Forgewind

Exclusive: Forgewind Vineyards Revealed

Following granting of our FRIA request—filed as part of our coverage of the ongoing litigation between the Silund Clan and the Silund & Sons Philanthropic Charter [see Silund Clan Schism]—Peat Rose Lunely has obtained the following, one-of-a-kind memory archive. Uncovered in the records of the late Rall Silund-Kótzü XXV of Silund & Sons—the exclusive logistical partners of Forgewind Vineyards—this stunning memarq reel contains never-before-seen recordings of Forgewind Vineyards as well as its Master Vintners.

With permission from the Estate of Rall Silund-Kótzü XXV, and with our deepest gratitude to the same, we present a Peat Rose Lunely Exclusive Virtureel:

Entering Forgewind Vineyards

[Data Reconstruction Error: 0x190081]

ArQive Technical Notation: VirtuReel contains anomalous anti-transmission protections consistent with signatures from South Rigdlands Nature Preserve. Source unknown. Suspected source: Sha Aliniy.

[ArQive Narrative Reconstruction]

“Hey, Plov, you seeing this?” Rall said from the crest of a volcanic ridge.

In the distance, nestled inside the bowl-shaped depression of a collapsed magma bubble, were rows and rows of well-ordered vineyards, crop fields, gardens, and open pastures. Towards the rear, half-built into the cracked and jagged bubble remnants, were several buildings the make of which was strangely reminiscent of fantasy virtureels or games.

Plovrik Kótzü, Rall’s brother-in-law, crested the ridge, planted his feet, and let out a long exhale through his teeth.

“Rall, you mad bastard,” Plovrik chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief, “you actually fucking did it. You found it.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Rall said, “let’s go say hello.”

“Man, Fássa is going to murder you with a pair of scissors when she hears about this,” Plovrik quipped, adjusting his grip on his hiking poles.

“Better her than my father,” Rall retorted, starting off down the other side of the steep ridge.

Plovrik sighed and followed after.

“Knowing her, she’ll probably grab you by your ear and march you to his tender embrace,” Plovrik said. “How does she stand you anyway?”

“Big dick mystic,” Rall jested, turning around.

His hiking poles dangling from their wrist straps, Rall threw his arms up in the air like he was making a dramatic entrance. Flamboyantly, he thrust his hips and waved his hands in the air like a mad wizard.

“Laga baga boof pah!” he exclaimed, waving one of his hiking poles like a magic wand, “Rall the snake charmer extraordinaire rarefies the air with his irresistible charm and flawless laying of fine plumbing! They all fall under his spell! The ladies! They can’t get enough!”

Plovrik snickered.

“You’re such an asshole,” Plovrik grinned.

“Sure, but at least I’m a charismatic asshole!” Rall smirked, turning back around.

“Fuck off,” Plovrik fired back.

“You know you love me, Plov,” Rall returned, “I mean, where would you be without me? Still at home buttering up your silicone stiffies?”

“And porking your sister with em too.”

“Which one?”

“Yes.”

Rall snorted.

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to do this,” Plovrik said.

“What? Go backpacking in the backwoods with the boys?” Rall questioned.

“Oh come on,” Plovrik responded, “I knew from the minute you said Foglands where you were planning to go.”

“Oh, did you now?”

“I’m not stupid, Rall.”

“You’re not!? Well that’s news to me!”

“Fuck you!”

“Prefer it if you didn’t. That’d make things real awkward with your sister when we get home.”

“She can shove a potato in it,” Plovrik retorted.

“How’d you know Fássa’s favourite kink?” Rall joked.

“You’re disgusting. And impossible.”

“That I am. The most disgusting, impossible, intolerable, asshole you can’t get enough of! Because I’m just that amazing and you know it!”

“Just stop talking,” Plovrik groaned.

“Why? The day is warm, the cloudbreaks are stunning, the landscape is beautiful, and without this lovely conversation I’d have to listen to you wheezing like an asthmatic smoker with stage four lung cancer, and that’s not even to mention the oppressive odour coming off those pits.”

“I think enduring the stank off your unwashed asscrack unmitigated would be preferable to whatever this conversation has turned into,” Plovrik quipped.

“Well, in that case,” Rall said, reaching for his—

“No! No! Do not even think about it!” Plovrik shouted. “Pants! Stay! On!”

“You’re no fun!” Rall whined.

“I’m loads of fun!” Plovrik objected.

“But what’s fun if you can’t go on a bottomless nature hike!?” Rall pouted.

“You have a twisted definition of fun, you know that?”

Rall giggled to himself.

“Okay! Okay! Fine! I’ll leave them on! But only because it’s you asking me,” Rall conceded.

“Thank you,” Plovrik said, exasperatedly. “Nobody wants to see that moose dong flopping about in the breeze anyhow.”

“Well now it just sounds like you’re envious!” Rall smirked.

“Keep mouthing off I’m going to relieve you of its burden,” Plovrik fired back.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Rall returned.

“And what if I do?”

“I might just have you make good on it.”

“I can make that happen.”

“Do it!”

Behind him, Plovrik sighed exhaustedly. Rall chuckled. Got him again. Plov was so predictable.

“We’d best get a move on,” Plovrik prompted, “unless you’d rather spend another night sleeping on volcanic rocks and jabby scrub.”

“Too right you are,” Rall agreed, looking down into a ravine they’d found themselves at the edge of.

“Bloody Haalgrinsday,” Plovrik muttered, peering down into the depths.

“Watch your step,” Rall warned, spotting what looked like a potential pathway down.

As seemed to be the consistent trend in the scorched landscape they’d been wandering about in the last six days, another ridge led to a steep valley to a ravine so narrow it blended the lines between ravine, crevasse, and slot canyon. Some where more pleasant to traverse than others, and some were untraversable at all due to fast moving rivers and streams at their bottoms. Navigating around those obstacles had been the primary source of delays after they’d climbed down from Rigdi’s Wall—the cliffs at the southern border of the Foglands. Despite being almost five hundred metres tall, only the last fifty or so metres of Rigdi’s Wall were visible from where they were. Everything above that was shrouded in perpetual cloud.

This ravine looked to be one of the more pleasant. At least from the top. The drop from the edge was perhaps fifty or sixty metres, maybe a little more. At the bottom was one of those swiftly flowing streams, but it was impossible to determine whether it was fordable or not from where they were.

Thankfully, the walls were made of columnar basalt and it seemed the track Rall and Plovrik had been following for the better part of the last two days might have been something man-made after all. By all appearances, someone had carved a crude set of stairs into the formation.

When they reached the bottom, he saw something that confirmed someone had built all this; a stepping stone bridge. By how the water thundered against the stones in a frothing, white-water current, the river’s flow was too strong and turbulent to ford by foot. If anyone fell in, they’d be assuredly dashed to pieces before they got the chance to drown. Imagining the violence of it, Rall couldn’t decide which way to go would’ve been worse.

Looking at the bridge, Rall scratched his head in confusion. Whoever had done all this had gone to way, way more effort to carve and move all of these stones than they ever needed to. Building a simple suspension bridge of rope and wooden planks would have been much easier and far less time consuming than this.

“Well I’ll be,” Plovrik said, stopping three steps above Rall.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” Rall agreed.

“Come on,” Plovrik prodded, taking another step down, “only a few hours before sunset.”

Rall took one of his hiking poles and probed the first of five columns. With how fast the river was flowing, if it caved, he was a gonner.

No movement.

“Right, here goes,” Rall said, stepping out onto the first stepping stone.

To his amazement, it didn’t move a millimetre under his feet. He could feel the river’s flow vibrating through the column, but it was steady and sturdy, like it was rooted deep into the ground. Or maybe it had been raised up from the floor of the ravine by some hidden witch of the Foglands. That wasn’t entirely implausible, all things considered.

“Everything good?” Plovrik asked.

“Yeah,” Rall answered, stepping onto the next column.

“Oh fuck, that is wild,” Plovrik reacted, as he stepped out.

“I know. You don’t think…”

“No. We haven’t had one on Araamsfaalt for a hundred years.”

“Still…,” Rall considered, reaching the penultimate stone.

“There’s no stonebenders on Araamsfaalt, Rall,” Plovrik repeated.

“If you say so,” Rall responded, reaching the landing on the other side of the river.

“You think Forgewind is keeping a secret coven of witches?” Plovrik retorted.

“I mean, it’s not out of the question,” Rall replied, starting up the stairs on the other side of the ravine, “no one knows who’s behind the best wine in the galactic quarter.”

“A witch? Don’t you think a sommelier somewhere would’ve detected something glitchy a long time ago?”

“I didn’t say they were magicking the fucking wine!” Rall objected, gesticulating frustratedly back at Plovrik from the first turnabout.

“Okay, fair enough, but that stuff is pervasive!” Plovrik argued, gesturing for Rall to move.

“How would you know!” Rall responded, continuing up the stairs. “You some kind of expert on witches, warlocks, and magical beasties abound!?”

“I read it somewhere!” Plovrik exclaimed.

“Oh! I see! Just trust me bro! I know a thing or two! I read books, you know!” Rall retorted. “What!? Citations! What are those!?”

“Like you haven’t made that kind of argument before!” Plovrik fired back.

“Okay, but that’s different!”

“Really!? How!”

“Everyone knows I’m full of shit and just make things up as I go along!” Rall answered, reaching the top of the ravine.

Behind him, Plovrik huffed angrily. Rall burst out laughing.

“I really—,” Plovrik began, but stopped.

“Really what? Hate my guts like plague, pornos, and coleslaw at the family barbecue?” Rall returned.

“Wish you’d shut up,” Plovrik said.

“Well, if wishes were…”

“Hey!” Plovrik interrupted. “You smell that?”

“Smell what? The—oh shit!” Rall exclaimed.

A breeze rushing down the steep slope approaching the ravine had brought with it a rich, heady scent of wood smoke, lavender, and sage. Looking up, Rall saw the enormous, jagged walls of the burst magma plume rising up into the sky. They could only have been a kilometre away. Behind the crest of the ridge must have been the first fields of Forgewind.

Exhilarated, Rall dashed up the slope, Plovrik tailing close behind. In only a few short minutes, sides splitting and shins splinting, they reached the top and were stopped in their tracks by what they saw.

Up a shallow slope, rising from wild patches of grass and heath between narrow streams cut through black volcanic soil and bare basaltic rock, lay the first tended gardens of the fabled Forgewind Vineyards. The last rays of sunlight from between titanic, arcing fingers of the magma plume’s remnant shards broke through the otherwise oppressive, omnipresent clouds. Light struck the gardens in shards of gold and pearl. Aaramsfaalt’s two suns carved their way along the verdant landscape, saturating otherwise semi-faded colours into bold and vivid hues, reaching the edge of the ravine before perpetual gloom overtook the landscape once more, the clouds coming together again north of the collapsed dome.

“Ho-ly shee-it,” Plovrik gawped, watching the crepuscular rays pan over the landscape. “This is fucking real, isn’t it? We’re actually here?”

“Fuck…” Rall reacted, “I think we are.”

“Think they’ll be mad at us?” Plovrik asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Rall said.

With a roll of his shoulders and a crack of his neck, Rall started up the slope. Two weeks of hiking through South Ridgland’s Foglands had finally paid off. They were here. They had made it. Forgewind Vineyards was just ahead, and they were the first to discover its location.

He couldn’t wait.

This was where the magic happened, where the best wine in the galactic quarter was made. Geomagnetic anomalies, Rigdi’s Wall, the Ridd’s Bay Cloudstream, and the vast, almost continent-spanning Great Southern Natural Preserve had made this place an enduring mystery for the best part of an epoch. Map sleuths, wine enthusiasts, hikers, and hired teams from competing transport firms had spent untold millions trying to find this place. It seemed only fitting to Rall that it would be a Silund son to finally be the one to solve this mystery.

Forgewind had made his family the wealthiest in the Rigdlands. Silunds knew how to keep a secret. That was their reputation. Forgewind’s proprietors had sought them out as exclusive partners because of that. As the legends and lore went, Forgewind’s proprietors even went so far as to buy the Great Patriarch out of contracts with the least savoury clientèle of the region. Ever since Silund & Sons had been the exclusive logistic partners of Forgewind Vineyards.

It was Forgewind wine that had put Silund & Sons on the map. Now it would be Silund’s son’s turn to return the favour.

That and discuss the matter of the hundred and fifty-four trillion ztoll still sitting in a reserved account Forgewind’s propietors had never come to collect. Silund & Sons’ financiers didn’t know what to make of that situation. Neither did the family, truth be told. Forgewind had never collected a single a fenned of what had been reserved for them in the nearly epoch and a half they’d been splitting the profits halfway.

Thinking on it, Rall recalled that the only reason he’d ever been given for why they split the profits fifty-fifty this was out of respect for tradition. They weren’t contractually obliged to do so. Admittedly, there wasn’t a contract to oblige them to anything, but Silunds were a family of tradition, oaths, and honour. No son of the Great Patriarch would dishonour the Silund name by defiling Rall I’s oath.

Yet.

Besides, the half they took had provided far more than any Silund could spend in ten lifetimes.

Some in the family, however, did not see things that way. While Rall’s primary motivation for trekking deep into the Foglands to find Forgewind was, of course, to see for himself this place of such storied legend, it wasn’t his only motivation. Discussing the matter of paying what the Silund Clan owed them weighed heavily on his shoulders also. Their pay was long overdue and he was not going to be the Rall to see the Silund Clan plunder what rightfully belonged to their oldest and most profitable client.

With his loyal companion and brother-in-law at his side, they’d accomplished mission one. Onward to mission two.

[221 minutes cut]

A lilting voice reached Rall’s ears as he and Plovrik walked up a steep and narrow path between towering rows of vines. Hanging from each were clusters of plump, ripe grapes of preposterously enormous proportions.

Red, white, black, and even exotic strains he’d never seen before hung from vines all planted together. Not haphazardly nor carelessly, but together in an organised manner that was both intriguing and confusing. Each variant grew beside another but with no two vines neighboured by the same.

As he and Plovrik continued up the slope toward the enormous, palatial compound at the back of the estate, Rall’s mind was ablaze with questions. Seeing the stepping stones and the painstakingly engineered gardens and now these vines all planted together as they were made him intensely curious as to why. Why do any of this this way?

It all seemed to defy any conventional logic. Rall had never seen a vineyard plant all different varieties of grapes together before. He knew Forgewind produced a wide variety of wines. In fact, they produced more types of wine than any other vineyard and winery except Guho Acres and Cobblestone Row. Even those vineyards didn’t plant everything all together.

More astonishing than the way the vines were arranged were the size of them. Each one had grown well beyond even the largest grapevines he’d ever seen—at least in cultivated fields. Each one rose above his head and then for another two or three metres—like they’d never been pruned back. Despite the height and breadth they’d been allowed to grow, they’d been grown with some level of care and consideration to the needs of the plant. Each row of vines had been planted on its own shelf carved into the side of the steep slope near the back of the dome’s bowl to ensure they all received full sunlight.

The fruit themselves were unlike anything he’d seen before either. Grapes as large or even larger than his fist grew from enormous clusters that could have been entire vines unto themselves. Stranger still was that this puzzling gigantism hadn’t been at all present in any of the other crops or cultivars in any of the fields, orchards, or pastures they’d passed through on their way here. It was only the grapevines that were seemingly planted by and for actual giants.

Magic was afoot in these vineyards. That much was clear. Rall felt a burning urge to turn to Plovrik and utter a classic line of taunting triumph. There were witches here after all.

Before he could, the voice they’d been hearing since they entered the vineyards drew nearer and more intoxicating, interrupting his thoughts. Rall began to feel woozy and slightly off-balance. As he continued up the path, he found himself relying more and more on his hiking poles to keep his footing. The song filled his ears more and more until it was all-encompassing and irresistible. He felt himself pulled toward it, dragged to its source like a sailor to a siren or a hapless beachgoer to a lonely Naiad.

He came to the row of vines where the song was coming from and was shocked by what he saw. A nude woman was walking down the row, singing as she went. Her back was turned and she had her arms outstretched, fingers extended to brush against the vines. Her hair, the colour of fire, shimmered and flashed even in the fading, diffuse twilight of Araamsfaalt’s two setting suns. With each step, this glorious mane brushed against her heels, captivating his gaze like a hypnotist’s mesmer.

“Damn,” Plovrik blurted out.

The song stopped abruptly.

A cold pit formed in Rall’s stomach. He’d seen enough horror flicks to know what that meant.

The woman turned, a quizzical expression on her face. A sense of danger descended over Rall; a feeling that he was not supposed to be here and that he’d stumbled onto something forbidden. His mind raced as the woman approached. He felt he should run, but his feet were sealed in place like they’d been encased in concrete.

Step by painstakingly slow step, the woman came closer, her gait like a panther creeping up its prey—graceful and terrifying. Her eyes pierced his with searching intent. She was studying him, inspecting him, and doing the same to Plovrik.

Though she was only a dozen or so metres away, the mere seconds it took her to approach felt to him like hours. When she finally arrived, the woman stopped in front of them.

Looking back and forth between Rall and Plovrik, her expression was equal parts shocked and perplexed. That she was entirely nude didn’t seem to concern her at all, nor that two strange men were standing there gawking at her. It seemed like she was mostly confused as to how they’d even made it here.

“You must be Rall Silund,” the woman eventually said, looking at Rall. “I heard about you.”

“Rall XXV,” Rall answered, grinning.

“Twenty five generations?” the woman reacted, “time really does fly.”

Confused, Rall glanced at Rall. He looked back with matching expression.

“And you are?” the woman asked of Plovrik.

“Plovrik Kótzü,” Plovrik answered.

The woman nodded, turned her head toward the villa still some distance off.

“Come,” she said, departing toward the villa, “you must be exhausted from your travels.”

“Wait, what?” Plovrik reacted.

“Come, come,” the woman piped, glancing over her shoulder and beckoning. “Dinner should be ready soon and you both need a good wash.”

“The fuck…” Rall whispered in astonishment

After sharing a quick glance with Plovrik, they both nodded their agreement and followed after the strange woman.

[94 minutes cut]

Rall leaned back in the plain wooden chair, his belly aching. He’d almost forgotten what proper food tasted like. Subsisting the past two weeks on MREs and nutripaste had given him a new appreciation for even what his family would call “peasant food”.

Whoever was responsible for the stew and the bread he’d gorged on was his current hero, saving angel, and best friend ever. Fine dining and thousand ztoll dishes couldn’t hold a candle to what he’d just eaten, and that didn’t even include the beer.

Beer!

He had no idea Forgewind grew and brewed all of the things it did. The complex was vast—far more expansive than he’d anticipated. Hiking from the grain fields to the first orchards took hours, and the suns were already setting over Ridd’s Bay when when they’d finally stumbled into the vineyards. From just what little he’d been able to see, the place was a veritable cornucopia of cultivation. Self-sufficient, self-sustaining, and possessed of anything one could grow spread across all the acreage inside a massive, hollowed-out, lava dome.

Every step of the way his expectations had been undermined, upset, upheaved, and upturned, scattering any ideas he’d previously had about Forgewind to the wind. And of all the shocking things he’d seen or experienced that day, it seemed strange that Forgewind also brewing the best beer he’d ever drank was the most jawdropping of them all.

Even the woman from before—Lilhu as she’d introduced herself—ranked lower on the scale, and she was nothing if not an enigma.

Across the table, Lilhu finished her mug of ale, setting it down in front of her in the most lovely way. She was beyond dreamy. Rall couldn’t stand it. Gorgeous in every way and everything she did was just so damn perfect.

If Fássa found out about any of this, he was dead.

Absolutely.

Categorically.

One hundred and sixty-nine percent dead.

The bathhouse was bad enough—and it was bad. After both he and Plovrik had been ushered inside, about six topless women took all of their stuff, stripped them down, and then proceeded to spend the next hour personally scrubbing them from head to toe. If either even attempted to do anything themselves, the women would gently swat their hands away. Only three people in Rall’s life up to that point had ever washed his stank ass for him; himself, his mother, and his wife.

Of course, he and Plovrik objected. Their objections were met with a kind of quiet insistence Rall could not adequately explain why he’d assented to at all. None of the women spoke a word to them throughout the whole ordeal, yet the message came through clearly.

Don’t struggle. Struggling is pointless. You’ll just end up where you were always going to be in the end anyway, except you’ll be exhausted as well.

After having the top three layers of his skin scoured off and the oppressive odour of three weeks on the trail exorcised by an industrial disaster’s worth of holy unctions and antimiasmic potions, he thought he’d at least be able to dry and dress himself.

He was not.

The bathhouse women saw to all of that too. After being padded down with delightfully fluffy towels they brought out plain linen sheets and tied them around his and Plov’s waists. Then the two were then guided to a small dining area where Lilhu was sitting with a pot of stew and a cask of beer.

She was, to both Rall’s and Plovrik’s astonishment, still stark naked. Only after being sat—they weren’t even allowed to handle their own chairs—did it start to set in that Forgewind’s policies about dress and grooming might be a little different than those he was used to. It had been cut off from the rest of Araamsfaalt for at least fifteen thousand anno. At least as far as he knew.

“You are just full of surprises, you know that?” Plovrik said to Lilhu, finishing his pint.

“Am I?” Lilhu asked, her voice earnest and inquisitive.

“Yes,” Rall affirmed.

“Is this actually Forgewind?” Plovrik asked.

“Yes,” Lilhu answered, smiling. “Or, that’s what Rusaal said I should call it.”

“Rusaal?” Plovrik queried.

“Oh, he’s our cook,” Lilhu responded, her head cocking back like she had lost herself in a daydream, “he’s just fabulous in the kitchen. They are a humbling presence, the Minotauri. I couldn’t have done any of this without them.”

“Sorry, did you say Minotauri?” Rall reacted, after retrieving his jaw from the floor.

“Yes,” Lilhu answered, like the revelation was as workaday as egg on toast, “I was so honoured when they asked me to plant and tend a vineyard here. To be their vintner…I must have been on cloud nine.”

Damn...she really is the master vintner, Rall thought.

“Hold on a second,” Plovrik blurted out, “this-this is a Minotauri enclave?”

“Well, part of it is,” Lilhu answered, “a few Valkyries live here also. In the tower just to the east. They’re off hunting at the moment, which is quite fortuitous. Valkyries are neither a terribly forgiving folk, nor are they particularly gracious hosts, especially when it comes to uninvited guests. They are otherwise a quite well-mannered people.”

“Wait, did you say Valkyries?” Rall sputtered.

“Yes,” Lilhu said, in a confused tone, “wait…you’ve never been told why the South Rigdlands were never settled?”

“No,” Rall answered.

“Oh,” Lilhu responded, sounding almost dismayed, “the Foglands are much beloved by a great number of wood nymphs. Ridd’s Bay is often visited by their cousins of the sea. They’re not permanent residents, sadly. I wish they were, but they come and go on what I suppose is their version of a holiday. I’ve always wondered how the Naiads get here. Maybe a portal on the seafloor?”

Lilhu shrugged her shoulders and took another swig of beer. Looking to his left, Rall saw Plovrik was just as flabbergasted as he was. The cutest sounding burp brought both of their attentions back to Lilhu.

“Excuse me,” she said, before continuing on her monologue, “I suppose it is their mystery. How the sea nymphs travel the stars… Maybe one day some intrepid young folk like yourselves will find out how they do it.”

She paused for a moment, looking off into the distance as if in contemplation. Then she said, brightly, “Perhaps you could. You found Forgewind, and I’m told it was quite well concealed.”

Lilhu looked on expectantly at Rall, and then Plovrik, but Rall was too stunned to think of anything to say. Plovrik probably was too. Then again, Plovrik was a tankard and a half deep into some unusually strong beer and the man was a lightweight when it came to alcohol.

“Are you…” Plovrik began, but fell silent, trying to find the words to say.

“A nymph?” Lilhu guessed.

“Yeah,” Plovrik nodded.

“No,” Lilhu answered, “not even a Graceless Changeling. I couldn’t rightly say my kin were even inspired by them. Aisling’s vision was the template The Goddess used in our construction, but neither of them speak much on that. I am Lolhinælhi. Or…what do your folk call us? Elderflowers? Lileans?”

“Orkideans,” Plovrik said.

“Oh,” Lilhu said, “yes. Ironic that.”

“Something about oldest flowering plants or something,” Plovrik elaborated. “I read that somewhere.”

“Orchids are very old,” Lilhu agreed, “but it was a Ciþwa Wordbearer of House Glacioclast who gave us—and popularised—that name. According to the memory of his kin, the first thing the people of Stronghold planted after the glaciers of the Apoch-Freeze receded was an orchid. It was, to them, a symbol of unity, peace, perseverance, and second chances. Somewhat fitting, considering our origins. Unbeknownst to him, the name is derived from the word for testicle in one of the forgotten tongues of the Old Sapiens.”

Plovrik, in the middle of taking a swig of beer, burst out laughing. Beer sprayed out of his nose, all over the table. This greatly amused Lilhu whose laughter was as delightful as it was infectious. Rall found himself grinning at first, then chuckling, and then joining Plovrik and the Orkidean in full-throated laughter until his sides were splitting and his bladder was on the verge of unloading itself all over the clean linen skirt the bathhouse women had given him.

Women he now had further questions about.

“Can’t blame a Glacioclast for lacking the memory of an Oraclon,” Lilhu said between bursts of chuckles.

“I have no idea what that means,” Plovrik chortled, “but I can’t feel my face.”

“It’s-it’s right there!” Lilhu guffawed, pointing a finger at Plovrik.

“My kidneys!” Rall cried out, doubling over.

“Your liver!” Plovrik added, only making the three of them laugh even harder.

“I can’t-I can’t breathe!” Rall wheezed, thumping a hand on the table.

“Oh my!” Lilhu exclaimed, struggling to regain her composure. “I forgot what fun humans were!”

Witty remark on the tip of his tongue, Rall barely resisted the urge. He couldn’t take any more. His lungs were on fire and his sides were killing him. Something in him screamed that Lilhu’s laughter actually was contagious.

He bit his tongue, hoping it would stop him laughing. It didn’t, but Lilhu’s mirth waned, bringing the mood down with it.

After another few minutes of chuckles and giggles, finally able to form words without breaking out into uncontrollable chuckling, Rall asked, “So you make wine for the Minotauri?”

“Yes,” Lilhu answered, “and beer and other spirits. It really has been a delight to learn so many new things from the Minotauri. And the Valkyries! I had no idea Valkyries were such masters of distilling spirits! Oh, I must be the luckiest Lolhinælhi ever…”

“How’d your grapes get so big?” Plovrik interrupted, half-slurring his words.

Sighing in embarrassment, Rall rolled his head over to give Plovrik the classic Stupid Glare. Plovrik paid no attention as he was far more fixated on his now empty tankard, looking into its dry and dusty depths with a dismayed pout.

“Come again?” Lilhu responded.

“Y-your grapes. They’re huge. How?” Plovrik stammered, sloppily plonking the tankard back onto the table.

Rall loved his brother-in-law, but the man could not hold his liquor.

“They are?” Lilhu reacted. “Oh…yeah…I guess they are, come to think of it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the soil.”

“The soil?” Rall said, in disbelief. “Really?”

“I really don’t know,” Lilhu insisted, “they just…grow that way.”

“Were you singing to them earlier?” Rall asked.

“Yes,” Lilhu answered, “I sing to all the plants of my garden. They seem to like it when I do. Maybe that’s why they grow so big.”

Rall looked over at Plovrik, and Plovrik back at him, both in complete disbelief. This was the master vintner of Forgewind Vineyards? The queen of wine herself? One of the best, if not the best, vintner in the local sector and, possibly, even the galactic quadrant?

Unreal.

The two had been on wine tours all throughout the lossec and beyond, to some of the best wineries in the galactic quadrant, and in each one the genius behind it all was more serious than a drill sergeant. Devoted to the finest details, obsessive to an alienating degree, and surrounded by fawning devotees attempting to capture the faintest scintilla of brilliance from the grandmaster of craft, they were unrelenting leaders of the cult of perfectionism. Each of those enthralled sycophants were nothing less than masters of the craft themselves. Game recognised game. To even be in the orbit of such legendary sowers, growers, and vintners was, to them, the highest privilege and honour.

What united them all, these greats, these Grandmasters, was their deep understanding of every last part, on a granular level, of what made their wine great. They stressed over every minute detail. Not one of them hired scientists to tell them what they did not know. They became scientists to ensure no variable of their precious, all-consuming process was left outside the scope of their understanding—and also their control.

Lilhu, on the other hand, seemed the polar opposite of these men. Amateurish, sophomoric, and carefree, she seemed to be aloof to those same details. It was like they didn’t even matter to her. Soil salinity, pH balance, fertiliser composition, solar intensity and duration, atmospheric temperature and humidity, slope angle, rainfall and soil moisture levels, organic compost composition, the long, long lists of data all completely irrelevant. It seemed, on the surface, like knowing these things didn’t matter to her at all.

“Yes,” Lilhu spoke up, “I know that look. I’ve seen it many times before. That stunned expression of disbelief before the lance-eyed glare of assumptions as to my bona fides or, rather, perceived lack thereof. No, I do not obsess over what nature gives me. I listen to root and shoot and stalk and vine. They tell me what they need and what they need, if it is within my power to give, I give. This makes them happy, and happy plants bear the best fruit. The best fruit makes the best wine.”

“You…listen to the plants?” Plovrik questioned.

Aaand just like that, we have entered crazytown.

“Yes,” Lilhu answered. “If you know how to hear them, they will tell you all.”

“You speak plant?” Plovrik asked.

Rall sighed in embarrassment.

Half-drunken brain truly working on all cylinders. Good job, Plov.

“In a manner of speaking,” Lilhu replied, “it’s something subtler than that, but you’d need a deeper thinker on these things than me to explain it. My skills and interests aren’t in philosophy. Thinking too deeply seems to cause misery and unhappiness. I’d rather avoid that trap.”

“How did you make orange grapes?” Rall asked.

At this question, Lilhu lit up.

Smiling from ear to ear, she responded. “Oh, those? Those are a special cultivar of mine. My pride and joy. They’re the Valkyries’ favourite. Not very good for eating, but they make the most delicate liqueur. The Garrison calls it Liluljúnnr. When they’ve returned from hunting, I’ll ask if they’ll let you try some.”

“How did you make them orange?”

For a moment, Lilhu paused, her expression inscrutable. She lifted her tankard, took a drink, and set it back down, still lost in thought.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to tell,” Lilhu eventually said, having deliberated with herself for long enough that Plovrik had started fidgeting with his fork, rapping it on the edge of the table. “Without the assent of the Er Alaþ Dahlal Kuhim, it would be impossible to replicate.”

“The what now?” Rall interrupted.

“It’s a…uh…a council of Ereher Lafhæë,” Lilhu explained, her brow furrowing, “or…um…what do you call them again…Treekeeps, I think? No… Foresters! Yes! Er Alaþ Dahlal Kuhim is a council of Foresters who keep lost seeds.” Lilhu cleared her voice, attempting a deeper, more dramatic tone. “The seed bank holds multitudes.” Grinning girlishly, she continued. “They love saying that. The seed bank holds multitudes.”

“Oookay,” Rall said, attempting to follow where Lilhu was going while also ignoring the crazy.

It was becoming clearer and clearer to him Lilhu was somewhat simple-minded. Churlish, immature, or aloof to the outside world and anything beyond her particular interests.

Or maybe not.

Maybe her personality was just playful and bubbly. Life was for the living, after all.

Then again, she had kind of spelled out her philosophy on thinking too much. Which made it seem like this wasn’t born out of a lack of experience and understanding, but perhaps entirely too much.

She was weird and it made Rall’s brain hurt. Maybe thinking too much was dangerous after all.

“I asked them for seeds of a lost fruit tree I’d read about in some ancient records,” Lilhu elaborated, “sand hill plums, if I recall correctly. I wanted to make jelly.”

“Jelly?” Plovrik sputtered.

“I read it was excellent on toast,” Lilhu said, matter-of-factly. “And it was.”

“Toast,” Rall repeated, dumbfounded.

“Well, I’d tried every other type of jelly, jam, and spread there was,” Lilhu defended, “I know I may look barely a day over twenty-eight, but I have been around for a few Aions.”

“You resurrected an extinct plant...to make jelly?” Rall questioned.

“It made great wine, too,” Lilhu added, “which gave me the idea to try to splice them with grapevines.”

“So you made graplums?” Plovrik slurred, half-jokingly.

Rall pinched his brow.

Graplums, Plovrik? Really? Graplums? Oerimm’s Beard!

“Yes,” Lilhu agreed, tentatively, “yes, I suppose I did. Graplums! What a delightful name!”

Fuck...

“Graplum wine,” Plovrik chortled.

Rall stifled a groan.

“Ambrosé,” Lilhu corrected, “it truly is wonderful, but the most of the graplums—oh I do like that name, graplum—they go to making Liluljúnnr. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the Valkyries were a people of born alcoholics what with how much they drink. Of course, it doesn’t have the same intoxicating effect on them as it does most of us. It’s like a sports drink for them, I think. Or maybe a turbocharged protein shake. Those are a thing in human sporting culture, still, right?”

“Yes,” Rall confirmed, almost groaning.

“The Kitsune just like to get drunk,” Lilhu added, somewhat disdainfully. “I almost regret making the Ambrosé for them, knowing what they do with it. Then again, switching off my brain and just enjoying the moment isn’t a challenge for me. I think I’d get wasted every evening and fall to pieces in an orgy pit if I had to think a million kilometres a minute all day every day. They are so horny, the Foxes. It puts even Lolhinælhi to shame.”

“What?” Plovrik belched, reaching out for the small cask of beer set in the middle of the table.

Rall swiped the tankard out of Plovrik’s hand.

“Hey!” he objected, grabbing for the tankard somewhere between lazily and stupidly.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Rall said, setting the tankard outside of Plovrik’s reach.

“Killjoy,” Plovrik pouted, slumping back in his chair, arms crossed.

“I’d love to try both,” Rall said, “Ambrosé and Liluljúnnr.”

“I’ll ask the Valkyries about the Liluljúnnr when they return,” Lilhu said, “but the Kitsune guard their Ambrosé with particular jealousy. Even the Valkyries are not allowed it.”

“Just a sip?” Plovrik begged.

“No,” Lilhu denied, “their trust is a sacred thing, and their respect more so. I won’t betray either. Besides, I finished the last of my personal reserve last night, though even that I am not free to share.”

“Personal reserve?” Rall said, perking up. “That sounds…”

“Nothing special,” Lilhu jumped in, “the Mythica are peoples of tradition. Though all is shared freely, it is considered discourteous to deny the maker of a thing the fruits of their labour. Oaths, as I’m sure a Silund can appreciate, are also a sacred thing among Mythica.”

“Huh,” Rall grunted in response. “I suppose that’s fair. Your…uhhhh…bathhouse attendants… they’re…”

“Wizers,” Lilhu said, guessing his question, “archmistresses of tonics, potions, and all manner of practical and medicinal mixtures. Changelings who serve an important and well-respected role in the culture and society of the Mythica.”

“Changelings?” Plovrik responded.

“They were once human,” Lilhu answered, “but were chosen by the Drakeswarm. I shouldn’t say more than that.”

“They spoke to you?” Rall asked.

“They don’t exactly speak,” Lilhu said, “Wizers they…over time they forget the words they once used. They whisper like the trees. And I heard in such whispers that it took a distressing amount of their precious oils and soaps to clean the wilds off of the two of you.”

“That so?” Rall responded, feeling his cheeks go red.

“No need to feel embarrassed,” Lilhu smiled, “it is a rare man of means such as yours who would go out into the wilds the way you have. Most who came before were not so respectful of our home.”

“We kind of just barged in, though,” Plovrik put, frankly.

At this, Lilhu’s face turned deeply perplexed.

“No one barges into the Foglands,” she objected.

“But…wait,” Rall interjected, “huh?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” Lilhu said, “but you have had a team of Valkyries stalking your every footstep since you landed.”

“Wait, what?” Rall sputtered.

“I told you the Valkyries aren’t fond of uninvited guests,” Lilhu reminded.

“I’m so confused, they’ve been following us the whole way?”

“No,” Lilhu said. “They did depart after you reached Rigdi’s Wall.”

“What? Why?” Rall reacted.

“Their Völva, Piri, figured you’d turn back,” Lilhu answered, “and, if you somehow found your way down and across the Melt, then you’ve earned your entry.”

“Then...what was that about the hunting and all that?” Rall asked.

“The Minotauri ran out of sausage,” Lilhu answered.

“Really? That’s the reason?”

“They really, really like their deer sausage,” Lilhu said, “and the older Valkyries were getting twitchy about two humans wandering around the Melt. Two birds. One stone. Plus the sausage is really good. I don’t understand why you’re so perplexed by all this. Do humans not also go hunting for tasty food?”

Rall found himself at a loss of anything else to say. Everything he’d expected of this place had been completely turned upside out and shaken down, dashed against the rocks, and had all the shattered pieces of everything he thought he knew about anything scattered into a gale-force wind. Asking Lilhu anything about how she did what she did seemed like a waste. It was obvious she was the mastermind behind Forgewind, but it seemed like even she didn’t know quite how she managed it, and didn’t care much to either.

If she’d truly been around for a few Aions, and had spent that entire time making wine and other spirits, maybe she didn’t need to be a genius. All the time in The Way was at her disposal and all she wanted to do was make wine. Pursue that passion long enough and perfection was inevitable. Right?

She clearly wasn’t empty-headed as a potato plot. That much was for certain. She knew a great deal, but chose to wall that part of her mind off. How unfathomably well-read she was Rall couldn’t dare to estimate.

At bottom, it really seemed like she’d simply rejected the entire premise of life—at least within the zeitgeist he understood.

Or maybe not?

Rall didn’t know what to think. The more she spoke, and the more she revealed, the more of an enigma Lilhu became.

“If you’d like to see how the sausage is made,” Lilhu said, as if she was reading his thoughts, “you’ve come at the right time. The harvest begins tomorrow and the Valkyries are due back the day after. Until then, enjoy your evening. Breakfast is at five, work begins at six.”

“Wait, what?” Plovrik reacted, as Lilhu rose from the table.

“Looks like we volunteered ourselves for a long day in the fields, Plov,” Rall chuckled. “Before you go, Lilhu…”

“Yes?” she responded.

“Um…” Rall stammered, “well…we’ve been saving half of the profits from selling your wine since you bought our Great Patriarch...err..Rall I, that is, out of his obligations to the Rust Mob. No one ever came to collect it, though, and that’s part of the reason why I came all this way. Where should I send the money?”

“To the poor and the abandoned,” Lilhu answered, without a moment’s pause, “those forgotten and left behind. The sharing of my creations with those who love and appreciate them is more than enough for me.”

[End Segment]

Return next Lune for the next instalment of this Exclusive Virtureel from Peat Rose Lunely. Our thanks again to the Estate of Rall Silund XXV of Silund & Sons for this memarq.

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