The moment her prayer ends Umana dips her head into an approving nod, idly tapping her cane on the floor. Her voice comes out as a rasp, still annoyed… But somewhat gentler, more understanding. Like she’s softened up after being handily beaten back earlier.

  Progress!

  “It’s the kind of thing an unattuned mortal could not see, but anyone with an understanding of the arts would likely notice… Although even the yman could see the end result.” Of course, Umana was not a yman considering her ck of sight, but Maia understood what she meant. The dried up hay beneath her knees had turned bck and rotten, and even the floor pnks beneath felt softer, as if they could give in from age and rot all of a sudden.

  “When you pray, the energy gains intensity. She is watching you intensely right now, child of the dark. Child of death.” That disgust from earlier cannot hide itself, but then Umana sighs. “The gods we worship do not look down upon as often. Mother sky and father earth, sister fire and brother rain… And of course, grandfather blood. We have tales of the occasional champion of the gods, but they’ve been gone for a long time. Hundreds of lifetimes.”

  And in turn Maia had never heard of cases like hers, although her worldview was very narrow- but Homer had said something simir, and he was incredibly well traveled. Godsblooded people existed, but people such as her, those who carried none and still became conduits for their power? Rarer than rare.

  “I was told you look like a walking corpse. That sort of thing is also not unheard of… Or rather, the attention of the gods changing one’s physical qualities. We have such stories. Those beloved by grandfather blood would become pictures of vitality, those under the gaze of sister fire would occasionally have the tips of their feathers burn… Old legends. Old legends that likely have a kernel of truth to them thanks to you.”

  Hearing a professional’s opinion helped a little. That was one of her questions answered: was she unique? No, she was not, at least according to the mythology of the harpies.

  “I can do nothing about it, as you’ve probably surmised. The power of divinities is not ours to meddle with. You should be happy about having it in the first pce: The undivided attention of a god would dye most green with envy.” There’s that hacking, hag-like ugh. “... You’re on the right track, seeking to meet your divinity in the flesh. Your body is as full of her love as it can be. Whenever she refocuses her gaze ‘pon you, it seeps out. That’s what causes things around you to die. And you can expel it from your body too- instinctively, at least… Perhaps if you trained yourself, you could channel the raw energy of death intentionally.”

  She wouldn’t even entertain the thought! Some things are beyond mortal ken! Even necromancers who channel her power can’t just kill people with a thought like she could! She’d much rather not! The way her head starts shaking so quickly and with such force makes Umana croak another raspy chuckle.

  “Nevertheless, thank you for demonstrating… I have a greater understanding of you and your ‘darkness’ now. I don’t feel comfortable with letting you go, but I understand what you’re trying to do. And I understand you’ve done what you have so far due to self defense. I’ll make no pretense- we’re a very closed off society. Bandits wander these mountains, and humans have tried to come up to conquer our peaks over the eons…”

  So one could argue that the harpies too were performing self-defense? Maia wasn’t sure if she agreed, but she wasn’t going to start a moral debate.

  “... Anyhow. It’s more clear to me now than ever that you cannot stay to make amends in the way that you wish.”

  Maia opens her mouth to compin, but feels the solid wooden staff smack her right on the forehead. At least the impact is gentle so she doesn’t fall on her back in pain, merely wincing and rubbing there as Umana continues. She never should’ve given that thing back to the hag.

  “You don’t have the time to ‘make amends,’ girl. If this Day of Rebirth is as rare an event as you describe, it could take years to find a solution to your problem if you miss it. And I’m not sure you have years- the more energy that seeps out of you, the harder it will become to control. You might start killing the very air around you, turning it into putrid miasma. Your flesh could rot from your bones. No matter how sweet the love of your god is, it is not fit for this world. You must exorcise it sooner rather than ter.”

  She knew that. Maia knew that, and yet hearing it from the mouth of another made her want to yell. It was not putrid! Her god had not cursed her, merely- merely done something by accident! But she also knew that arguing was pointless.

  “... But you cannot merely take your old man with you and leave. The warleaders would not forgive that slight, and I cannot protect you from their wrath. You’d scale down the mountain and get turned into paste upon the rocks the moment they descend to harass you. You’ve only killed one of us, and the surviving family of the victim forgives you, so you could potentially leave yourself and be fine.”

  But Umana makes the sort of face that already tells she knows what Maia is about to say.

  “I’m not leaving Homer here.”

  “Of course you’re not leaving him. Stupid girl. You’ve already shown the kind of character you are.” Umana runs a few sharp talons along the floor, rasping there, scratching the surface as she thinks. “But we’re running out of time. You said he’d be escaping by evening, no? And the celebration will be over by then too. I see no recourse for his sughter, no matter how much it was performed in self-defense. They want his blood.”

  And if Homer got to choose, he’d likely let them have it if it meant that she could escape, the old fool. Gah.

  Aymanah has been quietly observing from a corner, back leaning against the wall. Their expression has been as unflinching as before, but they eventually clear their throat now that a longer pause has entered the conversation.

  “I might have a solution.”

  Maia had honestly forgotten the quiet harpy was still there, both her and Umana turning to them with a curious glint in their eye. They then huddle together to pn, Maia’s eyes slowly brightening as she listens. This could work. This would work! This is exactly what Homer was good at! And it’d save them so much time if it worked!

  … As long as it did work.

  It takes about an hour to practice her section of the fairly simple pn. But if she screwed up, it’d be all over. During this time Umana heads out to the celebration to try and stretch it out as long as possible- there’s some oral traditions she can regale to keep everyone present for just a while longer, or so she promises. This gives her and Aymanah a little more time.

  Next, they have to get back to the cages. Aymanah helps her climb up through the ceiling hatch, the crisp, winter-y air filling her lungs after hours spent inside the dusty hut. Okay. The vilge is still quiet, but they do have to occasionally use Aymanah’s body to block off the view from above whenever a stray harpy leaves the party early to head home. At times she wonders if they should just jump down, but Aymanah insists against it.

  “The tracks will make them realize what’s happened. They won’t be checking the ceiling paths as thoroughly, and I’ll spend time covering the tracks you’ve already made.”

  A sweep of their feathery wings across the snowy pnk already hides tracks. Maia understands why they have to do this; no harpy wears shoes, and her footprints stick out like a sore thumb with no way of making them look alike a harpy’s cw marks.

  “Sorry, sorry…”

  A simple handwave as they continue across the rooftops. “You apologize too much. Where is the confidence you’d found earlier, darkchild?”

  “Please don’t start calling me that.”

  “Death-bound.”

  “Not that either, please.”

  “Graveyard woman.”

  “... Please, just call me by my name,”

  Despite Aymanah’s pin face at the response, she can just tell that they’re grinning on the inside. She’s killed this harpy’s sister and they still seem to find more joy in innocently tormenting them rather than extracting revenge. She’d ask about their retionship if they just had the time to talk, but there isn’t any.

  They’re back at the cages. Homer’s still inside, id on his side, probably pretending to sleep.

  “Homer…?”No answer.“Homer-?”No answer.

  Is he- no, his chest is rising. Is she being too quiet? Maia slinks right next to the cage and almost whispers her name again, but…

  *snorrrrkkkkkkkkk**hhhrrrrrrrrroooonnkkkk*

  ….……The raw ughter that erupts from Maia definitely wakes the old bastard up, his whole hulking body smming against the bars of the cage as he stumbles up, clonking his head on the top of the prison with an audible grunt of pain. He’s instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn’t there anymore.

  “What in the bzes are you doing back here, you foolish girl?! And- Gah, you’ve got one of the harpies with you? What, don’t tell me you actually managed to talk us a way to freedom?”

  Maia’s smile is twinged with a little sadness for the moment.

  “I’m afraid not, Homer. But I might’ve found us a way out that involves as little bloodshed as possible, *and* it’ll set us on the path to atonement. Now listen carefully. We’ve only so much time to get this right…”

  Despite him being far more experienced in the ways of the world, practicing took him longer than it did for Maia. Something about the way his throat made guttural noises. She’s gd Aymanah came with her so that they can beat it into him a little easier, occasionally thwapping him through the cage bars until the old man could finally pronounce things just right.

  “Just in time. The sun’s starting to set.”

  Aymanah’s eyes are set to the horizon and the way the sun dyes the snow into beautiful, glistening shades.

  “I’ll go and get the warleader. Get back into your cage before then and pray that this works. I hope Umana was right.”

  Aymanah takes to the skies with a fp of their wings and Maia in turn recedes to her cage, using her shadow to lock the cage from the inside. There’s a calm quiet between the two of them, her and Homer, although eventually,

  “This is one of the most insane pns I’ve ever taken part in, little miss.”

  “Good or bad insane?”

  “Well, no other pn has made me take a crash course on another nguage before. Here’s hoping my senile mind can keep all that nonsense contained until Aymanah comes back…”

  It’s an agonizing thirty minutes of wait, but eventually Aymanah returns with a host of other harpies, the brightly plumed one- the one with red and blue in both her hair and feathers- at the lead now. Warleader Oxaca, as Maia had learned under Umana’s short term tutege. She was the most influential of the warleaders. A sensible protector of her people, fiercely hostile to outsiders. The only way to earn her respect was through actions and not words.

  But in this one case, words were needed to spring into action.

  Oxaca barks out some words in the native harpy tongue- the one Maia can only pick a few words out of now and then- staring over to Aymanah questioningly. As if asking why she has been brought here.

  Homer slowly rises from his seated position and walks over to the entrance of the cage. He has to hunch over due to his height, but he ends up pressing his forehead against the bars, and he slowly- in a somewhat fumbled spelling- growls out words in the harpy nguage. The ones that they spent a hour teaching him.

  It loosely transtes to “I challenge you to honorable combat.”

  … Of course, the wording carries more cultural significance to the harpies, as this specific phrasing is supposedly used in their religious tales to signify great adversity between divinities. A sort of ‘winner takes all’ bid.

  Oxaca blinks multiple times,and then suddenly sms her own forehead against the cage bars to match Homer, staring him right in the eye as she slowly drawls out a clicking response.

  One that Maia knows transtes to ‘I accept.’

  That’s step one of the pn complete.Step two: Homer must win.And this is the one time Maia can’t actually be completely certain of her protector’s victory.