Morians are known to be good travellers. They can spend up to twelve hours, walking around tall mountains, at the edge of cliffs and in the thick snow or through dense bushes. Overall, they're used to using their legs as a means of transportation, and no matter where they find themselves, they'll tread out, usually with only a scratch or two.

Morians are naturally a bit faster than the other races. For example, they could cross the distance between Shimori and Wendigo in roughly two days, with one break for the night, (as evident by Morio and Jyuzou) but a Paladian would take four, maybe even five.

Some Morians prefer riding around on horses, even if for short distances. Undoubtedly, they could easily make it from point A to point B, but some are too lazy to care, or too old for their legs to work as well as they used to.

No matter what method they chose, they always got through even the harshest of terrains, except for one. The underground of Errarion. No Morian dared to step into this rocky, grey realm, coated in darkness, and no real path to follow. Some made it inside, but never came out, losing themselves in its various mazes, tight corridors and uneven roads. Others would escape, but they'd vow to never step in again.

Young Morians were often warned not to wander around any entrances to the caves and taught to avoid them at all costs.

All except for one. Bancho was well-versed in everything concerning the Mainland. He learned to tread through the darkness as if it were his own house, finding the widest path for him and his horse, among the ever-changing landscape.

After leaving Lisa's house, he quickly stepped down from the many traces of snow surrounding the mountains, coniferous copses or simple ups and downs, and went into the caves of Cirim via a well-known passage in the Whiteburn Mountains. He knew the way from Shimori to Malikan like the back of his hand.

Firstly, he'd go into a rather large opening. Well, it would be big if it wasn't obstructed by many stalactites hanging from the ceiling, cutting off any shortcuts one could take. Bancho knew the road well, but always lit up a torch, just in case something was to show up.

The caves all around Errarion, be it, Mirillis or Cirim, were known to be hosts of the strangest of creatures discovered by people. Specifically, there were lots of centuras that stepped in to hide from the cold and climbed behind bigger stones, sleeping in until things changed. Others rumoured that the underground was the goblins' home, and some came back, telling stories that they managed to find their small, bright town, hidden somewhere down below, yet no one could show them where it actually was.

Some told of cavemen, described as people or animals, which fused with stones, hiding in plain sight, while anyone else could mention the thousands of other species, way deeper down. Remnants of clowingers, harpies, Malikan orcs climbing down or even those mythical dragons.

Most importantly, if one were to take the wrong path, they'd end up in a demon's realm, with virtually no other way out.

Bancho followed a well-known path, though. Quiet and uneventful were only a few words he'd use to describe its rather meandering corridors. There and back again, he always said, carrying something neat he found on his journey.

Yet, the caves of Errarion were still unexplored and left a very big question among all races. What hid in its darkness?

***

The rocks changed into rather circular and oval cliffs, which led down into the waters below. Bancho trod alongside the mossy stones, and from time to time Pearl stopped as if making sure that everything was safe. Sometimes, light barely shone, from the small cracks in the rubble.

The green colours faded for a bit, as they changed into massive overhangs, tilted at an angle, creating a pattern, which followed for quite a while. Sometimes, there would be these little stalagmites, growing from the floor. Then the colour came back, in the form of big groups of grass, splattered around in uneven places, below bows of rocks, which led to infinite darkness above, with some stalactites visible. The hues grew, changing into moss, and then leaves.

It was a sign for Bancho that he was nearing his destination. Everything was graced with an emerald tint, and a small stream of water he followed grew wider and wider. Before he realized it, he spotted a familiar landscape, stretching before his eyes. Dark green, tall trees dotted around the entrance, or in this case, the exit, and big ups and downs, hills and valleys, coated in the same colour.

Although, in Yule, it was of a much darker shade. The leaves appeared halfway through the season, and now that Herbes was knocking on the door, things looked more lively than before. It wasn't in its prime, certainly not, but well on its way.

The water he stepped around carried on downwards, erecting a massive river, which followed into the fog, splitting somewhere around Orawood. Bancho took a minute to breathe in the different air, before turning around and gazing at a well-known view.

Thousands of huts stood, etched into the side of the Orange Mountains. Steep as ever, opposing the Whiteburn passages on the other side.

In the year 476 A.F.W, the town in question, Hakh-Nivena, remained nothing but half a ghost town. When the second war ended, most of the population disappeared overnight, only to return as half-demons the next day. Then, a large portion of people were killed, leaving empty houses and unfinished business, all around.

Even glancing up from down here led to Bancho tightening his grip around the rope. An uneasy atmosphere loomed around in the air, as per usual.

There were many Erans on the street, going on about their daily errands, such as tending to the few, barren farms hidden behind clay structures or running their modest businesses. On the other side, both metaphorically and physically, the opposing part of the main road, were half-demons, doing most of the same to some degree, whilst all gave Bancho sketchy looks.

Hakh-Nivena was a sort of haven for such if they've been rejected elsewhere. Half-demons, in most cases, were still a rocky subject, and even if they claimed to have had good intentions, they were said to have been rejected from other towns for specific reasons. Then, they eventually trod over and ended up here, further from most other villages or such.

Such meant that Hakh-Nivena resembled something you'd probably think of when citing the Second War. It was cramped, to say the least, and words such as poverty or struggle could be used to describe the ever-growing mess on the one long path leading upwards towards all the other structures, neatly packed together and continuously appearing with time. The further you went into town, the less light you'd see as hanging carpets, lines of cloth or virtually anything that made the upper, Hakh markets consist of tight views just to fit all of those problems in.

Spare the brawls here and there, and you might find something stunning, much like in every other town. Bancho, being the generally positive Morian he was, always complimented the views from up there, where fountains met balconies and wooden bridges connected over to the half-demon part of town. He'd look out and spot the glorious mountainscapes, extending far into that mentioned hue and with time turning towards the Shimorian colour.

Despite all that, Hakh-Nivena remained a highly religious town. After the fall of Exeter, a grand portion of people moved to either Fort Apharel or here. This meant, that the Tributals or Erans from there eventually carried their beliefs into town. On some cloudless days or nights, when standing on the tallest mountain in Talin of Saphrith, one would swear they'd see a thin, translucent line going from one white peak at the top of Hakh-Nivena towards that one hill near Exeter.

Erans of here believed in Pasto, the three god hands of Errarion, each creating a different part of the world. One hand brought water and life, the other, harm and injustice, and the third, a balance among those two, in the form of one human, who was rumoured to become all the other deities since.

Pasto was what carried most of those remaining and struggling years up. Even the hesitant half-demons began praying in its name, and the church obscured by all those markets up there was the exact reason Bancho showed up in the first place.

The Morian stepped down from Pearl, tying her to a nearby fence, before treading the uphill. After about seven minutes of a glance, here and there, met with certain looks of what he could call aversion, Bancho stopped near a storefront, with a careful glimpse at the products below.

"Huh?" The seller turned his head, before stepping up from a stool and walking towards him. "What business brings a Morian like you here?" he squinted an eye, rubbing his demonic horn.

"Just visiting a friend, as usual." Bancho beamed. "Although, as I spotted, a new shop opened right on my way. I figured I'd gander."

"Really? Stopping your stride for some jam?" he asked, making a sour face.

"Morian food is kind of boring. This jam seems more to my liking." he chuckled.

Despite his love for anything Morians made, Bancho always found himself lying when it came to getting his way, especially because many people here despised Morians, and weren't keen on hiding their anger.

You could name many things they could complain about, such as the world's sudden focus on Morians or their haughtiness. Most importantly, though, one could cite a hidden town in the nearby mountains. The mightiest of Erans used to reside there, with rumours of the three god hands, coming down from the sky once per year. Over the years, Erans struggled to make ends and ran out of resources, forced to move elsewhere, with the town becoming even less accessible to virtually anyone, even Erans themselves. However, it was a common rumour that Morians on the brink of death were brought there by some sort of deity, further denying their land.

"Seven Silver for a jar," he spoke, brushing his head. The prices in Hakh-Nivena were low. In the next few years, Hakh-Nivena was to become a town much like Mistwick, with no real economy.

"Seven? Isn't that too little? Worth a pretty penny for a jar with such nice patterns on the side," he giggled.

"Seven Silver," he repeated.

Bancho took out ten Silver coins, placed them in his hand and took a jar of purple jam from the table. He waved, before retreading the road. The man huffed, before going back inside the adjacent building. "I don't need your pity, filthy Morian."

Bancho kept treading upwards before the roads started getting steeper and tighter. He breathed in, before climbing up the many stairs. Some had handrails on their sides and some didn't. Sometimes, he'd have to squeeze through different people, or wait for others to pass around the brown and dark houses, the modest shopfronts or bars. He'd move in between buildings, or above a few, wooden extensions serving as the market's ceiling. Finally though, stepping down from all that commotion, he stood in front of his destination.

Standing under a clay roof, he turned to a fountain in the front, putting his hand on the masonry that made it. In an old Pasto tale, it was said that throwing Silver coins into the water near a church would bring good luck if it managed to land right inside the deeper dent in the middle. Somehow, even through poverty, there were at least thousands of the said coins, untouched by anyone here.

Before stepping through the closed gates of the stone building, he took out one coin and flicked it, trying his best. "Tsk," he smirked, before walking up to a small stair and knocking on the door, expecting to see the same face he always did.

The entrance opened, with a red-haired man in a black cloak meeting him on the other side.

"Bancho?" his eyes widened.