It was afternoon when they entered Italk.
There was no sunlight, nor any wind, and it was eerily quiet.
Italk was not as "ruined" as Skala had imagined.
The main street was still there, the houses had not all collapsed, and the large totems were even still standing, though their surfaces were peeled, and they hadn't been re-carved or repaired.
It was like a patient who hadn't woken for years, merely ceasing activity, not dying.
And there were trolls.
Not many, but not few either.
At street corners, under eaves, in front of dilapidated temple gates, three or four dozen trolls stood or sat scattered, dressed in old clothes, with dull expressions; some were sharpening tools, some were peeling dried meat, and some were just sitting in a daze.
They saw Skala and his group.
But there was no alarm, no welcome, just a faint gaze.
It was like seeing a rustle in the wind, or an occasional passing herd of cattle or sheep.
"Should we speak first?" Toka asked in a low voice.
"No." Skala shook his head, "Wait for them to speak."
But half an hour passed, and no one spoke.
Skala simply set up camp on an open space by the main road, erecting a flag painted with a divine emblem.
This flag had accompanied them through seven or eight tribes; usually, even if no one dared to approach openly, someone would always sneak over to look at night.
Whether it was belief, doubt, or hatred, there would always be a reaction.
But the trolls here had no reaction.
They would look, but they wouldn't move.
Their gaze was calm, not even cold.
They had merely "seen" them, and then continued with their own affairs.
Gollon shared his intuition in a low voice: "They are not hostile… but rather seem to have had their emotions hollowed out."
In the evening, someone finally approached.
A middle-aged woman, carrying a basket of hay, wearing reasonably neat beast-hide clothing, with little expression on her face.
She didn't greet them, nor did she introduce herself, she just paused by the campfire and said:
"How long will you stay?"
Skala replied, "It depends on the situation."
The woman nodded, "Then don't stay in the totem house to the east, it's damp there."
After speaking, she left, as if completing a routine task.
Toka frowned and said, "This isn't a welcome, nor is it a dismissal."
"It's like… they're waiting for us to leave on our own."
Skala didn't respond, merely looking at the relatively intact totem house in the distance.
It was still there, the door open, but no one entered or exited; the lintel had mottled sacrificial symbols, and most of the old loa's name was worn away, but the outline of the word "Matos" was vaguely discernible.
He couldn't explain what felt wrong.
Perhaps the air was too thick, or perhaps it was too quiet.
Night came quickly; after the campfire was lit, the trolls rotated on guard duty, Skala took a few people to keep watch, and the rest gradually fell asleep.
— Divider —
Toka dreamed of snow.
There was no wind, only snow, falling continuously.
He dreamed he was standing in front of Tok-Aak's old shrine, with Xilika beside him, and some elders and hunters. They were arguing.
"She is just silent."
"How do you know she didn't leave?"
He knew this memory; it was the night Hakkah went "silent."
Old Xilika led her followers to kneel beneath the old totem, guarding it all night, and later, when the bonfire in front of the totem pole abruptly extinguished, they began to argue.
But the argument in the dream didn't stop.
Those old men repeatedly said, "She is just silent," "She just left," their voices growing heavier, as if the words themselves were stuck in their throats.