To Ansgarde's frustration, they did not immediately go to their village but took a detour.  They wandered about, gathering things into their baskets. The big-toothed one was collecting the large insects. Spinel flinched on each catch until Ansgarde ordered her to stop looking. The gummy woman was chipping away pieces of the pink crystals that grew in tubular clumps. The ponytail man was placing entire plants with roots in his basket.

By the time they reached the valley of the stone settlements, her feet ached, and she was chilled to the bone. Cloud Empire sun, though unobstructed by clouds or landmass, was weak and failed to warm her. The wind constantly tried to knock her over. Spinel curled up in the collar of her shirt. Ansgarde wished she had someone warm to curl up to as well.

The entrance to the village was marked by a crumbling stone arch. Dead grass peeked through the cracks in the granite path. They were in what once had to be a grand settlement, reduced to a memory, spoiled by the disrespect of the current occupants.

What were once fine columns, now were anchors for tents made of jagged wood planks, brown fabric, and straw. She wanted to rip them off. These humans were desecrating the ancient ruins of a noble civilization. One day dragons would roam this valley again and level this litter to the ground. And she would help this image come to life.

Many tents were partially stripped of materials and abandoned. The restless wind whipped about their ripped fabric, and the frames squeaked like skeletons of mangy beasts.

A group of older humans gathered around a rock fire pit. All conversations stopped when they spotted Ansgarde.

Spacious paved landing platform gracing the center of the village was now used as a craft zone. They spread their filthy materials on the ancient stone, using crude tools and primitive methods. Women squatted on the ground and picked through withering plants, separating pieces into chipped clay bowls. A couple of older men were woodworking on a workbench.

Her three human guides were a good representation of the rest of the village. Men bared their chests. Women wrapped a strip of the brown fabric around their naked bodies. Everyone wore some version of the brown skirt frayed at the hem and a piece of the same cloth thrown over their shoulders like a cape.

Something bothered her about the villagers, a missing detail that she couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe it was the overall lack of dignity. They were all dressed in the same brown cloth that draped their houses, savagely cut and unclean, exposing tanned flesh. They didn’t respect their own bodies more than they respected the sanctity of the dragon relics.

For the first time in her life, Ansgarde felt like the most exquisitely dressed princess in her plain tunic. She was a character in Sadie’s Quest to the Crude and Lewd. She snorted at the idea. She must have been quite a sight for those freaky round pupils that followed her every step. What she heard of humans before was not flattering, but this isolated tribe exceeded her expectations.

Her female guide approached a man who was bent over a large brown sheet, beating it senseless with a wooden mallet.

“We found ourselves a dragon hunter, Lar.”

The man straightened up and stretched his back, his shoulder-length hair tangled in the wind. He frowned a pair of bushy eyebrows when he noticed Ansgarde. Sweat dripped down his hairy chest, and she averted her eyes. Would it hurt him to cover up?

“I am not a dragon hunter,” she said while looking at the cracked stone under her feet. She wished she could sit down. Her entire body ached from the journey.

“You’re a long way from home, demon. What business have you here?”

His deep voice commanded authority. The other humans hang onto his every word as if it would decide Ansgarde’s fate.

Sadie wouldn’t keep her head down for a human. Ansgarde lifted her chin and pretended to have a look around the decrepit village to not show how uncomfortable his indecency made her.

“You might be aware that a powerful curse was placed on the dragons.”

Felsic and Mafic snorted behind her.

“I might be aware.” The man crossed hairy arms over his chest, the mallet in one hand. “What’s it to a demon?”

Ansgarde forced herself to look at his face, not letting her peripheral vision notice his exposed body. She focused on the coarse hair brushed over his hollow cheeks and above his lip. None of these men had heard of shaving.

“I can break the Dragon Curse.” Her heart picked up pace. The more she said those words, the more she believed them.

The other men chortled behind her, but then quieted down, seeing the hairy man’s expression.

“We do not joke about the curse.” He spat at the ground and addressed the woman who was twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Why bring her here?”

On cue, she jumped to him like a playful kitten and whispered in his ear. His bushy eyebrows frowned deeper. He shook his head, but from her satisfied gummy smile, she thought she convinced him. He remained quiet, eyeing Ansgarde.

“I’ve heard that your Mystic might be able to assist me with my quest.” Ansgarde held her head high, trying to sound confident. “I would like to meet her.”

He narrowed his eyes on her, grinding his teeth while thinking. By now, all villagers had abandoned their work and came to watch, their murmurs like the buzzing of insects. The man looked at the gathered as if he could distinguish their individual voices. Then, he pointed a finger at Ansgarde.

“Stay here.”

When he walked away, she was left alone with the three humans who hung nearby and a small circle of villagers who stood at the periphery. Their dirty fingers pointed at her wings. Their gaunt faces grimaced and squinted.

“I don’t like this, Spinel,” she whispered to her friend who was hiding under her collar.

She didn’t want to let them corner her, so she leisurely walked around the paved ground. The empty circle painted in the center was the most interesting feature there. She did not feel the distinct tingle of magic, but she suspected that the unfamiliar symbols drawn in black stain were runes.

“Can you read it?”

Spinel peeked out and hid right back. “Uh-uh.”

Ansgarde sighed. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. She was tempted to walk into the circle to see what it did, but the fact that they all avoided crossing it made her weary. Just because she couldn’t feel the magic, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. The writing was not as ancient as these ruins, but it was the first sign of magic practice. It was possible that these humans recognized magical locations. Was that the reason they occupied these ruins? She filed it away in her mind as a place of interest. There had to be a reason Lamassu wanted her to start with this island.

“Bring her here,” the hairy man’s voice carried from a distance.

Ansgarde spotted him in front of a large tent about ten wing flaps away. The bucktoothed man licked his oversized incisors and approached with the ponytail man, ready to “guide” her again. Ansgarde had had enough of being led like a prisoner.

She sprung up and flew over their heads, causing audible gasps and exclamations from the crowd. The wind was calmer in the valley and did not impede her flight. She gracefully landed in front of the hairy man. He did not flinch as the dust cloud hit his face, but grit his teeth and spat to the side. He held her gaze for a moment, his face stoic, unreadable, then leaned toward the tent opening.

“The demon is here.”

Ansgarde folded her wings and braced herself to meet the village Mystic, hoping she knew the basics of hospitality.