Three days later and they’re still on the road. On one hand, it’s nice to have left the wagon of crates behind — on the other, both hands are empty. Vague promises of transmuted mushroom gold leave little impression on an empty belly.
Fassn’s wings have entirely degenerated by this point, leaving only spindly protrusions from his shoulder blades, sagging and sickly. A few of his teeth have fallen out. He’s saving them in a grimy velvet pouch.
Shyan hasn’t said a word since camp the previous night. There’s precious little to discuss. After months on the road the gang is still penniless. She steals a glance at Cang, who seems composed, but she worries his latent avarice may come bubbling to the surface.
Abia conversed with Larry the horse, briefly, before their departure. Larry was concerned about the ugobok, having lost a brother to it once. A great scaly hide it has, Larry claimed. Abia smiled and thanked him for his time, and said a horsey prayer for Larry’s brother.
As evening falls on the fourth day of travel, the group comes to a spire emerging from the rocky terrain. At its height, it flies the flag of the ugobok.