodder, and yet this pressure, this all-crushing power has ensured that the encrustations of the kingdoms have given way to a new attitude to life, Think describes it as shadow beauty, but he is also the bard of the group, the poet.
And there is Tender, a masculine, wiry mermaid from the depths of the Emerald Lakes, the rare creatures, the undiscovered, the flexible, they all benefit, they take advantage of the opportunities, the focus on elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins, fairies.
And only then does godlessness, the most joyous of revelries, celebrate, the deception is over, prayers are slackening, the magic show of the illusionists, the priests, and many a prophet of doom who sees his views confirmed and who disrupts the celebrations more and more loudly, the numbing of shame and pain, some of whom end up hanged, or whatever other lustful, lustful killings have been invented, the demons are textbook teachers in this.
SAMBA
is a cat, black, shiny fur, the Furys have long been irreplaceable rebel leaders, exciting maneuvers, but everything ebbs and flows and is deceptive, unequal fight, and that's why we are not trudging through the Kant here, we are not in the plan, nor do we represent the intentions of the purpose.
Our debauched tea party has made the trek here to the little-explored Spitzhöh solely to collect the star mushroom, which allows one to live one's dreams, one of the most popular drugs currently in Freeport and the other refugee regions on the coast.
The group calls itself Quadrant, Harsh is the leader, if there was one, he is, or rather was, a warrior lord of the Orcs and sometimes fights in the resistance, but basically we all turn the opportunities into amusement and drive away the grey and the blood with colorful fans.
We are drug dealers, quite rich in terms of chaos, in the scepter of destructiveness, it is only a matter of time before one cheats the others, before someone takes more or there will be toxic chaos in the group dynamic.
Mitnand doesn't help either, the love powder that penetrates our enamel and brings us together for a time, which actually trickled away for centuries in its tribes and cultures, we are since the
DEMON FALL
a kind of bunch of displaced people who mated and found each other, a kind of alchemical broth.
The small caravan reaches the pass, behind which the long, mildly sown Steinhöcker plateau will stretch out, which means almost defenseless, even if the inadequacy of the area mitigates the rulers' interest in using their resources more lethally and efficiently, as there are masses of collaborators and scattered scouts/fighters from the front lines.
But all of this shifts so much and so often that many imponderables remain; nobody said mining star mushrooms would be easy money.
Ekket, our goblin cook - no, not all cooks are goblins - needs supplies. He is waiting in the hideout in Freeport. He gave the quadrant a long list of the ingredients needed. Many of them can also be found on the black markets. The main ingredient is only available here.
One should not be mistaken about hiding, it is at best problematic and not forbidden to deal or take drugs, this was once regulated in old autocratic times depending on the culture.
And there was still a lot that didn't exist. The hideout is a guesthouse and brothel, and no one in Freeport who went in was not enchanted by the charm and the delightful madness. There are many imitators, but the hideout is unique in itself.
The problem in question arises from competition or the anger of rebels who reject some drugs, but order and promote those that promote aggression and fighting spirit, which is a joy for some dealers.
Our quadrant remains neutral in these matters, our menu is unique but not polite, another slogan, Ekket is not only the chef, he is a charmer bursting with slogans.
Tender, who seems to be his main lover, attributes this to his hermaphrodite nature. Hermaphrodites are fascinating and rare. But wherever they show up, they are accompanied by amazing talent.
THE ANCIENT KNOWLEDGE
the gatherer and hunter has long since disappeared since only the megapolis offers security, limited hope and protection and on the old lines, the borders of the peoples, eternal war reigns, devastation, a world of banished earth, and endless song in the enclaves that have long since spread like a tumor, factories so bizarre and malicious that every dragon, every lizard, everything that would have shocked and repelled in the old times, withdraws in disgust and shaking its head from trying to understand.
It's not that bad, only those who were there and negotiated or mediated deals say, but what has become of the peoples, what they have to be now, feels right to our core.
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The mushrooms help against that and more, you snow. You snow what is there. Such a sweet little joy, like a blissful stream, but the best thing about it is that you walk through the very gardens you long for, many take it to return to better days in the past, but new glorious dreams are also possible, at least if you let it snow inside you.
What do we care about demons, rebellion, alliances and purposes, lines, we are more the harbingers of a new culture of drugs, the medicine that creates miracles is also one of our slogans. Head for nowhere.
Yes, perhaps we could give the old empires more energy, more to help us to resist and rebel from the stage of enslavement, from the clutches of strangers, of demons from heaven, but our philosophy, if we had one, would try to make the best of the situation.
We don't judge, we act for a bit of fun and forgetfulness. And when someone sees the cave in which all our trading material is, this vast amount of old things with which we have been paid for a long time and still are, but the new way of trading is a bit more exciting, pleasure is not just the currency because ownership has no meaning and rarity, if there is no way to mine too many raw materials it becomes difficult to produce and so everything has long since become improvisation and our little immoral hiding place has become the center of the city.
And the plain is foggy this morning, poor visibility can be beneficial, or lead to our doom.
Always following Samba's nose, he slides down into the fog on all fours, silently and purring so that we can follow his sounds, first reassembling our load trolls, which we had to drag ourselves because they are terribly bad climbers, but there is an idea to build a kind of elevator, to create a fixed route through the mountains, we just have to be quicker and more thoughtful than other gangs.
The smugglers, thieves, prostitutes and agents are the truly respected beings today and next week, along with the politicians, diplomats, negotiators, both of whom are the ones who ensure the last pockets of organization here in the chaos, and there is also a social rise for the fools, ballad singers and all other entertainers who bring fun and joy. The storytellers, it is like the decline of possessions and coins, how do you pass the time when you are not taking part in the fighting?
If the status was previously one of power and possession, in whatever form this may have been organized by people and race, the anarchy of the present is a life in the moment because it can end tomorrow. And this should not be confused with carelessness or usual associations. Adaptation and a new perspective. The demons brought about a change whose extent is only slowly being mastered by one or another scholar.
I am not outing myself as one, I am just a member of our quadrant, even if I am said to be one. And if so, then I am a scholar.
I am
CHARISMA, THE ONE-WING FAIRY
And I think the respect is based not least on the fact that, despite my torn wing and the decades spent in captivity by the demons from which Harsh freed me, I also owe a little of my knowledge of all the events, my hindsight of how Tender likes to tease me. We are already pretty close, right now I am sitting on her shoulder and whispering to her second spirit. I couldn't really keep up with the group's pace with the hopping one-winged levitation.
Star mushrooms only grow at the highest altitudes; they require freedom from clouds, starry nights and air that tastes as clear and free as hardly anywhere else in the world.
They sparkle and look not unlike their reflections in the night sky, but once their fruiting body is picked, it withers very quickly.
That's why Ekket's idea is to get to the actual mushroom and its network of bodies in the earth beneath it, and this time we're not supposed to bring the stars, but as much of the earth consecrated with them as possible. A chore beyond compare.
I can't remember my wing being torn off. I was born in a cage and my parents were ten-year-old snacks for the demon Taddeus Dohl. A well-fed delicacy. Most of the time, the wing being torn off happens shortly after the animal has fully developed, around the end of its first year of life. It's simply there to make escape almost pointless.
Why not both flights seems to be more a matter of tradition, but it is also probably because the survival rate when both wings are torn off is too low due to their connection to the rest of our delicate fairy bodies. And since we taste better year after year before a downward trend begins around the age of 20, depending on our blood line, and well, that is all very sad.
A 15-year-old golden blood fairy seems ideal for the taste buds of demons.
But breeding has taken place in the last few centuries in the most unlikely ways and with the most variety, and can no longer be compared with the wild fairy peoples of old.
I'm not pondering out of boredom, it's actually exciting to follow Samba's purring almost silently, but it's never been a problem for me to split my senses in all directions and my attention.
The orc at the head of the group is different.
Since we switched to a cautious mode, since we crossed the fog, his majestic martial arts and combat experience can be seen in every movement, he is close to perfection in terms of muscle play and agility, everything about him flashes his skill, he radiates danger, strength and mastery.
In addition, in each hand he carries a blade made of demon steel, with which one could cut through rock without it bleeding. Then put it back together and let it heal, and nothing would have happened. Rare stuff.
Since he got clean, Harsh has been a true leader who people naturally trust and don't subordinate themselves to, but one still wonders how long he will last this time.
I try as best I can to support him with my whispers. Fairies whisper with all living creatures. We speak a thousand languages and our words penetrate deeper into people's consciousness. Only for the demons do we seem to be something like birdsong.
But in the years of captivity in which I was able to study my cat and his guests, it never occurred to me that she had any interest in understanding me or other fodder, as they like to call us.
The whole world is probably a single product of decomposition for them, but in fact we are now forced to exploit just as much, since nothing or almost nothing grows anymore except for rare things like those mushrooms, since we have had to find new ways to feed ourselves and stay alive while being separated from our resources under constant attack and campaigns of destruction, we have also become partly exploitative or more egomaniacal in our actions and thoughts.
But Harsh is still very instinctive, a king of battle who is one with his weapons, like perhaps ten or twenty others in the free shadow cities. And especially in the early days of the hideout, his reputation and his natural authority were the only things that protected us.
The quadrant was now in position; we are so closely interwoven through years of being with one another and loving one another that much of it seems like a dance in which all the differences in our bodies, thought processes and emotions completely disappear and we simply glide along as if carried on a purr, as if we were one body, a boat drifting through calm seas. There is almost no wind and the sea glitters, sparkling in all its diversity because the thousands upon thousands of mushrooms are visible from far away; not as wonderful as on clear nights, but still an extraordinary spectacle of an extraordinary living being.
The star mushroom is our ally, even if I sometimes see it as just another usurper, but it doesn't give us dreams and a life in them, it also offers us answers if we ask for them. It is a kind of teacher and master entertainer, it knows things that one could not have imagined before finding them in it, but only a few manage to go beyond the level of wish fulfillment and sometimes it is better that way.
Drugs are not toys, they are instruments in life navigation. As sharp as harsh blades.
And then my thinking breaks, because suddenly the unrecognized peace comes to an abrupt end, everything happens so quickly that it takes days to describe and tell the story.
We have come closer to some mushroom fruit stars, it is very bright and sparkling right now, perhaps this has made us too visible for potential enemies, the first thing that strikes is that Samba's purring has stopped, suddenly I am no longer sitting on Tender's shoulder, I hear the deadly singing of Harsh's blades, only barely noticing his speed. Even the fog seems too surprised and can hardly follow what is happening, we are a good, joyful team that complements each other well, but pure combat is not our domain, only Harsh and Samba are experienced in it.
Most of the time, everything in Freeport can be solved better than by violence. There is a consensus not to reduce the last free creatures among themselves, so disputes are usually resolved in a ritual in which the respective talents are taken into account.
For this purpose, a
MEDIATOR
and even if it is not written down, as nothing is truly regulated, the phrase "let's get a mediator" is accepted and a kind of stop signal for whatever the problem seems to be, be it a fight or a duel of words, a misunderstanding, suspicion of fraud, revenge.
I stagger through the air, it's strange to suddenly be half floating, I had made it so comfortable, but then I find myself in powerful, strong hands that protect me, you could almost say paws, claws, very close, black, soft, short fur between the palms of my hands. And then everything is different as I travel from one moment to the next in that paw at a breathtaking speed.
And I realize who or what we have encountered here.
And then my thoughts fade, it's as if I'm falling forever, I'm used to darkness, this is as if it were over. Turned off. Eaten.
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