This place continues to be an empty village in a deserted wasteland, with the addition of a lot more rubble and a few craters.

Twenty people in tan uniforms are painstakingly picking up tiny pieces of Tiro, overseen by one person with a slightly more decorated uniform.

There are human figures flying in the sky, a few of these notice him, and shortly after a great many people know that he's there. Two hundred or thereabouts.

He orients himself toward the nearest human and says something crisply enunciated and incomprehensible in an exquisitely beautiful, very carrying voice.

That would be one of the guys picking up pieces of Tiro. He jumps in alarm, then stares.

The boss-human shouts at them for a moment and the squad is shaken from their little reverie. They set down their buckets of glass and start to run in the opposite direction. Not in a flat sprint, but at least a healthy jog. Most of them steal looks back at the athra.

More and more people continue to know what's happening here.

The athra rises into the air to watch the fleeing humans, but doesn't pursue them, just floats there. His ridiculous hair flutters in a nonexistent breeze.

The humans are significantly more alarmed, now that it's shown he can fly. Flocks of the flying ones circle at a distance, high up. Some of them carry recognizable weapons, like swords and bows. The rest of the stuff and the sticks the ground-humans hold are probably also weapons from context.

He calls out to the flying ones, repeating his earlier question.

No, they don't understand him. They shout back in their own language. It sounds stern.

Gren dashes back into the hangar, looking for Tiro.

He looks up from the manual, mildly alarmed. "What?"

"I think an athra showed up. Tall, strange proportions, black eyes, big hair, near where you appeared."

"...I should go talk to it, nobody else is going to know how," he says.

"Yep, language problem. They're going to haul in a linguist to get lessons from you now I bet. The standing order is to keep our distance, and attack if he does anything hostile or approaches the fortifications. Because not everyone's gotten the memo that athrai even exist yet. URD was explaining them when I left, let's go." She hops on her Steelwing. "Knight, good job it's already ready, get everyone else on flight standby, would you?"

"Sure thing boss."

Tiro hovers. "Lead the way."

She does.

To a room full of very important-looking people who aren't quite shouting in their argument over how to treat this athra.

"...I should really go talk to it," says Tiro.

Great. Here's a radio (big, heavy thing) please don't make any promises on our behalf or tell them about the fortifications. How much backup does he want, two flights, three?

"I don't honestly want any backup at all. Whatever answer gets me out there fastest."

They at least want a radioman to follow him and make reports, and he'll need backup.

That is quickly arranged.

Out to meet the athra goes Tiro. It's still floating in midair, occasionally asking any humans in earshot a question in Haelahar.

He flies close enough that he won't have to yell. The athra looks at him, still wearing the exact same puzzled frown.

"Stranger!" he says. "I am Tiro of the line of Fara Bright-Handed, and honoured to meet you. What brings you here?"

"I wanted to know what had become of my heirloom," it says. Its frown changes smoothly to a smile. "And now I know part of the story. Tell me, how came you here? How, wearing the net of my hair, did you come to be in this place? I want to know. You must tell me."

"I do not know what brought me here, as I was sleeping at the time," Tiro admits.

"Oh! I have come a long way to hear very little," says the athra. It goes back to frowning, a slightly different frown this time, less puzzled and more annoyed.

Everyone in the sky gets slightly more tense. Radio guy shouts to please not annoy it.

Tiro ignores them all.

"I have more to tell than that," he says.

The athra tilts its head at him, and after a moment remembers to change its facial expression to a politely inquiring one. The expressions themselves are individually unremarkable, but they're disturbingly static; it changes between them like someone swapping out the sign hanging in front of their window. "Go on. I am interested in your news."

"The people of this world are in great danger," Tiro explains. "You see around you the aftermath of a battle with the menace called the Neuroi. They are strange and powerful, and they have killed an enormous number of humans."

"This is alarming news indeed!" says the athra, sounding appropriately alarmed, although it's still wearing its 'polite inquiry' face. "It would be good and noble to save these humans' lives!"

"I very much agree that it would," says Tiro.

"You must help me."

"I'd like that," he says. "A moment, please; I need to translate our conversation for the locals."

"Yes, please do," says the athra.

Tiro turns back toward radio guy and says, "I told the athra about Neuroi and it wants to help!"

Well, he did recognize the word 'Neuroi'. He broadcasts this information to a bunch of eager listeners. "Good news. Return chatter is skeptical about what 'help' looks like - resources, fighting them directly - and isn't happy with the prospect of negotiating with an athra, but we'll take anything we can get."

Gren approaches as close as radio-guy, then leaves again. With a bit of a headache. What the hell even is that. It doesn't make sense.

"They are pleased by your offer of help, and they want to know what form your aid might take," says Tiro.

The athra changes shape from a tall broad-shouldered man to a tall broad-shouldered woman; most of the difference is in the hips, which get wider, and the feet, which get smaller. "I want the humans here to live well and thrive!" it says.

"A noble aim. May I make some suggestions for how to bring that about?"

"Yes, please do."

"You could grant eternal youth to the women with magic," suggests Tiro. "You could craft a powerful artifact of healing. You could find the Neuroi and destroy them or make them harmless."

"Do you like my heirloom? Is it beautiful and useful?"

"Yes, it is both those things, and I am proud to wear it," says Tiro. "To really help these people, though, you're going to need a wider scope."

"I see, I understand," says the athra, nodding. It makes a gesture, a graceful wave of its hand.

Every Witch within about five miles is now biologically twenty years old and in the peak of health.

Gren flinches, hard. And flies further away. What the hell. Her copysense is now much sharper, she hadn't realized how much it had declined-

At least the magic that's now on her without her putting it there is less overwhelming than the incomprehensible wall of noise that is the athra.