Nothing comes to interrupt him, so long as he sits contemplating the moon.

Eventually, though, the damp gets to him. He stands, and for lack of any better idea, begins to walk.

He has never been the outdoorsy type. Nature seems, to him, so disorganized. Nonetheless, he recalls words he's read in too many self-indulgent adventure stories.

What is it? he thinks. Two minutes without shelter, two days without water, two weeks without food?

There's not much shelter in evidence. He is on top of a large, grass-covered hill. One of many, stretching away into the distance. To his left, the rough outline against the stars suggests a forest.

He knows he should stop and think of a strategy more well thought out than just following wherever his feet take him, but he doesn't.

In stories, the people who are carried away to different worlds are ready to go. They have no lives, or if they do they accept the loss of them in exchange for the promise of adventure.

But he wasn't ready to go. He didn't want to go.

The thought strikes him suddenly, like the answer to a math problem that has been eluding him for hours. Information doesn't come from nowhere. If he ended up here, then whatever force brought him here must be able to see Earth.

And that means he can go back. He knows what he has to do.

Well, as soon as he's not slowly freezing in the wilderness. He couldn't find another settlement at all at this point, let alone finding his way to a planet that doesn't have Haşar stalking him.

He freezes, suddenly aware of a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He pivots, scanning for anything other than the quiet, empty grass through which he has been trudging.

He doesn't see anything.

He runs.

They're not bothering to stay hidden now. Long, low shapes follow him, keeping to the corner of his eyes. If he were able to take a moment to think, rather than scrambling in blind panic down one steep hillside and up the next, driven on by hunting cries like a knife sharpener with a bugle every time he hesitates a moment too long, he might realize that they're herding him.

Eventually, the gas giant is low in the sky. He crests a hill and sees a farm laid out before him. A startled farmer is pushing a cart between some outbuildings, and spots him silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky.

"Gut qu warzat? Qu pihor gyenit!" they call, abandoning their cart and sprinting towards him. "Piyerçawqu qyanyrana," they elaborate, pointing at a line of tall metal poles that separate the farm from the hills.

Sable is, at this point, too tired to notice details like someone speaking a language he has never heard of. Nevertheless, he drags himself down the hill. He passes the line of poles and doesn't slow down.

Çet catches him and lower him gently to the ground. "Pihoror. Piyerçawqu nat yor qyanyarana," they say, patting him on the back.

"I," he manages to gasp out between breaths. "Have no idea what you're saying."

He flops over dramatically and looks up at the rapidly lightening sky.

"Zabarhagy qu zenterhegy?" they exclaim. "Naga Çet," they say, laying a hand on their forehead. They point their open palm towards Sable. "Qu?"

"Uh."

He pauses for a moment.

"Sable Wellington," he guesses, gesturing at himself. He points his palm at the farmer. "Kate?" he repeats.

"Sabuqy Weqyington", they repeat. Their attempt at an "l" sound comes out breathy and faint.

"I know you can't understand me," Sable says. "But thank you, for helping me escape whatever those were." He hopes the tone of voice makes his gratitude clear.

Once he's caught his breath, Çet helps him to his feet, gesturing towards their farmhouse. "Qu pihor gyenit," they repeat.

The farmhouse is unfinished timber with a thatched roof. Soft red lights glow from under the eaves, although they're quickly becoming less apparent as the sky lightens.

Sable rises, glancing warily behind him at the hills. Taking a stab in the linguistic darkness he points his palm out towards the hills and asks "Qu?"

Çet wrinkles their brow and stares at him uncomprehendingly for a moment.

"O! Ga? Haşarga. Gehot gut tesirorigy."

Sable lets himself be led into the farmhouse. If he were more aware, he might notice that the abandoned cart on the path to the barn seems to lack wheels.

As it is, he welcomes the dry warmth of the farmhouse, and lets himself be pushed into a chair at a large wooden table.

"Pihoror. Nat wapuş gyanarara," they explain, gesturing for Sable to remain in the chair, and then gesturing between themselves and the door.

After looking to see that Sable does not appear to be going anywhere, Çet leaves, their footsteps fading quickly as they move away from the house.

The inside of the farmhouse, now that Sable has time to examine it, more or less resembles the outside. The walls are also unfinished wood on the inside, although he doesn't know enough about wood to guess the type.

Surprising in its absence is a fireplace -- the role of stove seems to be played by a large, rounded block of stone emitting sourceless heat. A kettle sits on top of it.

Light is provided by several long, thin tubes that hang from beams down the length of the house. Right now, they are matching the sky outside and slowly brightening, tiny carvings on their surfaces flickering as they do.

Sable has had a long night. While he would normally be all over mysterious glowing tubes, right now the only thing he can bring himself to do is sleep.

"... norhe homdarna," Çet whispers, quietly opening the door and leading their companion in.

:But he came over the moor, you say? What about the Haşar?: Çet's companion asks, ducking slightly to step through the door. She wears polished chainmail over leather armor that's seen better centuries. A sword rests at her hip.

Sable jerks awake. He's not a light sleeper, but being face-down on a wooden table is not the most restful.

"What?" he says. He blinks warily, trying to place his surroundings.

"O! Nya homdarta," Çet points out, smiling at him.

"E Zeterse, Sabuqy Weqyington. E Sabuqy Weqyington, Zeterse."

:Hello!: Zeterse says. The words reach him via some channel that isn't his ears, appearing fully formed in his mind like a message in a bottle. :I'm Zeterse, one of the guards in Haşarur. Çet was telling me you came over the hills. Do you know where you are?:

"No, I have no idea."

:Unfortunately, my linguistic talents only go one-way,: Zeterse explains apologetically. :Can you shake your hand yes or no?:

Sable looks at her blankly, at a loss for what to say. He settles for holding his hand up and making a vaguely apologetic shrug and a bewildered expression.

:Oh! I'm sorry. Move your hand up and down, as though you were petting something for yes, and ball it into a fist for no,: Zeterse explains, demonstrating the indicated actions. :Flap yes if you understand:

Sable flaps his hand, feeling faintly ridiculous.

:So not only do you not speak Zabarhagy, you can't be from anywhere in the southern reaches. Do you know how you got here?: she asks.

"No," Sable says, balling his hand. He may as well start trying to teach them a few of his words, since there's not much else he can do unless they explain.

:Okay, well you're on the outskirts of Haşarur, in Barhagy, in the southern reaches, on the coast of Tarça. Does any of that sound familiar?:

"No," Sable says again.

:They must be from one of the other moons, then,: Zeterse says to Çet.

Turning back to Sable, she adds :Okay, well you showed up somewhere in the Haşarlands -- a dangerous runewaste guarded by Haşar. We're sort of out in the middle of nowhere, but I'm sure we would have heard if someone had figured out how to travel from one of the other moons, so I'm afraid I have no idea how you could have gotten here.:

:Çet says you're welcome to stay with them for a while while you get things figured out, or we can probably find you a place in town, whichever you prefer. I'm dispatched to deal with this all morning, so if you have some questions, or if you want basic language lessons, we can do that now. Does that sound okay?:

Sable nods and starts pointing to various objects, in the hopes that this will cause language lessons to happen.

So Zeterse will run through basic vocabulary for everything within line of sight, interspersed with grammatical tidbits (:So that's actually a children-class noun, because it's made of unprocessed wood:, and :No, questions have the object before the subject.:)

Eventually, Çet interrupts to ask (via helpful Zeterse translation) whether either of them want some breakfast. They weren't planning on guests, but they've got enough porridge to go around.