They were preparing to depart when the movement caught the trio's attention.
First, a caravan passed near the river, a happy goblin family, six ox-carts, and two low-slung carriages suited for their kind.
Then, with tall banners in three variations, one for each Goddess of the smallfolk.
They sang and danced, led by kobold bishops, priests, and archbishops who blessed the path and carried aspergills.
The three women looked at each other, curious, and decided to follow the procession.
THE MASTER
More and more goblins joined, and by the time they reached the city of Nivea, they numbered almost four thousand.
For three days they marched, camping under the stars as their roof.
Godwyna led them, and the three watched the march from above, with more and more groups camped in the distance, the lit torches and campfires numbered over ten thousand.
In the city of Ode to the Urn, another ten thousand, all swinoids, whipped themselves and walked in martyrdom and punishment. They eventually joined the pilgrimage.
Three days later, the Bay Port was glimpsed. The seawater seemed to hold every color, but it was actually coral reefs, stretching as far as the eye could see beneath the salt water.
There, goblins, kobolds, and swinoids organized boats and set sail, crossing the bay.
The trio flew, following the hundreds of line ships, full of masts and immense sails.
They docked at Vigil of Ux, a small village prepared solely for that moment, which occurred once every four years.
The houses carved into the limestone cliffs stood empty, waiting for the travelers.
From there, three more days brought them to Volcissana Bridge, a city built entirely on a single rock spanning a colossal canyon.
Two days later, they sighted the salt pan.
It was completely taken over by coral reefs, iridescent, in pure, crystalline water above the salt desert.
Bison farms stretched across the grass surrounding the salt pan, which was so vast the opposite shore couldn't be seen.
— I notice you are outsiders. — She approached delicately as the trio camped with the others in the shadows of the white walls encircling the entire city of Radifera, the final destination of that march, now nearly seventy thousand smallfolk strong, with many more arriving day after day. — The gates will only open at the start of the season. Until then, if it pleases the three of you, I can teach you our customs, our truths.
She was a goblin sorceress, dressed like an odalisque, entirely in purple, with a veil and a circlet.
— I am Æthelflæd, these are Leofwynn and Cwenburg. I think that would be a great idea.
— Æthelflæd, shouldn't we be busy with another matter? — Leofwynn pulled the human aside and questioned, irritated. She had been opposed to this journey from the start.
— With what?
— The servants of the Demon King! — The vulcanian's hair ignited into fire, and some passing goblins nearby applauded, impressed.
— He can wait…
In the Demon King's Castle, he watched Cynethryth still cleaning the same spot in the throne room, which was now shining, unlike the rest of the place entirely covered in dust.
In the kitchen, Blith watched the cook slowly killing a deer, pleasure overflowed in the siren's eyes.
Closer to the three, two figures flew, arriving at the highest tower of Radifera. From the heights, they glimpsed the thousands of camps beyond the walls.
The two figures carried the scent of the sea and the forbidden perfume of the Monster Continent.
GRYRE-LĀC & ĪSERN-CLOMM
The two came from opposite sides and only sensed each other's presence near the Astarne Salt Pan.
Gryre-Lāc was a hybrid of orc and octopus-folk.
He had near-black green skin and a monstrous head with tentacles trailing five meters down to his feet.
His body was strong and covered in scars.
He wore iron armor, leaving his chest bare, with spiked shoulder guards and armguards with blades.
Īsern-clomm was an immortal, but his face held a youthful air.
He had not yet reached a hundred years, which marked the end of childhood for his people, who witnessed the passing of millennia as mere seasons.
He stood two and a half meters tall, half the height of the orc-octopus.
He was muscular, clad in a light, white ceremonial tunic.
His eyes, coincidentally, were as blue as those of the one sizing him up:
— I am Īsern-clomm. The three are in the camp with these aura-less creatures. We can attack them at once. With everything we have.
— No. — Gryre-Lāc did not introduce himself. He had huge teeth and loved to fight. — Among my kin, in the faction of the Hell's-Flame-Rain Burning Gut Devourers, we have a rule: never share the prey.
— Our peoples are too busy fighting each other. Among mine, in the Stingy Mother, we yearn for freedom, for a time when our kind are no longer seen as monsters. See, they said the Demon King himself would kill anyone who crossed the ocean and touched the continent, and here we are.
— This is Pearl Island, not the continent yet.
— You understood my meaning.
— Understood what? — The orc-octopus angered easily. He hated being told what to do or how to act.
— If we bring all our people, we could free two continents, not just one. And how strong is the Demon King? — Īsern-clomm pondered, as the orc-octopus pointed upward, toward the ring of asteroids, retorting:
— Weak he is not.
— It doesn't matter. What is your plan, then? If not to attack the three…
The punch came to the immortal's face, sending him flying through the air, over the city, landing on the opposite side, in the earth of the hill bordering the salt pan.
Atop the tower, Gryre-Lāc roared:
— Let us fight! And the survivor takes the three heads!
The immortal's blond hair, now covered in dirt, rose as he fixed on the flying shadow, now charging.
It was like a bull, tentacles in the air, fist clenched, punching, aiming again for the face.
Īsern-clomm dodged, flying over the salt pan, pursued, moving backward in the direction of his escape.
He still thought of how to argue, until he gave up, advancing, kicking the orc-octopus's chin, who rose being kicked several more times, at waist height, defending, kicking back, then punching, with both landing blows, arms moving swiftly, disappearing into the brutality of the strikes.
Their garments and armor were fragmented until, naked, Īsern-clomm kicked the monstrous head, then kicked it the opposite way, flying overhead, joining both hands and descending like a hammer onto the nape of the one losing tentacles and falling toward the salt pan, exploding into the water.
Opening his eyes, submerged, Gryre-Lāc used levitation magic to burst swiftly back to the surface, but upon emerging heard the end of the incantation:
— That which whispers to the void. Which is like the tide and drowns the hearts that trust it with empty promises. Be like the pain of one who has lost all and retains nothing but the void, and is of itself… — The black flames formed a sphere tens of meters in diameter above the immortal, who launched it. — The Lord of the Void!