The Plateau that Shouldn't Be

As they neared the caravan, the scale of it came into focus.

The carriages were much larger than they'd expected—each one easily two stories tall. Through the open windows of the upper floors, women could be seen tending to children or focused on careful tasks—mending, weaving, or grinding herbs. Around the moving carriages, men and teenage boys walked in clusters, some carrying heavy packs. Circling them were warriors on horseback, clad in worn but well-kept leather armor.

And then there were the other—riders atop the grey-plated beasts. Massive, broad-shouldered creatures with quad-horns and hide like hammered steel. The warriors mounted on them wore the best armor by far. Their weapons gleamed with fine craftsmanship, etched with markings and reinforced with bone or metal. There were only five of them—their presence was unmistakable.

"Do they travel with their entire tribe?" Suren whispered to Tinkwick.

"Yes," came the reply—but not from the gnome.

In'ang's deep voice rolled over them, though they hadn't realized he was close enough to hear. "We of the Grest are a small tribe. We do not keep permanent dwellings. We move along the grazing routes."

Suren tensed, immediately bowing his head. "I—I didn't mean to offend."

"It is fine," In'ang said, waving a hand. "You outlanders never understand our way of life. We do not expect you to."

He guided them toward the group of elite warriors on the plated beasts. Ni'nan was already speaking with them. As the newcomers approached, one of the warriors unrolled a leather-bound map across the broad back of his mount.

Children stared from the windows of the passing carriages, pointing and whispering at the strange newcomers wielding shackles.

"Come," said a tall warrior. "Show us where you escaped from."

Suren peered at the map. It was covered in unfamiliar symbols—sloping hills, claw-shaped ridges, and winding paths marked in faded ink. None of them matched anything he remembered clearly. Still, he did his best, tracing the vague direction they had come from and describing the broken terrain and ruined mine entrances.

"So that would place you near the Warlord's mine," In'ang said at last, pointing to a small hill symbol with a sword across it.

"Ptui. Good riddance, empire dog," one of the warriors muttered, spitting phlegm onto the cracked earth.

In'ang gave a short nod. "Ou'ang send word to the scouts—tell them to lead us further east. Ni'nan, bring me the YondHawk. We need to send a report to the grand tribe."

Ni'nan rode off immediately, while the others dispersed with sharp efficiency.

"You three," In'ang turned back to them. "Follow me. What are your names?"

"Tinkwick Mechanin."

"Suren."

"Rickon."

He led them toward a carriage near the rear of the convoy, where a mature woman dressed in worn leather and coarse wool sat beside the driver. She had a stern, weathered face, but her eyes softened at the sight of the tribe chief.

"Mi'isa these are Tinkwick, Suren, and Rickon they will be travelling with us for a while, let him join your yurt," In'ang instructed the lady who gave him a 

"Mi'isa will see to it that you are fed," In'ang said. "You'll ride with them for now."

Without another word, he turned and strode back toward the center of the convoy, already issuing new orders.

Mi'isa slipped down from her perch beside the driver—an old man dressed in similar leathers, his eyes cloudy with age, barely seeming to register their presence. She disappeared briefly into the front of the carriage, then returned with a worn leather sack in her hand.

"Come on, follow me," she said, motioning for them to come around the back.

"Okay, up you boys go."

They clambered onto the rear platform of the carriage, settling onto a bench nailed into place between bundles of supplies and cloth-covered crates. Mi'isa handed each of them a wooden cup, then uncorked the leather sack and poured a thick, white liquid into them. The drink gave off a mild, creamy aroma—nutty, slightly sweet.

Next, she passed them cloth-wrapped parcels of meat—dark, savory cuts preserved with herbs and faint traces of smoke.

Rickon and Tinkwick didn't wait. They tore into the food with feral energy, biting deep and chugging their drink like it might vanish.

"Thank you," Suren said quietly, raising the cup in both hands before taking a sip.

"Don't think anything of it, young man," Mi'isa replied with a nod. "Eat up. You all look like you will starve to death at any moment"

She glanced over them with a practiced eye, then added, "You came at the right time. We just butchered some colsh for trade—plenty of preserved meat and fresh milk."

With that, she returned to the front of the carriage, climbing back up beside the old driver, who gave her a slow blink of acknowledgment.

The three boys remained where they were, eating in silence, the warmth of food slowly chasing away the chill of fear and exhaustion. The creak of the caravan and the murmurs of the tribe drifted around them. 

After they finished eating, Rickon and Tinkwick wandered off, mingling with the tribesmen of the Grest. Suren, meanwhile, stayed behind, settling on the rear bench of the carriage. He unstrapped the wooden box from his back and opened it carefully.

Inside lay the clear Awakening Stone, a lump of coal, several rolls of leather, and a white egg streaked with purple and black markings. Suren's breath caught. The black lines on the egg looked like veins—thin, branching, unnatural.

He hurriedly picked it up, holding it close, staring at the dark patterns creeping across its shell.

Footsteps approached.

Rickon returned, leading a young nomad about their age. The newcomer had shaggy red hair that half-covered his third eye, and warm caramel-toned skin. He wore multiple layers—his topmost a blue fur-lined leather coat over a red wool jacket, and sturdy boots caked with dust. A rough scimitar hung at his waist, and a sack was slung over his shoulder.

"Su, what are you doing—oh, it's the egg your parents gave you," Rickon said, tilting his head. "Why does it have black lines?"

Suren looked up, startled. He glanced briefly at the nomad before answering.

"I don't know. It must've happened during the outbreak," he muttered, gently placing the egg back in the box and closing the lid.

Rickon gestured at the boy beside him. "This is my friend Ti'chan. He's a herder. And a warrior."

Suren hopped down from the carriage's bench and stepped forward. "Hello. Nice to meet you. I'm Suren."

"Hey, Suren," Ti'chan said, his voice smooth with a light accent. "Rickon told me what you three went through. I can't imagine living your whole life stuck in one place."

Before Suren could respond, Ti'chan pulled him into a hug.

Suren stiffened in surprise, blinking.

After the brief embrace, he stepped back and asked, "You are a herder and warrior, what is your profession?" 

Ti'chan blinked.

You're a herder and a warrior," Suren said. "But… what's your profession?"

Ti'chan blinked, caught off guard. "We don't have any Professionals. Only the three Grand Tribes have those."

Suren frowned. "Then how do you fight against demons?"

"We trade with the Grand Tribes. They give us demon-killing weapons in exchange for goods—herdstock, bone tools, spirit dyes. Our warriors use those weapons in battle," Ti'chan explained.

Suren leaned in, curiosity deepening. "What about corruption? How do you deal with the Abyss?"

"That's what our tribal beast is for," Ti'chan replied, nodding toward the massive, grey-plated creatures pulling the carriages. "They can absorb and purify Abyssal corruption. Every tribe has one. Even the Grand Tribes."

Suren followed his gaze. The beasts moved with slow, powerful grace, their scale-plated hides faintly glowing where tribal glyphs were carved into their armor.

"Those are ours—the Grest," Ti'chan added.

Suren gave a thoughtful nod, then turned his attention back to Ti'chan.

"So, Ti'chan, do you know where we're going? The sun's setting, but the caravan hasn't stopped."

"We're heading to the Demon's Shelf," Ti'chan said, pointing ahead.

Suren followed the gesture and frowned. "What are you pointing at? There's noth—"

He stopped mid-sentence. In the distance, where there had been nothing moments ago, a massive plateau now rose from the plains, silhouetted by the setting sun.

"That's not possible… we would've seen that long ago," Suren said, eyes wide. "Where did it come from?"

Ti'chan chuckled at his expression. "It's the demons' nests. The Broken Plains are full of them. They warp space—distortions, illusions, shifts. Abyssal influence does strange things to the land. The Demon's Shelf was once a demon nest, back in the First War. It's been cleared for decades now, but the plateau remained. I mean—" he shrugged, "you can't exactly 'clear out' a landform."

Suren stared in silence, the eerie plateau looming ahead like a scar on the horizon. 

They spoke with Ti'chan for a while longer, learning more about the Broken Plains and the rhythms of nomadic life. As the caravan neared the plateau, the terrain gradually shifted. The dry grasslands gave way to greener stretches of land, and the distant roar of a waterfall soon drowned out their voices.

The path curled up the side of the plateau, and at the summit, they were greeted by a striking sight—gnarled trees with white leaves encircled a broad, still pond, reflecting the golden hues of the setting sun.

Without command, the tribe moved as one.

Children scattered to play, laughter rising as they chased each other through the white-leaf trees. Young men and women began erecting temporary yurts, while others dug shallow fire pits and stacked firewood. The Grest tribal beasts assisted—slowly manipulating the earth with their plated limbs where needed, smoothing ground or creating leveled spaces for shelter.

Large pots were filled with water and set over rising flames, while others tended to the livestock—feeding and watering the weary animals. Herders arrived last, guiding flocks of colsh—vibrant, woolly sheep with spiraled horns—and the shaggy, single-horned gorgs, bleating softly as they settled near the water.

As the final herds reached camp, a second squad of warriors rode up behind them—five more Greste-mounted fighters, their armor glinting under the twilight.