Interlude: End of Summer

     Rain fell, starting as a drizzle and turning quickly to a downpour, and the wreckage of what had once been the Grand Tourney turned into a morass of mud and trampled grass.
     Taking what shelter he could under a mostly-intact tent–the same tent he'd been using for the past few nights, though soon it'd be time to change simply out of caution–Wanderer watched the rain fall and felt thoroughly sorry for himself.
     It'd pass, of course. At least he had shelter, unlike the dreamers who slept on in spite of the rain; when it stopped he'd venture out, trying to make sure heads were raised enough to keep breathing despite the puddles, looking for any who might have managed to struggle free of the spell's suffocating hold.
     He was awake, and mostly dry, and alive. But it didn't mean he couldn't take an idle moment to consider that this was not the life he'd envisioned when they left the jungles.
     If we had just stayed home, Cirrus remarked, we would be fat on sun-addled strider hens right now.
     Wanderer twisted his head to nudge the cloak folds where his familiar was sheltering, provoking an indignant squawk.
     You know it's true!
     It's no use thinking of what-ifs. We're here now.
     But as the crow subsided into grumbling, Wanderer couldn't help but spare a wistful thought because normally they would both be enjoying the fruits of the late-summer's bounty. The turn of the seasons was a good time, back in the lowlands at the edge of the Sunless Jungle; the land was at its richest, and it meant they had weeks of plenty to enjoy before the cold set in for the Ivratian winter.
     He ambled down towards the slough, brushing down through the shoulder-high grass as it gave way to reeds and sedges as he neared the water’s edge. There was rustling through the underbrush, little frogs hopping away in alarm as his passing. During a leaner time he would have made an effort to catch them, since frog hunting was often a good way to stumble across waterfowl nests tucked away here and there and he DID like eggs even if he wasn’t much for frogmeat; this time of year though, there was no need. He’d already fed well for the day, which meant that going down to the water was simply to enjoy the late evening sun dancing across its still surface.
     The silt beneath his hooves was soft, and he sunk in a little before it gave way to firmer, pebble-strewn sand. Minnows scattered, their sides catching the light in flickers of gold just below the surface, but as the deer came to a halt they soon ventured back to circle his fetlocks and nibble at his fur where it swayed in the current. Wanderer was glad that the waning summer heat wasn’t too strong anymore; there’d been a sudden snap of cold a few nights back, and it seemed to have banished the worst of the flying pests.
     He might have spoken too soon though, because a certain flying pest came sailing lazily out of the trees to land directly on his antlers. Wanderer tossed his head in annoyance, but his familiar hung on for several stubborn moments before letting go with a chuckle and awkwardly flapping his way up to land on Wanderer’s back.
     You’re lucky I don’t toss you right off after that.
     Too lazy.
     You’re one to talk, bird. But the crow was right, he was too content and drowsy in the sun’s warmth to bother bucking the little nuisance off.
     Especially after they’d hunted together earlier in the day, and hunted well. Easy pickings at the end of the season.
     Hunting in the late summer was practically effortless, and his stomach growled in sympathy at the thought of it. A full summer to gorge on the plenty of the land meant that there was no shortage of half-grown strider chicks; season to grow into gangly and uncoordinated adult bodies meant that they made for easy hunting, and normally he'd be bringing down as many as he could. The land made it easy for them too, or so he'd always thought. As the leaves began to drop away and grasses turn to gold he'd found that his prey had fewer places to hide from Cirrus's watchful eyes.
     There!
     Right on cue, he saw Cirrus dropping through the half-bare branches as Wanderer–and the panicked strider he was only a few paces behind–approached at a full gallop. They liked using this part of their territory to hunt. The plenty of the slough drew in the striders and other prey without fail, no matter how reliably the mage and his familiar picked off stragglers, and as the land rose and grew rockier it formed a convenient barrier he could drive his quarry up against.
     And sure enough, as they came up to where the rising ground dropped off sharply, the strider realized too late that Wanderer had long since woven the underbrush into a solid fence that ran the length of the ridgeline. It wasn’t tall–it didn’t need to be–and the strider could surely jump it with those powerful legs.
     Unfortunately, there was a split second of hesitation where the bird’s dim mind tried to decide whether to vault the fence or not. And that split second was made longer because Cirrus was there, swooping in and radiating fear that left it frozen.
     And then he was upon it, and it didn’t matter anymore as he brought his teeth to bear.
     They'd always eat well, set aside for a winter that rarely ran colder than mild within the sheltering depths of the jungle, and rest easy. It seemed so far away from here, so far removed from his meager shelter in the mist and drizzle.
     The end of summer meant grasshopper season too, and Cirrus always enjoyed that; the crunchy little pests–as far as Wanderer was concerned, at least, and he was more than a little certain his familiar crunched them just to bother him–were one of the crow's favorite treats, and he hunted them endlessly while Wanderer browsed through the berry bushes of the lowlands.
     It was the only time of year where his diet widened to consist of more than meat.
     Most of the time meat was all he cared for. He enjoyed the hunt, enjoyed it almost more than the clean pleasure of filling his belly, and with his sharp fangs the mage wasn’t really well-suited to the vegetation that most of Ivras subsisted on. But he did admit a certain weakness for berries. They were a rare treat, only available for a few golden months as the heat of the lowland summer saw them blossom into ripeness, and he waited all year to enjoy them,
     And he was enjoying them, daintily plucking at the fat clusters of rich, purple-black elderberries where they peeked between the leaves. He wouldn’t eat too many–let the birds enjoy their share, and besides these berries were starting to have the heady taste that meant they’d overripened and would leave him stumbling if he gorged himself–but the tangy sweetness wasn’t a flavor he often tasted, and it was an enjoyable change of pace.
     Unfortunately, his restraint wasn’t a quality his familiar shared. Wanderer’s ears pricked at a sudden FWUMP sound from somewhere nearby, and took a step back from the foliage he was half buried in. He sighed.
     Maybe you should chase grasshoppers BEFORE you eat berries.
     I cndo both jusfine.
     He looked skeptically at where Cirrus was wobbling along in a decidedly not-straight line, wings half-spread for balance.
     Can you?
     Ys.
     There was a grasshopper sitting on the crow’s back. Rather smugly, Wanderer thought.
     I’m very glad to see your hunting skills are so well-honed.
     Shhhhhhhhhh mbusy rightnow.
     With a fond but long-suffering roll of his eyes, the mage walked over and bent down to offer the tines of his antlers.
     Come on, you little drunkard.
     He didn’t so much invite so much as SCOOP the bird off the ground, which got him a wobbly squawk of protest, but Cirrus did appear to be holding on rather than trying to take flight… if he could even manage that at the moment, which Wanderer rather doubted considering he was quite sure he’d just heard an undignified landing.
     Every year. You think you’d learn.
     But as much as Cirrus did get drunk on fermented elderberries every year, as much as he poked fun at him for it, it was just another part of the long litany of reasons he loved the season.
     The season he was missing.
     He was missing the crispness of the nights as autumn's first lingering touches cut through the cloying heat of summer, and the waterfowl from the far southern shores of Ivras that filled the air with their calling as they flew northwards for warmer climes. Missing long forays into the upland woods just for the sake of looking out over their territory as the leaves turned into a brilliant bloom of color, even if winter never quite left the Sunless Jungle entirely bare. Missing the calm stillness of the marshes in the early morning, the thunderous calling of frogs giving way to quiet for the first time since summer had begun and sometimes letting him hear the far-off songs of the fisherfolk out on the waterways.
     Summer was coming to an end, somewhere out beyond the mist, and they were trapped here instead; enemies all around and hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach.
     Thinking of it all, and of all they'd normally be doing right about now as the rain poured down, was a stark reminder of how thoroughly things had changed since they left the wilds.
     He sighed, and watched his breath cloud in the damp air.
     I wish we were home too, bird. But we're here now.