“There she is, Kinoa!” Sam shouted.

 Dwarfed by the Mor Mountains above was Kinoa. Cobblestoned single-story houses, unlike those found in Barakat, were spread out sporadically. Rolling hills swept the town; maroon ceramic tiling blanketed the roofs. Orange leaves spiralled downward, littering the town in colour below. The air was cool and minty.

 A lone tanned elderly shepherd herded a group of what looked like walking black clouds upon a nearby hill. Christi leaned over, analysing the creatures and new surroundings.

 “Clout, funny-looking things, aren’t they?” Ratchet chuckled.

 The carriage slowed to a halt as the group parked in what looked to be Kinoa’s town center. Here stood a bed of colourful flora encircled by onyx slabs, with a dilapidated well standing alone in the middle. A large gathering of houses was situated here. Adults and children alike shifted their attention towards the new arrivals.

 A large, square-faced man called out to them. He was tanned and draped in a white stained shirt. The two sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, revealing a set of beefy, tanned forearms. On his head he wore a black woollen flat cap.

 “Hello, howrya?! What brings you here?!” He shouted as he walked to meet the group.

 As Piotr stepped down from the carriage, he prompted confusion from those around him. Of course, this was largely due to the helmet he wore. Not many would pay no heed to a man sporting what looked to be a clock on his head. The tanned man’s face twisted in confusion as Piotr made his acquaintance.

 “It helps others tell the time,” Piotr told him.

 Rambunctious laughter erupted from the tanned man as he patted Piotr on the back. 

 "Hahaha, you’re a gas man. I’m Hannes, and to whom do I owe the pleasure?” he said, extending a hand.

 “Piotr Henlein of the Pioneers.”

 "Ahh, so you’re one of those fellas; sure, we have a man just like yourself living here. Horace is his name; would ya know him?”

 “I know him well; that’s precisely what brings us here. Could we perhaps trouble you for directions to his home?”

 Hannes slung his arm around Piotr’s shoulders and ushered him forward to one of the nearby houses. 

 “Of course, but first, why don’t ya come inside for something to eat first?”

 “I appreciate the offer, but I must decline.”

 "Ahh, I won’t keep ye long.”

 “I’m sure we can spare an hour, Piotr; besides, it’d be good to familiarise ourselves with the locals,” Sam chimed in.

 “You just want food,” Piotr replied flatly.

 “What baseless accusations!” Sam smirked.

 "Fine, but no longer than an hour; we mustn’t forget ourselves,” Piotr sighed, wagging a finger at Hannes and Sam.

 “Lovely! Mary! Put on the kettle!” Hannes shouted at a brunette woman ahead.

 “No please, and thank you in this household. Is there?!” She yelled back.

 A group of kids began swarming Christi, all intrigued by the girl’s unusual appearance. The average person in Kinoa was sallow-skinned, green-eyed, and dark-haired. Christi was like a fish out of water. They began listing off their barrage of questions.

 “Whys yer skin so dark?”

 “Whys yer hair so greeny?” 

 Christi brushed past the kids; she didn’t have time to waste. She scanned her surroundings; as usual, she had her fair share of ‘admirers’. People who couldn’t take their eyes off her, people who judged her. Even here, it was no different. She began hiking up one of the nearby hills. 

 Ensconced beneath the orange-leafed Oag tree commonly found in Barakat was a petite girl. She picked and discarded leaf after leaf. 

 Maybe she knows where this Horace guy lives. It couldn’t hurt to ask, Christi mused to herself. 

 "Hey, I’m looking for a man who lives here called Horace. Do you know where he might be?”

 “Why are you asking?” the child asked blankly.

 “He’s a friend of my mentor.”

 “What’s a men-tour?” the child enquired.

 “It’s like a teacher.”

 Springing to her feet, the child looked quite happy with herself.

 “Mister Horace is my men-tour then; he teaches me all kinds of things. Like about the world and plants. What does your men-tour teach you?”

 “About Mana”

 “Really?! Well, Mister Horace has also taught me a little too. What else has your men-tour taught you?”

 Christi needed to steer this conversation in a different direction. She didn’t have the patience to keep talking in circles.

With a thought, she ignited her arm. The little girl’s jaw dropped in astonishment. 

 “Woahhhh, that’s so cool.”

 “I can show you more if you bring me to Horace.”

 "Ok, I’ll take you. Follow me!” The girl skipped along.

 Christi followed at a steady pace, not letting the girl vanish from her sight. Near the peak of the hill was an isolated house. Facing the Farage Sea, the view was breathtaking. Above the full breadth of the blue serene waters, a hazy fog blurred and blended the sea and horizon. A pillar of sunlight unfurled into a lane of its own atop the still waves. 

 “We’re here!” The little girl snapped Christi back to her task at hand.

 An ornate wooden table seated an elderly man with slicked back hair. A small tree provided ample shade for the seating area. Curled up in a ball atop one of the seats was a small creature she recognised, an Alfox. A popular domesticated animal here in Anriel. Orange fur, white thin hairs poking out either side from its black button nose, and a bushy white patched tail.

 Next to the elderly man was a Madra. Another domesticated animal that was often kept as a pet. A fluffy cream-coloured coat, drooped ears that flopped to either side of its head, and a tail that wagged side to side

 The elderly man turned, revealing his hawk-like face. The fluffy Madra galloped over, jumping up to the little girl. She laughed giddily as it licked her with its long pink tongue.

 “Come here, Mac!” its master called. 

 With haste, the Madra retreated to its master’s side, who scratched under its chin. The speed of the tail wagging side to side increased. Christi had interacted with a few Madras growing up in the city as a child, but this particular breed was something she had never seen before.

 "Oh, hello Fran, come for tea, have you? Who is your friend?” said the elderly man.

 “She said you’re a friend of her men-tour, and she wanted to see you.”

 "Well, that’s quite interesting; come sit. You can tell me all about this mentor of yours,” he beckoned the two.

 Fran sprinted ahead and jumped up to one of the four chairs. She stroked the lazy Alfox’s fur. Christi approached cautiously and reluctantly sat. 

 "Well, then before we delve into the topic of who your mentor is and why you sought me out, I suppose some introductions are in order. I’ll start. I am Horace Ashton.”

 Even their mannerisms are the same, Christi thought, noting how similar Horace and Piotr behaved.

 “You’ve already met Fran, and you are?” Horace asked her.

 “Christi,” she responded.

 “Well Christi It’s a pleasure. Fran mentioned your mentor was a friend. Who might that be?”

 “Piotr Henlein.”

 Horace smirked upon the mention of Piotr’s name. 

 “So where is he? At the very least he could say hello in person.”

 “He’s in town below; we came here to ask for your help,” Christi responded.

 The smirk wiped from Horace’s face.

 “Whatever it is, the answer is no. I’m retired; I’d like it to stay that way.”

 “Barakat needs your help.”

 Horace sighed. “I’ll bite then, with what?”

 “Fheitgr mercenaries.”

 "Well, that is a problem, but what am I to do? I’m an old man; my fighting years are well behind me. The most I can offer is instruction. At minimum, that’s a year of training. Given the impromptu house call, I would assume that’s time you don’t have.”

 Christi didn’t answer him; Horace smiled.

 “Piotr is more than capable of handling Fheitgr, believe me, I made sure of that. One old man can’t tip the scales. But I won’t let you leave her empty-handed; I’d be a terrible host if I did so.”

 Horace placed a key on the table.

 “In the house upstairs there’s a chest; inside is a weapon that converts mana. It allows one to fire projectiles that are quite effective against Fheitgr. I assume Sam is with Piotr?”

Christi nodded,

 “Give it to him; he’ll know what to do with it.”

 Christi grabbed the key and stood up. 

 “Thank you.”

 “It’s the least I could do; tell Piotr he owes me one.”

 Christi began to walk away.

 “And Christi.”

 She stopped and looked back at him.

 “Take care of yourself.”

 A sincere smile rested on his face.

 “I will.”

 Christi entered the house; white curtains draped the windows inside. The layout was quite simple. A sink, table, and cupboards occupied the kitchen. Upstairs, she found what she came for—a large trunk at the foot of a double bed. 

 Christi explored the room, and a framed photo caught her attention. It was Horace, though he was younger. Holding his hand was a Fheitgr woman. She was tall, lean, and elegant-looking. Dark green hair framed her oval face. Golden irises further accentuated her beauty. The two stood under a small, white-leafed tree. Christi recognised it; there was no doubt about it. It was a Yharnam tree. She placed the photo back.

 Returning to the trunk, she inserted the key and twisted. The lock clicked, and with a lift, the trunk’s contents revealed themselves. Inside was a dark trench coat similar to Piotr’s. Pinned to the breast of the uniform was a gilded cog with twelve sides. Placing the clothing to the side, she found what she sought. A long silver barrel with a hooked handle. A sling hung from the barrel to the handle. She grabbed it and slung it over her shoulder. 

 Horace sat alone as the sun set. Golden rays illuminated his face, and the wind blew gently. He pulled out a locket from his pocket. Pressing a small button at the back, the face of the locket clicked open. Inside was a picture of him and the golden-eyed Fheitgr woman looking smithen with one another. With his thumb, he rubbed the picture. Heavy footsteps and a ticking noise alerted him to another presence. Turning, he discovered the source. Sunlight bounced off the armoured surface of the knight. 

 “Do I know you?”

 “You know my master.”

 “Please enlighten me; I haven’t the patience anymore to hazard a guess.”

 “The boy you condemned to save Piotr Henlein.”

 “Today has just been one massive trip down memory lane,” Horace chuckled.

 “My liege has ordered your execution.”

 “I see, my sins have finally caught up to me.” 

 Horace leaned back in his chair; he regarded the locket. He held his head high. It was time; he inhaled deeply, breathing in the cool air one final time. 

 “Any final words?”

 “None.”

 With a quick swipe, the knight separated Horace’s head from his shoulders. The locket dropped to the grass, and the knight plucked it up. The knight analysed the photo of Horace and his wife inside. It set the locket back on the table and departed.