“Better,” she thought, and she darted through it. Even as he chuckled, his chest ached as she disappeared from sight. For most magic-users, a familiar was only a tool: a piece of their magic placed outside their body. He wasn’t sure if other such orcs had a similar fondness for their familiars—part of him thought they must have, since familiars were truly pieces of their masters, after all—but he certainly had a soft spot for the little calico and would miss her while he was gone. At least she could take care of herself, which was one less thing he would have to worry about while he was away.
When he came back inside, Roz was pacing between the narrow shelves, her nose twitching, and her tail held up straight. She gave him an unimpressed glance as he watched her inspect the wares that he’d prepared.
“Good enough,” she thought, then jumped up onto the counter. He laughed, shaking his head.
“Good enough,” he agreed. He only had another day to prepare before they would leave. There was much still to do.
In the pre-dawn hours before their departure, Roz watched him gather his things; her eyes glowed in the darkness of his bedroom lit only by a candle. He could feel her jumble of emotions in the middle of his chest: worry, and frustration, and a small sadness at being left behind. He reached over and scratched behind her ears. She looked as apathetic as ever, but he could feel a little bit of her melancholy fade at his touch.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “It will be a bit of an adjustment, but it’s nothing you haven’t done before.”
It was a silly thing to say to a familiar—he was, essentially, saying it to himself. While she had some mannerisms of a cat, ultimately everything that she did and thought and felt was a reflection of his own inner world. Still, it comforted her, which comforted him. They would both be fine.
When he blew out the candle, he heard her get up and stretch.
“Safe travels,” she thought, hopping over to the window sill and peeking her head under the curtain so he could no longer see her. He chuckled, shaking his head, and closed the door behind him.
He double-checked that all the doors were securely locked, then made his way to the city gates, where he would meet Varen and Enriel. She had not come to visit him for an examination; but a different elf had come by his shop a few days prior with a scroll, where her medical details had been copied down in a careful, elegant script.
As he had thought, she was entering the sixth month of her pregnancy, which for elves was generally nine months—about the same as humans, and a bit shorter than orcs. There was no mention of a spouse in the paperwork, and Enriel had said nothing about the other parent, so Korik assumed they were not in the picture. Overall, she had no underlying health conditions, and Korik saw no cause to be concerned for her health as they made the trek to Aefraya, which was a relief.
When he passed through the town square, he could see the pair standing at the gates in the distance, along with three horses loaded up with supplies. Korik could immediately tell which one was for him, as two were the smaller elven breeds—one buckskin and one paint—while the last was much larger, a bay the size of other orc-bred horses. Each elf had a backpack of their own, though Varen’s looked considerably heavier.
They caught sight of him as he approached; Enriel gave a small wave, but Varen only stood there with his arms folded across his chest.
“Good morning,” Enriel said politely, as Korik joined them.
“Good morning,” he replied, glancing between them and the horses. Luckily, though the horse meant for him was larger, it was no warhorse. The animal had a placid expression, brown eyes blinking slowly, and its tail swishing idly as it stood there. Its saddlebags were full, but it barely seemed aware of the weight.
Korik held a hand out to the horse, and it snuffled his open palm, probing his fingers in search of a treat. When it found none, it let out a soft huff and turned its head away, making Korik stifle a chuckle.
“Is she to your liking?” Varen asked brusquely. Korik nodded, his mood already souring.
“Does she have a name?” he asked, placing a hand on the horse’s neck. Her black mane was neatly brushed, but plain.
Varen only shrugged. “I don’t think so. Call her what you like.”
Even Enriel seemed irritated at his reply. “They just bought this horse, Varen. Surely she had a name.”
Varen shot her a sharp look. “The horse doesn’t know the difference, Enriel. If he wants to give it a new name, fine.”
She started to say something in response, but Korik held up a placating hand. “It’s fine,” he said. “I was only curious.”
“See? Even he agrees with me,” Varen said, sounding smug. Korik did not agree with him, exactly, but he kept silent. Enriel rolled her eyes and moved toward the paint horse. The smug tone vanished from his voice as he followed her. “Let me help you up.”
“I don’t need help,” Enriel snapped, mounting the horse easily. Varen huffed in annoyance, but mounted his own horse without complaint.
Finally, he gave them each one last look. “No one’s forgetting anything?”
“Let’s go,” Enriel sighed, trotting ahead of them. Varen muttered something under his breath, but followed. Korik watched them for a beat, discomfort brewing in his stomach, then gently nudged the horse to follow after them.
He followed a few paces behind the siblings as they began their trek southward. Varen glanced back at him once, as if to make sure he was truly following, then seemed to ignore him, which was a relief. Korik had no qualms about following quietly; if they had expected him to make conversation, well, that would be a different issue entirely.
The sky had grown light, with pale blues and pinks that streaked the horizon. When they were out of sight of Drol Kuggradh, Korik placed a hand on the mare’s neck again, closed his eyes, and expanded his awareness outward into hers.
She snorted with shock; he felt her heart start to race as if it were his own. But he breathed in slowly and deeply, projecting calmness, and her surprise quickly faded. It was easy to let his awareness fall over the rest of her; the pace was comfortable, and her load wasn’t too heavy. She was not afraid of him, or of the elves, or the other horses.
“What are you called?”he asked her, but she didn’t seem to have an answer. Korik thought about how best to make her understand, then carefully probed her memories for things she liked. Apples and carrots and sugar cubes, of course; but he shuffled through as many memories as he could make sense of, trying to put together a better picture.
