Within a building of glass walls a man with a lazy stare quietly filled out a form. Lit by the reflected sunlight upon the snowy landscape outside. Here he spun a pen round his fingers while rereading what he wrote. Paperwork was troublesome for the receptionist, but better indoors than out. At least the building stayed at a pleasant temperature, yet he could not help but feel a chill. Across from him Menor sat, waiting without a hint of worry.

  "To be precise," the receptionist asked, "You saw two cubs, without their mother, at the second snowkeep foraging grounds?"

  "Yes," Menor answered, "One of the bears seemed to be indulging in thaws."

  "Not a bit a fear," he whispered, "I don't think a dormancy hunter is active. Anyways, thank you for the report and so on. I'll contact Iso's Wildlife Department to investigate."

  Nodding, Menor returned the gratitude and left the room. As many other branch buildings of the Associations, the lobby was fairly small. Especially with the glass walls, yet enough to manage the district's issues. Across the room, curled up akin to a cocoon, Cymir shivered near a heater.

  Blankets wrapped the youth. He had long returned any gear he borrowed. Misfortune had befallen him a third time today as they say. Seeing his acquaintance enter, he waved and quickly began to complain. Having tumbled down into several layers of snow brought shivers to the youth. Which lead to the simple conclusion that snowshoes were awful. Towards such the man jested about the talent needed for that claim.

  Throwing back a retort as a simple swear which turned into an inquiry. How come Menor had forgone those seemingly necessary shoes? Being able to tread over the loosest of snow without care. To answer the man lifted his foot showing his boot's sole. Weaved between its cleats was a series of intertwined metallic rings embedded into the footwear.

  "Metaley," Menor answered in a low voice, "Basically a prototype that quickly thaws snow and refreezes it into ice."

  "Metaleys?" Cymir replied, tilting his head, "Hmmm. Aren't those expensive right now? Also isn't that similar to what the nomads do?"

  "A gift." Menor shrugged. "I convinced some rich individuals to hand it over."

  "High connections must be great," Cymir rolled his eyes. "But I don't remember these boots- Are these like Lazen's mechanical weapons? Solid-thermal right?'

  "You shouldn't... It's a prototype I made based off some patents."

  "Oooh, forgot those were a thing. Do you-"

  "Anyways." Menor interrupted, "We have to go, these thaws won't deliver themselves."

  With a tight grip, the night-haired individual yanked on the blanket. Causing the youngster to tumble out with surprise. In a single motion after, the cloth spun around the man's arm. Which after he tossed it towards the closest staff member. Providing his appreciation before walking out of the building. Stunned by the quick events Cymir ran to retrieve his coat. Bowing to the staff, who held curious glints in their eyes, before leaving.

  Running down the streets to catch up, the youth questioned the sudden rush. To such responded a sigh. Some topics need not to be elaborated his companion claimed. Even under constant queries only denial was given. Stumped he moved on to a different topic; who asked for the herbs?

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Menor shrugged, when they received the request quite a bit of the information remained blank. Only the necessary amounts and deliver location were filled on the paperwork. Alas even the requester went by "old apothecarian" of the Old Coast District. However, to the youth it sounded suspicious. Why would someone send out a specific request, when general ones would provide quicker response? Once more the man shrugged. Requests through the Cadastral Associations where always vetted. While laziness tend to avoid none-required information.

  Disregarding the simple explanation, the youngster conjured up tales of potential. How the old apothecarion could be an evil villain scheme. Or ever the start of a long story arc of a heart wrenching quality. Even a master mentor laid on the table. Towards such remarks only a wry smile appeared with a simple reply. The world was not a story, yet such drew forth indignant feelings. Causing the youth to cross his arms and looked away.

  Childish. Menor led the way. To indulge or not never became options. Rather finishing their tasks of the day remained the priority. So they traveled down familiar bricked streets and boarded the nearest tram. Which he once more paid for two with a a murderous stare. Unlike prior days the trip held no rush nor transfers. Instead a long ride westward.

  As the tram approached the Old Coast District the usual sense began to fade and alter. Those towering buildings above became scarce and left only a variety of trees. While the distinct smell of salt that accompanied most of the city matured. Blending a myriad of smells that brought forth a scenes of oceans. As if the prior levels were mere imitation.

  Once they moved up the stairs of the tram shelter, the district held its name to the highest regard. Unlike other areas of Estuary, here held a weight of history. Not one that changed but one that held on in spite of time. Where vegetation grew upon sand and the concrete of the modern architecture ceased to be. While those tall trees of the inner city were unfathomably smaller than the grand living towers that rose above the youth.

  In contrast to the awed youngster, Menor went on unbothered. Taking a glace at the glass map before walking off towards their destination. Only to turn on his heels and began to push his awe-stricken acquaintance along. In a tone of teasing, mixed with annoyance, he told Cymir to venture more. Especially since each major city of the Peninsula are in their own right architectural masterpieces. Such brought young memories to the youth.

  At a pushed pace, the two quickly made their way. Upon aged roads they moved. Their feet clanked upon the softer grounds. Past houses of wood, brick or both. All brought curiosity with spaces of vegetation barely managed. All of which reminded the Cymir of those classical locations he read about.

  When several minutes had passed they arrived at a wooden gate painted a faded greed. Along to join the quality the fences around too showed age as they were long overgrown by browned plants. Near the front door a rope dangled. Tied to a bell above and it rang out once pulled. Such notified their presence as guests, yet after no answer twice it chimed. Then three times before any motion came from within the property.

  Wood dragged upon stone bellowed as the door slowly opened, albeit slightly. From the thin opening a small head poked out. A child no more than a dozen years stared at the pair. His eyes glanced from one and stopped at the other. A sound of realization appeared before any of the two could mention a word.

  "Oh, its Mr. Pocket Holes," spoke the child.

  "What?" Cymir replied.

  "You're the one who didn't see the coins you dropped."

  "I... I did?"

  Holding back a chuckle, Menor said, "We're here to deliver freshly harvested winter's thaws. May we come in?"

  "Ah? Wait please."

  The door closed and echoed through the neighborhood. Behind it the quiet pitter patter of steps ran upon stones. During the moment two words were repeated. Dropped coins. Knowing such a confrontation was inevitable necessary, Cymir had already opted to look away in hopes of ignoring the brutal eyes aimed at him.

  The forest of Estuary surely looked great during this time of year. The evergreens and those sky piercing trees gave the season an early green amongst the piles of snow. Yep. Super interesting. Enough to ignore a companions relentless judgement.

  As if an hour had passed, steps beyond the door walked at a swift pace. Unlike prior these were deliberate. A small grunt notified the pair. With several tugs the gate began to open wide. Once finished the child bowed their head and led the two in.