While the rest of the crew would have to be content with lamps or whatever cuddling they found acceptable, Eli, Cone, and Pontius had the Roller’s engine for their heating. Even though they weren’t running the engine during the night, the vents that went into his room were still full of warm air. He had heard from one of the crew on the Rusted Horizon that the Guild leaders always had warm chambers set up for their negotiations with smaller clans. The small-time administrators and puny warlords were unaccustomed to large heated spaces during the winter. The hope was that the hospitable environment would help put the outsiders at ease and make them more amicable, or easier to trick. No one admitted it, but all of politics, and the other people-oriented businesses, was built on these little tricks. Anyone could have a knowledge of the tricks, but only the very best could structure them in a way that truly accomplished something. The masters didn’t win people to their side or convince them that something was true: they eroded their victim’s senses of self and place. 

The Singing Road was unparalleled at this artform. He had felt the gnawing discomfort surrounding this place since he had first heard about it, almost ten years ago. And it hadn’t stopped gnawing since. The other places and phenomena that he had investigated, had all given up clues as Eli kept pulling at them. With enough diligence, he always ended up with a clear picture of what had happened, what had made the people this way. His efforts here had felt like he was just widening a hole. Yes, he had done countless interviews, and tried to make a narrative from scratch, multiple times, yet none of these gave the Singing Road any new depth. Each of the attacks were different, but they all followed the exact same pattern. And that pattern kept repeating itself over and over again in his notes, making a wider and wider hole. In the end, he had five bags of reading materials that all said the same thing. Strangely enough, he was just as informed as he was when he had heard about his first attack.

Before Formers, Eli had worked as an informant for a politico in the East. His boss wanted a constant stream of news on who had arrived in the city, what they wanted, and what they could offer. So he roamed across the inns and marketplaces on the metropolis’s outskirts, trying to meet influential newcomers. This had been the job where he realized how much he enjoyed travel and making people talk. He didn’t have to “make” the crew of the Lead Skimmer explain why their dingy craft had pulled in with two full containers of Dreadnaught fuel. They had taken the crates, and other valuables, out from a massacre site. Something had taken down a convoy of over 5 ships, and Eli had been stupid enough to ask who would have done that and not claimed the fuel for themselves. He still remembered the scene quite well. It was an outstandingly cold night in the late ’50’s, and there was snow coming in through a hole in the roof. He was only pretending to drink, so he could keep himself alert in case there was trouble. The Lead Skimmer’s navigator finished his wine and stared at him with the smile that he probably reserved exclusively for ignorant coastals. 

“The Singing Road takes vengeance, nothing more.” He said before turning back to his crewmates and rejoicing in their luck. 

“Made indirect contact with a phenomena. Avian—” Eli lifted his pen up. He couldn’t write “creature” in this log, that just sounded too un-scientific. 

“—entity. Experienced hallucinogenic episode immediately afterward. Entity was observing a rape.” He wrote. He could finish the rest tomorrow, when there would hopefully be developments worth noting. That was the official log, and now for his personal notes. 

“The creature me and D.Q. witnessed bears similarities to the ones described by survivors of other attacks. The “owl” was observed by a raider as her crew was executing hostages that they could no longer afford to feed. And by a lookout stationed at a supply cache. The raider said that the creature flew down and attacked one of her crew once they had finished. They then heard it, or another entity…” He kept writing out the details of that story. Then he would do some speculation about what might happen next. Contacts from the Singing Road were dynamic: sightings of similar entities, prolonged vocalizations, scouts or remote personnel disappearing and then reappearing in pieces, elaborate markings in secure areas. So his pen scribbled on and on about all that might happen next. 

An old man in a nearby town had taught him how to read and write, and the politico in the Northeast had given him advice on grammar and how to arrange his arguments. But he had done most of his learning as he listened to his victim’s stories. In those interviews, he had seen the power that word-choice and tone had. Because, when he was reading his early notes, they sounded dull and boring as shit— nothing compared to the vibrancy and horror that their sources possessed. He interpreted it that it was his responsibility to make sure that these accounts stayed alive as they changed mediums and eventually settled in the archives. He thought he had become good at it, but it wasn’t like he had anyone who could disagree. And he didn’t want anyone to challenge him, or say he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. If he wasn’t the best, then he may not have the interior of a roller to himself to do with as he pleased. This was his space to fill up with his breathing and the noise of his pen on paper. He liked that noise, it reminded him of something sniffing…

He moved to a new page and started filling it with loops as he strained his ears for another noise. There it was: remarkably similar to his pen, but coming from further down the pipe. The cabinet and his bedding didn’t appear to be moving, or have any rats on them. The noise was coming from outside. He kept making loops on the paper, it might stop if it thought that he was aware of it’s presence. The ship wasn’t moving, and the engine wasn’t on so there couldn’t be a component scratching against a surface. As he listened more, he grew more confident that the other noise wasn’t scratching. He was definitely hearing air being rapidly moved in and out of something. Something’s nose. He hadn’t heard anyone on the crew sniffling, and who the fuck would be out here aggressively smelling? The sound was working its way down the length of the pipe. It sounded closer than it had before. Maybe this was just his pen scribbling. He had already filled most of the page with loops, and he wasn’t going to waste another on late-night paranoia.

Eli set his pen down and listened. The noise kept going. He folded his hands across his belly and waited. Part of him wanted to turn the lamp off, but he didn’t want to stumble over something in the dark. It was close now. The sounds were definitely made by something’s nose, and a very active pair of lungs. And there were other noises coming in through the wall: feet on the new layer of snow, and just a hint of whatever sound the wet interior of a mouth made. It stopped right in front of him. While he still had the desk, and three layers of steel, between him and the phenomena, Eli felt very exposed, he found himself leaning back in his seat to try and put even more distance between the outsider. Something was standing right outside of the Roller, and it knew where he was, and also that he knew it was there. Now the thing started growling, but not like a normal dog, wolf, or other canine-inspired “entity”. The undulation sounded faster than a growl, like something popping. He thought of fire-crackers… and cluster-munitions. There must have been cluster munitions when the Road was bombed. And there was a deeper sound under the crackling: a prolonged moan, something that was only released by suffering on an unthinkable level. 

Eli closed his eyes and reclined in his chair until the sound stopped. The maximum recline was too far for his comfort, so he leaned forward again: the growl started anew. He stopped moving and the beast fell silent. It was his chair. The joint in his fucking chair had been making that noise.

“Goddamn it.” He said to himself. And now everything felt way too quiet and dead. There didn’t seem to be a phenomena outside the Roller anymore. He knocked on his wall for good measure. Nothing responded except the cold on his knuckles. Had he just heard the sound of his pen and started fantasizing? The sound had appeared to continue itself even after he had stopped writing. Eli turned off his lamp and climbed into bed, now frustratingly aware of all of the creaking noises he made. Perhaps those were also monsters stalking through the camp, preparing for their assault on the next evening. He added another entry into his fabled list of “Everything That has Gone Wrong:” mistaking common noises for phenomena. Eli was still in a bitter mood when he settled under his blankets. After further contemplation, he found himself smiling. He was being eroded. This place was great at what it did to people.