“I’m…not particularly well.”

“Like sick?”

“Something like that.”

“Do ye need anythin’? Medicine? We’ve got a whole well filled with godsblood that’ll make ye feel good agin faster’n ye can shave the hair off a hairless cat.”

“No,” the voice said quickly. “That will…only make things worse, I’m afraid. If possible, I’d rather have nothing to do with godsblood for the foreseeable future.”

“Really? Are ye allergic to it or sumthin’?”

“Right now, sort of.”

“Then why are ye ’ere, if ye don’ mind my askin’? I thought ever’one ’ere could use godsblood to perform an Ability.”

“It’s a long story, but to be frank, it’s not one you have time for.”

“Is that yer name? Frank?”

He chuckled slightly, but it was a weak sound. “No. I just meant that you’re supposed to find twelve night ’shrooms, correct?”

“Aye, but I’m not ezzactly havin’ much luck.”

“I think I can help with that. They’re not as hard to find as people think, not if you know where to look.”

“Really? Ye’ll help me?”

“I couldn’t sleep anyway. As long as you don’t mind moving kind of slow, that is. Because of my…condition…I only have three speeds these days. Turtle, snail, and growing grass.”

“Fair enuff. My ma always used to say I only had three speeds too, on account o’ how I always like to rush around ever’where. Leapin’ hare, runnin’ deer, an’ boundin’ panther. But I s’pose I can slow things down a bit in exchange fer sum help. Thank ye, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. My legs could use a bit of stretching out, I think.” With that, the owner of the white eyes and low voice hobbled out of the shadows. Though he might’ve once been a tall, broad-shouldered man based on the size of his frame, it was hard to tell now, his body hunched over, his limbs thin and gangly, his cheeks gaunt. His hair was long and unkempt, a tangled mass sticking in all directions. His beard was long, thick, and streaked with gray. His clothes were ill-fitting and dirty. He looked every bit like how a prisoner should look, and yet he clearly wasn’t if the door wasn’t even locked.

True to his word about not wanting to have anything to do with godsblood, there wasn’t a single gold leaf adorning his sunken expression.

“Yer a Wastelander,” Perfidy said, taking in the deep, rich color of his skin. It wasn’t that she’d never seen someone heralding from the desert lands to the east of Lostwood, but those occasions had been few and far between, the rare passerby traveling through Northpoint.

“Born and bred, aye,” the man said, grabbing onto a railing that ran around the edge of the hut’s front porch. “Though I haven’t been to Stormeye in many years now.” His voice carried a hint of loss, the kind Perfidy knew from experience was attached to a happy memory.

“Why not?”

He pressed his lips together.

“Part o’ that long story?” she guessed.