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Save Point: The Place of Shrines

In The Xeric Scrublands

Having found a shady spot under one of the more sprawling of the dry bushes, Sethkill checks his pack with an eye to confirming yet again exactly what's there and what isn't, despite having done so a multitude of times before and being certain he'll do so again. It took him a long time to decide exactly what should be in there, and he's certain he'll revise it anyway, once something turns out to be too big, not worth it for the weight, or just jabs him in the spine a lot.

Encumbrance, is the word he's thinking of, a term that summarizes the product of all the factors which determine just how annoying something is to lug around. As an instructor once explained to him, a flint and steel or a packet of matches is one item; so is an inflatable boat or a hanglider.

~Press I to use Inventory~

The backpack itself is also nothing too impressive. He pulled it out of a backpack dispenser up on one of the higher levels, simply because he liked the shades of blue associated with the command designation of the area. The whole thing extrudes in a single piece, a little clamping and fusing to add in zips and fasteners, and is really meant to be used in an emergency to haul things about, up to and including in vacuum and zero gravity, perhaps in the event of a catastrophic disaster which leaves them tumbling without thrust between realities.

In practice, since they're also fully recyclable and closely resemble the lighter commercial version found in most supermarkets, there are two or three sitting around in just about every cabin in the ship, mostly in shades having nothing to do with their location or owner, and full of all imaginable sorts of junk. The ship has a generous weight allowance per person, which means more clutter in play than one would think, given the circumstances. There hasn't been a single transition failure yet, but anyone smart enough to be on board is smart enough to keep their stuff stowed away, so as to minimize the likelihood of having it fall on their head should the walls suddenly become the ceiling, or something equally inconvenient. It gives the living quarters and cabins a sense of subtle minimalism and design, when in fact everything that didn't fit is stuffed into a bag in a cupboard.

Keselt calls it the compromise-child of stuff versus science fiction. She may have a point. At least they won't be running out of spare materials in the event of an accident. Lots of swapping, trading and dealing goes on, and no matter what you're after, you can usually find it somewhere, without even necessarily needing to involve the fabrication teams. You can send stuff back home, with the samples and souvenirs, but no-one does that because of the energy costs. It's better to hang onto things and hope someone else wants them, even if it's only to break them down for parts.

This one is sturdy enough. He checked all the seams first and the welds are good.

He rummages past various items and pulls out his water-flask, one of the aluminum ones that is flat and slightly curved, so it doesn't take up too much space and can be dropped down the side of other things. He drinks a little of the liquid from it, cool but not cold, and admires the logo burnt into the flat of the side, which depicts a water molecule as a downward pointing arrow, with that distinctive angular separation. There's a simple mechanism in the cap powered by kinetic motion, which should in theory begin to replenish the bottle from water vapor and moisture in the air, but he hasn't yet had time to test it extensively so this behavior can scarcely be taken as guaranteed, especially in a desert where there's little enough to begin with.

What he's really looking for, and what seems to have slipped down past everything else under its own weight into a corner, is the money-case, a sort of catch-all designed to hold small valuable or useful items, padded on the inside to avoid any distinctive rattling or jingling that might give away the contents. It's not something anyone would really need back home, so he's consulted historical records to reach a useful compromise; it's based on a kind of late-military carry case, the top half of which is occupied by an arrangement resembling a leather wallet with internal folds, which can be pulled out and down to turn it into a sort of leather carry-bag, should some rare circumstance call for hauling about large amounts of bulk loot. There should be something in there suitable for any and all cultural cash situations, surely.

One of the longer arguments, oddly enough, was over just how much money he should take with him; normally, of course, one would argue more is better, but in the unfamiliar situation of having to carry physical tokens, more cash means more weight, and greater likelihood of someone noting that slight sideways lean which suggests something worth stealing.

He's not the first to encounter the problem, naturally, and so the Fabrication Department already has the specifications of the solution in stock. Namely Azatlani trade tokens, which are an elegant solution to the problem of currency authentication, and in wide circulation in the areas outside of the central administrative provinces. As long as they contain the required amount of the specified metal the token represents, no-one gives a damn whether they're official, including the Azatlani Central Reserve which issues the real deal to traders and administrators.

He pulls a few assorted examples out of the bottom of the box, where they've pooled and sorted themselves out by weight and type, runs them through his fingers, then transfers a representative sample to the leather wallet and slips it into the side of his belt. All of the tokens are triangular, or started off that way, but are each designed to be broken along engraved grooves into four smaller pieces, meaning you can flexibly create change with a knife or chisel, or even by belting them hard enough with a rock. This means that his tiny hoard also has a few diamond-shaped bits or wedges which are approximately rectangular, with convincing broken edges that expose raw metal, under the thin layer of transparent gloss lacquer that preserves the surfaces.

They're perfect frauds, of course; printed to look exactly like real Azatlani issue, which increases their (entirely subjective) value, using exactly the same metal and composition. This makes them, in a very specific sense, entirely genuine, whilst conveniently masking their origins. The purity of the metals conceals a lack of distinctive chemical traceability. Miners who create their own, often stacked into metal rods or ingots representing a convenient multiple, can be traced back to locale and manufacturing process, but no-one would even bother to try it on these.

He has to admire the design of the tokens themselves, having become intimately familiar with the specifications whilst ordering them. They come in copper, silver, gold, and platinum, increasing subtly in weight from just over four to approximately five grams, but decreasing in purity as they do so, such that each contains exactly the same weight of the main metal that grants it value. The silver and copper coins are bigger than the gold and platinum by exactly one golden ratio, a piece of casual artistry thrown just because they could. There's been a certain amount of fiddling with the alloys to get the sizes almost the same, but the weights make it possible to tell by feel exactly which is which. They're very tactile, surprisingly enjoyable to play with and look at.

The only detail about them, in fact, which hasn't been precisely managed is the internal exchange rate. He's reliably informed a silver is worth about a hundred coppers, but this skews historically between fifty and a hundred fifty based on the metal prices. Similarly, gold is worth about twelve silvers, but this has ranged from ten to sixteen at various points. The platinum coin is only worth about two or three gold, say twenty-five to thirty silvers, and seems to exist purely because of an availability of, and an industrial demand for, the metal around the region.

And that's without even considering various other confusing oddities. Unofficial electrum tokens are seen sometimes, in situations where it was expedient to melt together gold and silver, and so a careful trader needs to be alert for suspiciously greenish examples to avoid being shortchanged. The platinum coins look like white gold, whereas the authentic gold coins have a reddish hue, due to their copper content, and the coppers may technically be brass or bronze, if they're made with zinc or tin instead of nickel. What it boils down to is that he'll need a certain amount of practice to get used to what everything is worth, no matter how adeptly he tries to carry out the calculations in his head. His mercantile experience right now is effectively zero.

He currently has twelve of each type of coin simply because that was the default print run size for each set, including the cosmetically broken-up examples. The whole lot therefore weighs over two kilograms, which would be a nuisance and annoy him, if it wasn't just part of his general pack. It's likely that he'll have to spend some of it soon anyway, so it might be a good idea to get practice in with small things, food purchases or hotel rooms, before getting serious.

Near the top of the pack he has a stack of food containers, circular canisters of varying depths, to be seated atop one another or broken up as convenient, depending on what they'll hold. Only the lowest is full at the moment, containing an emergency ration designed for optimal undesirability for eating. This contains all essential nutrients, and could charitably be described as a chemically flavored, artificially sweetened brick, thus indistinguishable from all other such products. It made his tongue curl involuntarily, when he licked it, so he has refrained from any further engagement.

It gets to stay, but only as a worst case, water-resistant, completely inedible backup. Mostly he'll be eating the local foods, so it's past due that he starts stocking the tins with whatever is handy, to keep himself going. He knows better than to casually sample any strange berries or mushrooms, but rule of thumbs, if a human can eat it, he probably can, so he just has to keep his eyes open.

For cooking those things which need it before they're safe to eat, or which would be made tastier by the experience, he has a chunky cylinder which expands itself, in the manner of a colander, into a less tall but much wider barbecuing and grilling surface. A cup-sized dish in the middle burns a handful of coal, wood chips, kindling, whatever is handy, drawing air from the sides and beneath to cook food in the absence of a wholesale blaze. You can put it over a firepit and use it as a frypan and boiler, to heat water in that same cup-sized space with the cup it comes with, but for only one or two people, there's really no need and it's sufficient by and of itself.

The cup is in fact more of a vessel, an elaborate bottle of diamond-glass, broad at the bottom and narrowing to a wide mouth with a polished steel stopper that acts as a filter, allowing purification of water and other liquids. The base is flat and the glass thick, making it look for all the world like one of those stereotypical potion bottles in the weave games Keselt likes, but you can use this one to concoct your own. Or you can use it to just brew up tea and boil water, more likely. It has a little vest made of stretchy black thick material, like in a wetsuit or survival gear, with a zip up one side that sticks the edges back together when you pull it, to keep the heat, in or protect it from getting damaged. Sethkill always thinks that it looks like it's going out to some prestigious event.

There's also a tent in the backpack, but it's not especially interesting, just one of the ones made of a super-thin fabric that can be compressed and folded down into a small packet, lacking internal struts, but which will stiffen and hold its form if you run a small current through it. Or you can tie the corners and the apex to whatever might be handy; it's just for small hunting trips or vacations in the silva forest, nothing too extreme, in case you need to spend a few nights in the open.

And of course there's some miscellaneous medical and bathroom supplies as well, all the obvious stuff. Hard soap, thread and a needle, salt, wound-glue, general-purpose salve, ointment to loosen up seized or damaged muscles, a tiny pair of scissors, a reusable bandage. Fang-picking tool to get that annoying bit of something that the toothbrush couldn't quite reach. Horn-scraping file and a grooming brush, with which to look suitably tidy.

Padding it all around the edges is a multipurpose length of cloth which manages to take up more space than the tent does. This can be a cloak, blanket, towel, act as concealment to hide you from sun, rain, or hostile gazes, really whatever you'd like. It's thicker, and more padded, and far fluffier than the tent, the main purpose of which is simply to act as an air-gap against intolerant weather and all manner of small angry biting things. The tent is a plain shade of gray that makes it easier to overlook, but the cloak-blanket has striking patterns, long strips of blue and red and white with golden stitching that make it obvious that this is clothing, of some description. If you are lost and you need to be found, waving it about will draw attention; wrap it around yourself and you'll look impressive and catch the eye, even if you are, for example, wandering through a desert. One end terminates in a lighter section which can become a sort of collar or hood, suitable to be drawn up against rainstorm or sandstorm, with a breathing area through which the air is effectively filtered. This was what he was using earlier, as he run through the dry dust, having pulled out just enough of its length through the top of the pack to wrap it round his muzzle.

Yes, still all the same things as when he packed it. But checking has been reassuring, and given an immediate structure to what he needs to do first; buy food. It's how he can start blending, adapt to the environment to know what he's doing, and hopefully not get entirely ripped off negotiating passage to Azatlan, which will take a significant chunk out of all that weighty change.

~Not Quite The Transaction He Had In Mind~

"You have something there that I would like to see," suggests the woman, and although she's a little older and not that attractive, there's just something about her he does not resist as she pushes aside his loincloth, shifts the smaller undergarment to one side, and gently caresses his balls. He knows it's a bad idea and he clearly shouldn't and he's still tired from far-striding across the desert, but the heat of his exertion and the cinnamon-dust smell of his sweat seems to appeal to her, and she teases his sheath just purely for the pleasure of watching the dark bulbous glans slide out. "Oh, wow!" she exclaims when it's followed by the pillar of spikes that is the rest of his shaft.

They manage quite well really. It seems that it's been a long time for her and she's yearning for some action, and between her licking and some vigorous shallow penetration, he comes inside her quite satisfactorily. She's only brave enough to try the first ring of spikes but it spreads her pussylips wide like a gorgeous pink flower and he's pretty certain she comes too.

"You're meant to be a xoloitzcuintl, right? Only with horns, to make it interesting."

"What's a -" he tries to say it and gets caught in his own tongue.

"It's an Azatlani furless dog. Very handsome, dark skin, looks almost just exactly like you except the ears. What, you're not Azatlani? That's really interesting! I didn't think there was anyone else knew how to make animal-people."

"Well, you know how it is," Sethkill passes it off with a non-specific hand-wave. "Anywhere there are two big powers fighting each other, you look down in the corner, there's a third force watching them going at it and trying not to be noticed. Kind of like my wedding night."

"You're married? I do like a man with some experience."

"We have an arrangement. I should warn you that she'll want to know all about this in detail once I manage to catch up with her. She has an irresistible curiosity."

"Oh, tell her everything, honey!" the farm-wife laughs cheerfully. "Sounds like she could do with a laugh. And I don't mean you - I mean me failing to take it, like some little girly scared of a dick and tapping at it with her finger. I must be getting old because once I would have been on there like an onça in the mating season. Rawr!"

She crosses her eyes playfully, like a big cat getting boned. It's an interesting novelty to Sethkill, since he's never slept with someone who could get old before.

The onça doesn't live in these scrublands, and so it must be an expression she heard somewhere, perhaps from another traveler. She's still quite a bit of an onça; to his way of thinking, at least.

That's the extent of it, it seems however, with nothing owed to either party but the memory of some deeply relieving fucking. "I can sell you that food you wanted," she suggests, naming a not too-extravagant price even while his cum is still dripping stickily out of her. "It's just some salt-dried travel meat. Normally I couldn't part with any, but there's some left over from last season and it's getting pretty old, so I've been looking to shift it."

As he hands over the money he gives her a gentle tongue kiss with his muzzle, still bemused and uncertain what to make of this unexpected encounter. She must be used to seeing the occasional 'modified' traveller, and perhaps unwilling to try a relationship with anyone from within her own small rural community, so she seeks out whatever release she can get from whoever passes by. Or at least that's how he justifies it to himself.

"There's something you might like to see, while you're here," she adds as he tucks the slivers of dried meat, pulled down from their subtle hooks, into his kit. " There's a place of shrines nearby, just down the road. It's nothing especially elaborate, but people like to visit, make small offerings. Maybe there's a good shrine there for a beautiful beast like you."

She seems to be genuinely nice, and Sethkill gives her a hug before he goes. She smells of the earth and salt and smoke, such very real things that make her even more delightful to him. She makes a dirty little gesture as he leaves, clearly indicating that she enjoyed it.

He wasn't expecting much, maybe even a hostile welcome, but these people at least seem civilized and not unfriendly. He heads on his way to the place of shrines.

It is only after he leaves that he realizes he may in fact have made a cultural misunderstanding of sorts, in the sense they've both misconstrued one another slightly, but in a good way. The high yet not unreasonable sounding price, based on his lack of experience with the currency, her enquiries as to whether he would be interested in a piece of aged meat from last year, given the similarities and implications of certain words in translation - she was asking him whether he'd be interested in an older woman, in a sort of sideways and infinitely subtle way, and took his fiscal naivete and willingness to pay immediately as a complimentary yes.

But if they both enjoyed themselves, does it really matter? She gets twice the price, he gets some really quite delectable travel supplies, even it it isn't subtly spiced and aged to perfection so much as merely old and deliciously greasy, and they both get a degree of deniability, even to themselves if they wish, about the nature of the encounter. It makes him smile, in fact, because it makes more sense of his speculation that she's a little separate from her community, enjoys encounters with a mixup of foreign traders and Azatlani with interesting body types to spice up her life. You couldn't quite live on what she makes out here, without something to bridge the difference, and he's just the latest of many strands to help glue her supports together.