Days passed without incident as the surrounding forest faded away and Ash found himself walking through a moor, the rolling hills surrounding him covered with ugly, gnarled shrubs and scattered patches of wildflowers swaying gently in the cool breeze. Ash marched on; the sooner he arrived at the next city, the sooner he would find his next contact. The air frizzled with static energy, but the skies were clear. Suddenly the air crackled with energy as the fabric of reality split in two as a portal appeared in front of him. Ash drew his sword and planted his feet as the rift pulled at this world, wind howling as nearby shrubbery was uprooted by the force and pulled headlong into the portal, filling the air with upkicked dust and dandelion tuft. The void wobbled and crackled as a figure fell through and landed in the dirt with a thud; the dimensional threshold, destabilized, slammed shut with a crack like thunder.

Ash took a step forward. The individual was human, or at least appeared to be. He twisted, scrambling to his feet, looking this way and that like a wild thing. Seeing Ash, he stumbled back, falling, propping himself up with his left arm, which ended at the elbow. He held his other arm up outstretched, fingers splayed wide, and the air crackled with energy as a bolt of wild magic ripped itself from his open palm. Ash threw himself flat as it screamed towards him; he felt a wave of heat as it passed and was reminded how much he hated magic.

The air went still. Ash lifted his head off the dry dusty soil and peered through the brush. He saw the collapsed form on the ground, legs splayed, amputated arm lying twisted under his torso. Ash approached cautiously; the body lay still. He gave it a kick, none too gently. The man’s dress was unfamiliar: worn, thick soled leather boots, utilitarian beige shorts, and a thin sky-blue shirt buttoned to his upper sternum, the small silver buttons glinting in the sun. Ash took the man’s pulse, along with a glance at simple ring of some unknown metal off the middle finger of his right hand. His heartbeat was steady, gradually shifting from a racing pace to resting. Wavy black hair hovered above thick, bushy eyebrows and long, thin nose. His face was long, pointed, a light stubble covering skin the color of green tea. On the ground nearby lay a pair of tinted spectacles in a thin leather case, crushed and bent from the force of the fall. Ash grabbed them and let out a sigh, looking at the man’s prone form. He dropped his pack; he would go no further today.

The evening air was quiet except for the sounds of prairie insects as Ash piled shrubgrass into a pit he’d dug into the dusty earth, the foundation of a rough campfire. The man lay still on the dry earth. He twitched, then shot up straight with a gasp. Ash jabbed the end of his quarterstaff against his chest.

“Easy.”

The man’s breathing slowed, bloodshot golden brown eyes fixing themselves on Ash. He was quite the sight; taller than any human, with broad shoulders to match. His skin was scaled and colored olive brown; a wide, flat nose that seemed to melt into his face, flanked by amber eyes with slitted pupils, shadowed by thick, bony brows. He seemed completely hairless except for dreadlocks, if you could call them that, of a hornlike material with a dull luster and a color like dark jade. He wore boots, his legs covered in dark green padding. A strange, skirt-like garment hung around his waist, covering his thighs, split down the middle and covered with small circular plates. His chest and arms were covered in a blue-green gambeson, dyed dark like ink. Over that was a cloak of shearling leather, waxed to keep it waterproof.  He was heavily armed; stuck in his right boot was a knuckle knife, and a long, spear-head dagger with an extended, V-shaped hilt was strapped to his right forearm. From the thick leather belt around his waist hung a heavy hammer, the reverse side terminating in a wicked-looking point. The end of the quarterstaff jammed against his chest was studded with heavy steel rivets, and he could see the handle of a sword peeking over the man’s shoulder.

“Who are you?”

“Ash. Deep breaths. Been a rough day for you.”

He turned over, groaning.

“Feels like I’m gonna puke.” He blinked rapidly. “Sore, too. And that...my eyes hurt?”

“Been told that’s normal.”

“Splendid.”

“Can you stand?”

The man grabbed the end of Ash’s staff and hoisted himself to unsteady feet. He looked around at the surrounding landscape, all rolling hills and tall grasses and twisted thorny bushes.

“This is real...isn’t it?” he said, slowly.

Ash only nodded.

“Fuck.”

The man ran his hand through his already unkempt hair and sat down in shock, wavering breaths rattling his form like a flag in a gale. Ash crouched down next to him, proffering a flask.

“What’s that?”

“Baijiu.”

“What?”

“Booze. Liquor. Whatever they call it where you’re from. Gets you drunk.”

“Can’t.” he said, raising his hand. “It’s forbidden.”

“By who?”

“My god.”

“Your god follow you through that rift?”

Silence.

“Suit yourself.”

Another pregnant pause.

“Can I get back?”

Ash let out a huff. The man saw small fangs along his jawline.

“In theory. Find another rift, your world might be on the other side. Might be another one.”

“So in practice?”

“No. One-in-infinity chance.”

The man picked up a small stone and flung it into the twisted landscape. It landed without a sound.

“Who are you, anyway? And why are you all...like that?”

Ash’s scaled brows furrowed.

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” he said, casting his eyes on the setting sun. He lit the fire. “Lot to learn.”

He reached into his pack and withdrew a leather cauldron, a bulging waterskin, and a small package wrapped in wax paper. The man saw the strange scabbard for Ash’s sword; it was abnormally wide, and had metal plate protruding sideways from it, tapering outward from halfway down the sheath.

“What’s that?”

“Food. Your body’s gone through a lot. The magic too.”

“Magic?”

Ash looked at him.

“Before you passed out. Remember?”

A confused pause.

“Doesn’t matter.” The Hunter reached into his pack, withdrew a large chefs knife, and unwrapped the wax paper. A rich, savory smell filled the air.

“I count at least three knives, from where I’m sitting.” the man said, watching Ash shave off curls of the block into pot. “What makes that one special?”

“Don’t shit where I eat. Don’t eat where I shit.”

The man’s nervous eyes remained on the dagger strapped to Ash’s forearm.

“Do I want to know where that’s been?”

Slitted pupils centered themselves on him.

“No.”

Silence returned.

There was a sudden crackle as another rift opened on the crest of a nearby hill. Ash stopped his work and watched. The man seemed almost spellbound, transfixed, before scrambling to his feet, only to watch is slam shut with a crack that echoed across the fields. Ash went back to work, stirring the forming soup with a wooden spoon.

“Come. Eat.”

The man looked at Ash, then at the landscape, then back at Ash. Dejectedly, he sat back down again. The Hunter took a cup from his pack, filled it, and held it out.

“Long road ahead. Long day behind you. You’ll need it.”

The man took it, sniffed, and drank, swallowing thickly.

“God, that’s rich. What is it?”

“Coconut oil. Butter. Lard. Spices. Preservatives.”

Ash took the cup back, filled it, drank, filled it again, and passed it back. The man hesitated, took it, and drank again.

“What’s it called?”

“Hasn’t got a name.”

The cup changed hands again.

“Who made it then?”

“I did.”

The cup changed hands again.

“What’d you call it then?”

“Rations.”

The man drank again and passed the cup back.

“What happens now?”

Ash filled and emptied the cup.

“You’re not the first. I’ll take you to a place for people like you.”

“People like me?”

“Worldwalkers.”

“Why?”

“The Scholaris give a Trader’s Gold for every Worldwalker brought to them.”

The man drank, expression souring.

“Slavers?”

“Scholars. Want to know what you know.”

“Why?”

The question was delivered like a statement, the man’s fiery eyes fixed on Ash, elbows resting on his knees as he sat across the campfire.

“Knowledge is power.”

“Is it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why only sometimes?”

Ash looked at the man over the rim of the cup.

“Why does it rain?” he asked.

The man frowned.

“Water evaporates, makes clouds, then clouds get heavy and can’t hold the water anymore. That’s how you get rain.”

Ash nodded.

“Would knowing that stop me from plunging my sword into your chest?”

The man gave a start, then frowned.

“Guess not.”

“There you go.”

The man considered this, frowning.

“You still haven’t asked for my name.”

Ash shrugged.

“Not my business.”

The man made a face.

“You are a very strange man.”

“Not a man.”

The man cocked an eyebrow.

“What are you then?”

“Hunter.”

“Are you human?”

Ash took another drink, emptying the caudron. He pulled it off the heat, shook it out, and laid it out to dry.

“Once. Heavily modified.”

He pulled his bedroll from his back and threw it gently at the man, who caught it clumsily.

“Getting late. Long day tomorrow.”

He drew his cloak from his pack and drew it close around himself.

“I’ll keep watch.”

The man nodded slowly, awkwardly unrolling the bedroll and climbing inside. Ash heard him toss and turn for a few hours, then settle into an uneasy sleep. The Hunter let his mind go blank, giving his body and brain a chance to rest. His slitted eyes panned to and fro across the gently rolling hills under the starry sky. The night was still and silent. Together, the pair awaited the morning sun.