Chapter 8 – Arifoam's Mud House
As they stepped out of the main Street to a narrow street,where was no foot path instead had a open sewage and road was uneven made up of mud where in some parts because of water it has become brown sticky region and houses here were aligned tightly leaving mostly no gap in between.
"Hey, Arifaom… why are the houses here like this? This street looks half-built…"
Laryoal tried to understand the difference as he walked along the muddy, unsettling road. The evening light was dying slowly, sinking into the earth like a tired breath, leaving behind a dim orange glow.
"Well, our community takes pride in its own intelligence," Arifoam began, his tone rising with quiet enthusiasm. "Do you know, all Vin'ash build their homes using Crimor tree wood? Or they construct those puzzle-like houses for higher officers… But our people—"
He paused for effect, then continued, his voice carrying a strange pride.
"We still follow what we discovered through our own thought. Once, the Vin'ash lord asked us to adopt their methods—this was during the fourth generation. But Lord Seva's granddaughter refused. She said we would evolve in our own way."
Arifoam's eyes gleamed as he spoke, his words spilling faster now.
"And we did try… of course we tried. But it led to nothing new. Because what we already had… was perfect in its own way."
He gestured around.
"You see, we don't get straight walls like polished blades… but homes made of random stones and a sticky mixture of red and black mud. It gives a natural temperature—changes with the seasons…"
He was completely lost in his explanation now, going on about generations, names, traditions—connecting everything like threads in a long, ancient tapestry.
Suddenly, he raised his long arm, covered in a black sleeve, stopping Laryoal mid-step. Then he pointed ahead.
"That's it… there. My house. 'Veva'… best in the surroundings, right?"
He turned toward Laryoal with a wide, almost childlike smile.
"Ah… well…"
Laryoal's expression shifted—first stiff, then soft, then politely melodic—as they approached.He pulled his scarf mask down letting his full face too take the air and orange dim of the sun .
Arifoam gave him a look but before he could talk something laryoal pointed him the open sewage in front of them in his stern look which was openly visible now.
And arifoam pointed towards a wooden log showing his teeth.
As they crossed the open gutter using a long wooden log. It shook dangerously under their weight, threatening to slip at any moment due to its uneven shape. Laryoal's steps were careful, controlled.
On the other side stood the house.
The walls bulged on both sides of the door like overfilled balloons. The roof was made of thick, oily brown logs, patched together with bamboo sticks. Soil had started to crumble in places, revealing gaps where birds had made nests.
The door itself was made of three uneven wooden planks, roughly tied together—oily, worn, and slightly crooked.
Laryoal stared at it silently for a moment.
"…What a high honor the black book has brought me this time," he muttered under his breath, a faint chuckle escaping him.
"Fana! Fana! We have a guest—you will surely love this!"
Arifoam called out, his last sentence spoken in Vaerman, his smile stretching wide as he glanced at Laryoal with a strange expectation.
The heavy wooden door creaked open with a deep, grumpy sound.
"Dear… is it my brother? I told you he would come back. You just need patience—"
The voice stopped.
A woman stood at the doorway.
She had long, silky black hair flowing down to her thighs. Her bright black eyes reflected the last traces of sunlight. Her eyebrows curved like a waterfall, soft yet defined. Her brown skin glowed gently under the fading light.
She wore a single long red cloth wrapped neatly around her body, along with a gold nose ring and earrings that shimmered softly.
Her smile, which had bloomed wide with expectation, softened slightly upon seeing a stranger—but it remained warm.
"Hi, dear… who is this foreigner? And why did you call me in Vaerman?" she asked, letting out a small chuckle to ease the moment.
"Ah, he is a guest staying with us for a while, as master ordered. And don't worry—Sir Laryoal is a fine, disciplined man. Sir Laryoal… she is my wife… my dear… the beauty of Vin'ash itself—Fana. Isn't she dazzling?"
Arifoam gave a subtle one-eye signal toward Laryoal.
Laryoal, once again, had no idea what exactly Arifoam was implying—but he didn't need help.
"Hello, ma'am. Surely the greatest beauty I've seen until I reached this door in my long journey."
He bowed slightly like a refined gentleman. His long black hair shifted with the motion, adding charm to his presence.
"Ah… welc… welcum…"
Fana struggled with her words, her Vaerman clearly broken.
"Ah, you see," Arifoam explained, a mix of disappointment and hope in his voice, "she has never left our community boundaries. So she doesn't know much of the official language. She never had the chance to study… but she tries very hard to learn everything she wants."
"Oh, no worries, ma'am," Laryoal said gently and sarcastically"You speak better than any story I've heard in a long time… of course, except Arifoam."
There was a small pause.
Then all three of them let out a soft laugh, easing into the night.
"Well… you do talk better with that stern face," Fana teased lightly. "Anyway, come in."
---
The inside of the house revealed itself slowly.
A long but narrow hall stretched inward. At the far end was a raised platform, reached by uneven stairs.
To the right side of the platform—random clutter, thrown without order.
To the left—kitchen tools and appliances, arranged more meaningfully.
At the center, directly ahead, was a hole in the ground. It was decorated with aroma sticks and an oil deepa—it seemed to be a place of worship, left open and exposed.
At the far end, two rooms stood with broken, loosely hanging doors. Clothes and chains were scattered around them.
The roof mirrored the outside—thick logs placed across, filled with bamboo. Above that, yellow mud held everything together, though roots and grass had begun to grow through it. Tiny droplets of water seeped through in places.
Laryoal took it all in.
He felt both excitement… and a faint uneasiness.
But curiosity always won over discomfort.
He let out a quiet breath.
"You cook by sitting on the floor?"
"Yeah… is it new to you, lord?" Fana asked.
"Sir," Arifoam corrected calmly.
"Ah… no. It just feels… old."
"Yeah… it's my great-grandfather's house," Arifoam said, his voice softening. "He built it himself—with his two brothers and father. No labor, nothing."
He paused briefly, eyes drifting.
"I got it after our joint family broke. My father died… mother was gone long before that. So we three brothers divided everything after our sister got married."
As laryoal nodded for all things to arifoam rather then ignoring completely,he thought may be giving a slight respect to the lady's husband can improve the food quality.
"Ah… there is warm water for bath," Fana added, stepping forward slightly. "It was for Arif… but you can have it. A guest serves as God for me."
She smiled warmly at Laryoal.
"Ah, nice. So where is the bathroom?"laryoal got little excited,but after giving a look on bathroom he came back to his ground and showed little dispointment.
The place was muddy, enclosed like a box, a small window which was covered with torn clothes for privacy but then why even make it laryoal thought.
But when the warm water touched him, Laryoal felt strangely alive in that moment.And let out all the complaints flow out for a movement and let himself dissolve in the warm water .
---
Far away…
The land had just begun to breathe again after a long war.
But the earth still remembered.
Stains of dried blood painted silent stories of fallen soldiers. Most bodies had already decayed into foul-smelling remains—green, swollen, and broken and some looked fresh . Armor and weapons had long been taken—by victors, scavengers, or cowards who survived.
Yet, a path had formed naturally.
A path of passing… of moving on.
"Well… perfect spot to close your nose and snore through the shit, right?"
Alimer spoke casually.
He wore a loose brown cloak, exposing part of his hairy chest marked with small red dots. A dark crow tattoo on his neck, adding to his eerie presence. His long curly hair shimmered faintly, and his demeanor carried a subtle arrogance.
Beside him sat the boy with spiked hair with a long axe in between his legs—the same one who had killed Sahir.
Silent.
Unresponsive.
They rode on horse sledges, heading toward a meeting with King Gorian.
"Well… that guy has been following us for hours," Alimer continued, eyes sharp though his posture remained relaxed. "I heard he was present when my duplicate was killed by those priest. Maybe he was there for Auskles too…"
He clicked his tongue lightly.
"But that useless duplicate gave everything away. And now I have nothing."
He leaned back slightly.
"Still… how did he come all the way from Collinga to here? Strange. The both Swargs meeting time is still weeks to go "
He turned slightly.
"What do you think?"
"He no problem for now."
A single sentence. Flat. Empty.came from the spiked hair guy .
"Yeah… we got no book or Auskles, so he's here for something else. Devil's orders? Or just his own side quest?"
Alimer smirked faintly.
"Not our concern for now."
His gaze drifted toward the horizon—a fading black dot against the dying sun.
---
That black dot moved.
A red cloak flowed through the dusty air, brushing against the rhythm of the wind.
A black horse cut through the loose sands like a silent wave. Between the cloak, a katana gleamed faintly.
The rider's eyes were half-closed, shielding against the sand.
He rode smoothly—almost like the wind itself carried him.
He was the rider from collinga.
Watching.
"So… he is still alive."
---
The End