Quintus tilted his ear up to listen to the wind chimes. Vibrations rode their sweet tolls and brushed up against his cheek like a summer breeze. Soft. And too weak. No wonder the netherborne were congregating around here; the necromancy had all but worn out. Octavia was right; no one had been through here in at least six months. Which meant more work for him.

This way point was built around a tall tree, perhaps the tallest in this forest, and stretched two stories high. They’d left the wood plain unstained and unpainted to better blend in with its surroundings and hung wind chimes laced with necromancy along the rafters inside and out.

The wooden boards had been stacked together so neatly that they looked like one cohesive piece from a distance, and the overhang flared out from the middle of the tree like a skirt. Quintus plucked a wind chime from the rafters and hummed his necromancy into it. Only a hundred more to go.

“So this is the waypoint?” Gavrael asked. “It’s charming.” 

Quintus smiled. Perhaps this guy wasn’t a spoiled aristocrat after all. “Head in. I need to take a look around, maybe find some food before this storm gets too close.” He nodded to the door, an arched slab of wood shaped to match the curvature of the other walls.

“Do you need any help?”

“Not really, but you can take stock of what’s inside, especially in the kitchen. It seems no one’s been here in a while so things may be in bad shape.” He dropped his cross next to the door and fished out a dagger. “If I’m not back in two hours, don’t come looking for me but definitely panic.”

Gavrael frowned. “Alright, but do be careful.”

“Always am.” Quintus went around to the east side, where he remembered a garden to be. It was vaguely outlined by a line of rocks, but it seemed nothing had survived the winter. The berry bushes were getting some of their leaves back, along with the taller fruit-bearing trees, but there’d be nothing edible for a few months at least. Maybe there were some seeds inside he could plant.

He opened the shed and a cloud of musty air nigh suffocated him. Some old rotting wood sat on one side while gardening tools took up the other. He grabbed a rusted hoe and grimaced. This place had seen better days. He wagered it was harder to get people to come out here since this region was unkind to necromancers.

Quintus shut the shed and ventured deeper into the woods to find some food. If luck was on his side, the netherborne hadn’t been around here long enough to chase away all the wildlife. After half an hour’s worth of walking, he heard the occasional bird call or the scamper of tiny feet. Delicious feet, he hoped. He muted his footsteps as he neared a gurgling creek. 

Small fish flitted around in the shallow water. Much too small to satisfy him. He didn’t have a line or net to catch any. If Octavia were here, this would be easy. She could generate sounds at a frequency that made people’s heads explode. He started down the creek and thanked the with for smothering his footfalls. 

A splash of brown caught his eye through the foliage—a small deer drinking from the water. Bless its delicious little heart. He muted his footfalls and snuck closer until he had an unfiltered line of site. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and angled the blade away from the light. The deer lifted its head, ears twitching. 

Quintus launched the dagger, throwing his weight into the attack. It flew end over end, like a loosed arrow, and the blade sunk into the deer’s neck with a fleshy thump.

It reared up on its hind legs with a gurgling bray and bolted downstream on wobbling legs that kicked up dirt and detritus. He found the animal ten minutes down the creek, collapsed on its side and twitching. A tinge of guilt pinched his stomach. The deer was barely the length of his arm, probably a juvenile that strayed too far from its herd. 

He hoisted it up by its hind legs and started back towards the waypoint. A frigid, earthy breeze blew in from the west, heralding the impending storm. If it was anything like the spring storms he was used to, he and Gavrael would be stuck at the waypoint for a few days. Well… at least Gav didn’t snore.

By the time Quintus returned, the wind had picked up enough to shake leaves from the canopy. He left the deer hanging in the back and ventured inside the waypoint. This one was smaller, cozier than the others he’d visited. The bottom floor held a small seating area with hand-carved chairs and tables and a cooking area. The winding steps around the tree trunk lead up to the sleeping quarters.

He met Gavrael standing in the kitchenette, frowning down at an assortment of jars lined off on the wooden counter. Beside him sat the fire pit with wood and tinder ready to go and a disassembled spit laying next to it. 

Gavrael picked up a jar with ground up green flakes, took a sniff, dipped his fingers in and tasted it. He made a face and set it in the back row. 

“What are you doing, Gav?” Quintus asked, keeping the amusement from his tone. 

Gavrael looked up. “You said to take stock.” He gestured to the jars on the far left. “These are salt, cinnamon, sugar and nutmeg.” He pointed to the ones in the back. “I don’t know what these are but they’re very spicy.” He waved at the ones on the far right. “These are citrus peels, dried fruits and tea leaves. And the rest are undetermined.” He eyed Quintus up and down. “You have blood on your shoe.”

“Not mine.” He waved his bloody dagger. “Before we do anything else, I should tell you the two rules of the waypoint.”

“Don’t take more than you need,” Gavrael said. “And leave it better than you met it. Those rules?”

Quintus scrunched his brow. “Yes, those rules. How did you know?”

“It’s on the wall over there.” He jerked his head towards the small seating area near the door. Surely enough, a sign hung on the wall outlining the rules of the waypoint. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“You should check upstairs for some clothes. Also, we’ll need to look for some seeds to plant out back.” Quintus rubbed the stubble dusting his face. “And maybe check if anything around here needs to be fixed.”

Gavrael nodded, and they fell into an awkward silence for a moment. “Have you been on your own a long time? You seem… well versed in the ways of outdoor life.”

A long time didn’t begin to describe it. He wandered this world from end to end and back. What else was one supposed to do for two hundred years? “It’s been a while.” 

Gavrael arched a brow. “How long of a while? You don’t seem much older than I am.”

Quintus shrugged. “It’s not important. Got any knives over there?”

Gav tossed him a rolled up cloth. An assortment of knives lined the pockets on the inside, some as small as his pinky, others as long as his forearm. Rust had bloomed on most of the smaller blades. He took the cleaver and tested its sharpness against the hair on his arm. It cut them down to the quick with ease. “I’ll be out back if you need me.”

Don’t get too attached, Quintus reminded himself as he stepped outside.