He was speaking. Not unusual.
But the response—was not in any language I understood.
Clicks. Pauses. Sounds that did not seem meant for words.
And yet—he answered without hesitation. As if nothing was missing between them.
I must have stared longer than I should have.
He laughed. Said he had spent too many years on the road to be surprised by differences.
“Trade teaches faster than language,” he told me.
I am not sure if that is true. But here—it feels like it might be.
The first I learned of were the ones I had already seen.
The small figures in black. Always moving. Always watching.
The Elders. Short. Thin. Noses long and sharp.
Eyes that seem to count before they look.
Every transaction, I was told, passes through them.
Not enforced. Just… accepted.
No one questions it. No one seems to want to.
I asked where they came from. The answer was a shrug.
“They’ve always been here.” Or long enough that no one remembers otherwise.
I did not ask again.
Then—something that cannot be ignored.
Dragonkin.
I did not realize how tall they were until one passed beside me.
The caravan master barely reached their shoulder.
Their bodies—built, not grown. Muscle layered with scale.
Not fully draconic. Not fully human. Something between.
And proud of it.
They do not hide themselves. Cloth worn to reveal, not conceal.
Red. Black. Gold. Green.
The scales mark their lineage, I was told. Their tribe.
They wear it openly. As if strength should always be visible.
I found myself staring. They noticed. They did not seem to mind.
There are others who move differently.
Sandwalkers.
Tall—as tall as the Dragonkin.
But where one fills space, the other barely claims it.
Thin. Wrapped in white. Layer upon layer of cloth.
No hair. No clear distinction.
They walk as if the ground does not resist them.
The desert, I was told, belongs to them. Long before others arrived.
They do not build cities. They do not stay.
They trade gold—for water.
It feels like an exchange that should not be equal. But here, it is.
Not all are so quiet.
Siltfang.
Their speech is… difficult to follow. Tongue against teeth, clicks layered over breath.
And yet—the caravan master answers them as easily as he would me.
They carry containers on their backs. Large. Sealed.
Occasionally, they stop. Open them. And step inside.
Emerging moments later—damp. Alive again.
“They dry out,” he said simply. “Best not to keep them waiting.”
He also warned me. They do not step away from conflict. They step into it.
Not everything here feels… grounded.
There are those who seem almost misplaced.
Moonfen Sisters.
I understood the warning before it was spoken.
They move with intention. Every gesture deliberate.
Beauty—not accidental. But constructed. Maintained.
Their eyes are sharp. Not unkind. But aware. Too aware.
“They’re not fully human,” he said. “Best to remember that.”
I asked what they were. He only smiled. “Traders,” he answered.
That did not feel like an answer.
Some are familiar. Or close enough.
Halfeet.
Shorter. Quick. Their movements always half a step ahead.
I have seen them before. In other places. Other roads.
No one seems to know what they were called before this name found them.
No one seems to mind.
They carry messages. Set traps. Disappear into movement.
Reliable, I was told. As long as you can keep up.
What unsettles me most—is not their difference.
But the absence of friction.
No hesitation. No confusion.
Each speaks in their own tongue. And yet—they understand.
Not perfectly. But enough.
The caravan master only shrugged when I asked.
“Merchants learn,” he said. As if that explained everything.
He also told me this is not all. Not even close.
There are others—who do not travel this far.
Others—who do not trade.
And some—who cannot be spoken to at all.
He said it lightly. As if it were a distant concern.
I am not sure I share that comfort.
I saw more. Only in passing.
Shapes I could not name. Movements that did not stay long enough to understand.
For the first time since leaving Dunskar—the world feels… large again.
Not in distance. But in possibility.
I wonder where they come from. All of them.
What their cities look like. What their nights sound like.
And whether—if I ever reach them—they will understand me as easily as they do each other.
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