The caravan emerged from the haze like a mirage, its wagons creaking under the weight of scavenged goods. Vigdis spotted them from a ridge overlooking the cracked earth below—a dozen figures, some on foot, others riding beasts too lean to be horses. The caravan was well-armed, judging by the glint of metal and the shadows of crossbows slung over shoulders. A group this organized was rare in the wasteland. Rare, and dangerous.
Still, they might have something she needed—supplies, information, maybe both. Her stomach growled in agreement, and she shifted the axe across her back as she descended the ridge.
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Vigdis approached the caravan with caution, her footsteps deliberate, her shoulders squared. The guards noticed her long before she reached the perimeter. One of them—a wiry man with patchy facial hair and a poorly maintained spear—moved to intercept her.
“That’s far enough, stranger,” he barked, planting the spear’s butt in the dirt. His eyes flicked over her, lingering on the axe. “What’s your business?”
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Vigdis said evenly, her tone disarming. “Just trade. I’ve got a few things.”
The guard hesitated, eyeing her up and down. He wasn’t the first man to underestimate her strength because of the curve of her hips or the sharp edge of her smirk, and he wouldn’t be the last. Beneath her leather cuirass, the lean strength of her shoulders and arms was obvious, and her height made her imposing even when she wasn’t holding the axe.
“Let her through,” a voice called from deeper in the caravan.
The speaker emerged from a wagon draped in patchwork tarps, a tall man with a confident stride and a face that might have been handsome if it weren’t for the perpetual smirk curling his lips. He wore a heavy coat that had once been fine leather, now patched and frayed, and around his neck hung an amulet that seemed to pulse faintly in the evening light.
“Forgive my guard,” the man said, spreading his hands in a gesture of welcome. “We’re cautious by necessity. I’m Elias, the caravan leader. And you are?”
“Vigdis,” she said simply.
Elias’s eyes lingered on her as if memorizing the details: the long legs that carried her stride like she owned the ground she walked on, the broad shoulders that hinted at her strength, and the proud curve of her chin, defiant even now. He smiled faintly, a man clearly enjoying the sight of something both dangerous and beautiful.
“Well, Vigdis, you’re welcome to look through what we have, if you’ve got something worth trading.”
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Inside the caravan’s makeshift camp, Vigdis noted the tension between the guards and their leader. Elias carried himself like a man who expected to be obeyed, but there was something off about the way his people avoided meeting his eyes. She wasn’t the only one who noticed the amulet, either—every guard, every trader, seemed to glance at it when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Elias offered her a seat near the fire, his charm as practiced as his smile. He poured her a tin cup of something vaguely drinkable and asked questions with an ease that seemed almost genuine: Where was she from? What was she looking for?
She answered just enough to keep him talking. Beneath her grit and calloused exterior, she let herself relax a fraction, softening her tone, meeting his gaze a little longer than necessary. Men like Elias thrived on the illusion of control, and she knew how to give just enough without truly giving anything.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “A woman like you, out here alone... you must have a story.”
Vigdis tilted her head, her smirk widening. “You’d need a lot more drink to hear it all.”
Elias chuckled, but there was something predatory in the way he leaned back, like a man savoring a game he thought he was winning. “Fair enough. Maybe I’ll hear it someday.”
She shifted gears smoothly. “And you? What’s with the trinket?” She nodded toward the amulet.
His smile froze for the briefest moment before he recovered. “Ah, this?” He touched the amulet lightly, almost reverently. “It’s a... keepsake. Let’s just say it protects me and mine from the worst this world has to offer.”
“Does it?” Vigdis leaned forward slightly, her tone dropping just enough to sound teasing, almost coy. Her smirk softened as she tilted her head, the firelight catching her features just right: the faint curve of her lips, the sharp line of her collarbone where the straps of her cuirass framed her neck. She moved like a predator testing the edges of her prey’s patience, just a hint of her charm slipping through her usual grit. “I could use something like that.”
Elias’s eyes flicked to hers, then to the axe resting beside her, and back again. For a moment, it wasn’t clear whether he was charmed or unsettled, and Vigdis was fine with either.
“You’ve got strength,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And strength gets you far. But if you’re looking for something more... there are places in this wasteland that hold greater power.”
Vigdis’s pulse quickened. “Such as?”
Elias chuckled, leaning back as though he’d regained the upper hand. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. There’s an old military outpost about two days south of here. Buried in the hills, practically forgotten. I’ve heard whispers of things left behind—things that could change your fortune.”
“And you didn’t claim it yourself?”
Elias’s smirk widened. “I’m no fool. The place has its dangers, and my business is here, on the road.”
Vigdis let the information settle, filing it away for later. She drained her cup and rose smoothly to her feet, towering over Elias as she adjusted the strap of her axe.
“Thanks for the drink,” she said, her tone lighter now, almost playful. “Maybe I’ll see you again someday.”
“Maybe,” Elias said, his smile lingering as she walked away.
But as she left the camp and the flickering firelight faded behind her, Vigdis’s smirk disappeared. The tension she’d felt wasn’t just paranoia. There was something about that amulet, something that hummed faintly in her memory like an itch she couldn’t quite reach.
Whatever power Elias thought he had, she didn’t trust it. And if this outpost was real, she would make sure the treasures it held—ended up in her hands, not his.