[Wanderers Journey]

The sky deepens into dusk as an elderly woman—Bo—paces near the gate, her greying hair tied neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her purple and brown robe sways with each step, the fabric whispering against a cool breeze. Her deep brown eyes, usually warm and gentle, now scan the treeline anxiously. Her friendly features creased with worry. The sharp wooden fence stands tall, guarding the camp from the unknowns of the forest. But tonight, it feels more like a fragile barrier. The air is cool, laced with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the subtle sounds of the forest—streams nearby trickle, the whisper of leaves—only add to her unease.

She stops, arms crossed, watching the path beyond the fence for movement. The eclipse has unsettled everyone, but her husband's prolonged absence has turned that unease into fear.

“He should’ve been back by now”.

Her heart skips when she sees Sorin shift at the gate. He squints into the fading light, then straightens. Sorin’s lean figure begins to outline against the campfire behind him. “Bo,” he calls out, his voice carrying relief and surprise, “it’s Oban.”

Bo’s exhale breathes relief but catches as she rushes forward, peering into the dimness beyond the fence.

Oban's familiar form emerges slowly from the shadows, accompanied by his companion and cart trailing behind. Her pulse quickens as she moves to the gate, her eyes darting between him and the cart. She tries to call out to him, but her voice falters before she can speak.

Sorin’s already heading to meet him, his tone easing. “It’s good to see you, old man.”

Oban’s response is weary but steady. “Aye, you too,” Oban says with a warm smile. He gazes at the tree line, “Just in time before dark.” His words carry a layer of exhaustion.

Sorin motions toward the cart. “You get what we need?” Oban stiffens, his eyes darting briefly toward the cart before he speaks. “Aye,” he says, his voice a little too quick. “Should be enough to last us through winter.” The goods are there, sure enough, but Bo’s eyes narrow. “It’s not like Oban to be so guarded with his words,” she thinks. Sorin, satisfied for the moment, waves him through the gate. “Glad you’re back old man,” he says while securing the gate.

“Oban!” Bo calls as she rushes toward him, her face pale with worry. She throws her arms around him, her grip tight as if afraid to let go. You’re safe. Father bless, you’re safe,” she holds his face, taking in his familiar features—those old eyes of warmth. He feels the love of her arms, he’s missed her terribly. But it only deepens the pit in his stomach. He holds her close, her familiar smell of flowers and earth. He is home.

Now that he’s here, he wonders if he’s endangered her by not leaving the woman where he found her. He smiles while swallowing the lump of worry creeping up his throat.

“You don't understand how worried we’ve been since that eclipse… we all feared something terrible had happened.” Oban nods, his eyes softening as he looks at her. “I know. I saw it too.”

Bo tilts her head, her voice soft and curious. “You’ve seen, felt the same thing?”

Oban takes a breath, the memories still vivid in his mind. “Aye. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The way the sun turned dark… that red sky. It felt like…” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “It felt like we were being… judged. By something greater. Like the world was on the brink of something terrible.”

Bo looks at him, her expression shifting to match his unease. “That’s what we all felt. Some of us think it was a sign.”

Oban nods slowly. “I was worried about you.”

Bo places a hand on his arm, her grip gentle but firm. “I’m so happy you’re back. That’s all that matters to me.”

Oban exhales, the tension of the journey still lingering in his body. “Sorry I’m late,” he adds with a hidden smile, trying to break the moment's weight. He pulls the cart into the camp, Bo stepping beside him. Around them, the camp stirs with welcome, a few voices rising in relief.

“There he is!”

“Oban’s back!”

Bo barely registers the others as they approach, their warm greetings filling the air. She only watches Oban’s face, his smile strained, his eyes holding a hidden worry. He’s back, but his mind is elsewhere; it unsettles her more than the eclipse has. “Glad to see you made it back in one piece, old man,” one of them chuckles.

Oban forces a smile, nodding as they gather around, but his attention is elsewhere. He barely notices the questions about the goods or the relieved looks on their faces. His thoughts are with the woman, hidden just out of sight in his cart.

Bo glances toward the cart, her brow furrowing slightly. “Do you need help unpacking? We can get some of the others to—” “No!” Oban interrupts more sharply than he intended. He clears his throat, softening his tone. “No, I mean… no need. I’ll take care of it.” Bo gives him a puzzled look, her hand resting on his arm. “Are you sure? You look exhausted.”

“I’m sure,” Oban says quickly, his gaze shifting toward the cart again. He can feel the weight of the camp's curious eyes on them. “Let’s walk a bit, Bo. Just need a moment.” He says, with an awkward laugh, leading her through the camp. They weave between tents and dimly lit fires, the soft murmurs of conversation fading as they move further from the heart of the encampment. Bo walks beside him, her mind swirling with questions she won’t ask yet. Oban’s behaviour, the sharpness in his voice when she mentioned the cart—it’s all strange. “What is he hiding?” She asks herself.

Arriving at their tent, Oban pauses at the entrance, his hand resting on the flap. “I need to show you something Bo, but I need a moment,” he says, his voice low and serious.

Bo's face stills, concern deepening the lines on her forehead. “Oban, what is this about?” She whispers to him.

“Just… give me a moment,” he says focused, his movement starting to highlight urgency.

Bo hesitates but nods, watching as he disappears into the tent. She stands outside, the evening air cool, the distant sounds of the camp only heightening her unease. “What has he done?” Her heart starts to beat faster, and her mind starts creating possibilities, none of which are comforting.

Oban moves quickly but carefully inside the tent, clearing a space on the floor with precise, respectful movements. He shifts Bo’s craft of elixirs and potions, treating each vial with reverence. He knows how essential her talent is to the encampment. As he works, his thoughts drift to the woman in the cart. The weight of the decision he’s made presses on him. He knows the risk and the danger of what he’s about to do, but something inside him can’t let her go. He prepares a soft cotton pile in the cleared space, smoothing the fabric with practised hands. As a gifted textile maker, Oban ensures the bedding is comfortable and secure. His hands work with a familiarity that brings him a moment of calm. He steps outside. Bo’s eyes meet his; the unspoken tension between them is palpable. “Ok,” he says quietly, gesturing for Bo to enter.

Bo enters the tent, her hands sweating, her heart thudding in her chest. The moment she steps through the entrance, the atmosphere feels different—heavier, as though the air is charged with something she can’t quite place. The hair on her arms rises. She watches as Oban returns to the cart and gently lifts the woman from beneath the textiles. Her body seems almost weightless in his arms. Her form is still and peaceful as if she’s in a deep slumber. Oban carries her into the tent and places her carefully in the space he’s prepared. Bo takes a step closer, her breath catching in her throat when her eyes land on the woman.

There’s something otherworldly about her. Her skin is pale, almost luminous in the dim light of the tent. Her white hair spills over the cotton, like threads of silver moonlight. It’s the kind of white that shouldn’t exist outside of myth—pure, perfect, untouched. Bo’s pulse quickens. She knows the implications of what she’s seeing. She slowly steps back to her table of elixirs, her eyes fixed on the still figure lying before her. The air is still as neither of them speaks.

Bo is the first to break the silence, her voice trembling with an emotion she rarely lets show. "Who is she? Why does she feel… like this?" Oban steps toward the woman, his gaze moving from her to his wife. His mouth opens, but the words struggle to leave. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and almost strained. "I don’t know what you want me to say, Bo... there's something about her. I can feel it. Like she doesn’t belong to our world."

He pauses, rubbing his hand over his head as the weight of the moment increases on him. "I should’ve been afraid. I was afraid,” he says, eyes gleaming with building tears. “But there was something more. It’s like the earth spoke to me, Bo. Like she’s tied to something far bigger than us—bigger than anything we’ve ever known."

Bo stands mesmerised. She hears Oban’s words and softly says, "Something’s not right about this. I can feel it. It’s like she’s pulling at me, even in her sleep. The air around her… it’s not right."

Oban swallows hard, feeling the same tension in the air but choosing his words carefully. "I can feel it, too. But she’s not dangerous. Look at her..." Still staring at the woman, Bo's voice cuts in, almost a whisper. "Her hair..."

Oban's heart skips a beat. He nods slowly, meeting her gaze. "I know. The kind the Order—the Faith, is warning about."

Bo’s eyes widen, her hand instinctively moving to her mouth. "Oban, you know what that means. We must report her. The Order has been very clear about this. There’s no debating it.” Bo shakes her head, “You’ve heard the stories..." He steps closer to her, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "We can’t report her. The Order will come here. We’ll lose everything.” He turns to the woman, his gaze locked on her like a drug soothing him, “We don’t know the truth about the stories. White hair is rare in nature, but it’s not unnatural… Plus, we’ve never seen magic ourselves, Bo. Plenty of people believe it isn’t even real."

Bo’s eyes narrow as she stares at the woman. Her voice drops, filled with tension. "Oban, white hair isn’t just a random trait. The Order says it’s a mark." Oban listens, his expression hardening, but Bo continues. "Thomas thinks they’re sent to the Imperium—and they disappear. No one comes back." She looks at him, her voice laced with quiet fear. "If the Order finds her and finds out we ever reported it, we’ll be in danger too." Oban sits, putting his hands over his face as if to shield him from the moment. He knows the Order will come. They’ll report the camp. The Empire will ask questions and demand answers—people will panic, especially after the eclipse."

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Bo's breath hitches slightly as she questions, "Where exactly did you find her?"

Oban’s face tightens. He looks away for a moment as though gathering the strength to speak. He turns back to Bo, his voice shaking, memories of the horror flashing through his mind. "Near the chapel."

"The chapel?" Bo's brow furrows, her voice a mixture of surprise and concern. "What were you doing there?"

Oban lets out a slow, heavy breath. His eyes are distant as if reliving the scene. "I saw… tracks leading to it... for a moment, I thought maybe Idirs.” He shakes his head in silent disbelief, “The door was torn off, broken in. And inside..." His voice falters. He swallows hard, his eyes blinking as his mind struggles to make sense. “Inside were bodies— dead men. They wore robes, robes of the Faith. They were torn apart, Bo. Like rag dolls. The whole place was dead.” He pauses, the weight of the memory pressing down on him. His hand trembles slightly as it rests on his knee. “I thought… I thought for a moment that maybe I’d recognise one of them. That maybe—” His voice cracks and he shakes his head. He rubs his hand across his face as if trying to erase the image. "That maybe you’d been there. That maybe you were in danger." His eyes shine with unshed tears, and his breathing is shallow. He tries to push back the fear that had gripped him then and the echo that lingers now.

Bo’s face softens, her hand touching his arm gently. She can feel his fear. "Oban…"

He sniffs and squeezes her hand in return. His grip is tight, as though grounding himself in her presence. “I kept thinking of you, Bo. That maybe I was too late, that I’d come here and—” He can’t finish the sentence, his voice catching in his throat. A tear slips down his cheek, but he quickly wipes it away, forcing himself to focus. “I never felt fear like that before. Not even when I was young."

Bo stares at him. She can’t help the colour draining from her face. "The Order’s men? At the chapel, this far from the Empire. This close to us?" Oban nods, his voice a mix of concern and fear. "I don’t know what they were doing there. But I don’t think they were just passing through. It looked like they were searching for something or maybe looking for someone. And then I found her, lying like this on the path."

Bo steps back as her shock sinks in. "Father bless..." she whispers, her eyes wide with disbelief. "And you brought her here? Why?"She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the unease is too strong to shake. "Oban, we need to be careful," she says, her voice firm. "The eclipse, these bodies, and now her…” Bo exhales, shutting her eyes, seeking a moment of stillness as if to bring further upsetting news. “Oban… Emily’s daughter has fallen dreadfully ill. I have never seen an illness like this before.” Bo sighs, “ My remedies are failing.” Her gaze shifts to the ceiling as if searching above for answers, “Why is this happening? Why now?" She looks to the sleeping woman, sighing with stress. "We can’t let the others know about this. Panic will spread through the camp."

Oban nods, though his gaze stays fixed on the woman. "I didn’t know what else to do, Bo. I couldn’t just leave her there."

Bo’s face softens, but her eyes still have a hard edge of worry. "We need answers….” She glances toward the entrance of the tent, her voice lowering. "I’ll send Idris and Thomas to investigate the chapel tomorrow. They can handle themselves if there’s any danger left. But we need to know exactly what happened." Oban’s jaw clenches, the weight of everything pressing down on him. "I don’t think it’ll be safe," Oban says worriedly. Bo meets his gaze, her eyes steady but clouded with worry. "They’ll be fine, but we must find out what’s going on, Oban. If the Order is searching for her or something else, we can’t risk them coming here without knowing more. Idris and Thomas can be discreet, and they’ll report back before the rest of the camp even knows."

Oban nods slowly, his mind turning over the possibilities. He looks down at the woman again as her white hair spills across the cotton like moonlight. "We hide her for now. Let the camp settle from the eclipse, and you say Emily’s daughter is ill, too? They don’t need more fear..." Bo exhales softly, rubbing her arms as if the chill of the night air has finally reached her. "Alright. But if she wakes up, Oban, we must be ready for whatever comes next. If she’s tied to whatever happened at that chapel, it will bring trouble to us."

The distant sound of voices and crackling fire drifts through the tent. The smell of cooked meats and wood smoke reminds them that the camp is far from still. Nearby, at the heart of the encampment, Thomas and Idris sit by the fire. Their conversation distracts them from the unease of the eclipse.

Thomas, tall and broad-shouldered, with long brown hair, blue eyes, and the rough edges of a seasoned bounty hunter, leans back, tearing into his food with gusto. Idris sits beside him, lean but strong, with sharp eyes that constantly scan the surroundings like a seasoned hunter. He chews his food more slowly, lost in thought.

“Still can’t believe Arthur chose the Imperial Celebration over this,” Thomas says between bites, shaking his head. “You’d think guarding a camp full of half-starved travellers in the middle of nowhere would be more appealing.” Idris chuckles, spearing a piece of meat with his knife. “Come on, Arthur’s always been one for the show. He can’t get enough of the attention.” Idris says with a smile. “You think these people will cheer for him, like the arenas?” Thomas grunts. “Fuck the cheers. Bo’s potions pay more.” Idris nods, but before Idris can respond, a shout cuts through the evening air.

“Hey, you! Stop!”

Sorin’s voice cuts through the evening air, sharp and urgent. Idris and Thomas are on their feet in a heartbeat, hands moving instinctively to their weapons. Around them, the camp stirs, startled murmurs rising as shadows flicker around the central campfire. Idris narrows his eyes, his hunter’s instincts kicking in. “There,” he points at a figure that moves swiftly and silently, weaving through the tents and heading straight for the firelight.

“Who the fuck is it?” Thomas mutters, his sword sliding free with a rasp. The figure steps closer, the firelight illuminating her dark leathers and armour fitted perfectly to a slender, agile frame. Female. Her steps are impossibly quiet, as though the earth itself bends to her will, unwilling to betray her presence. She moves with precision, which sets Idris on edge. He takes a deep breath in, marking her as dangerous. Her hair, black as midnight, spills down around sharp features, her pointed ears glinting in the flickering light.

“Elf,” Idris barks in confirmation. He stands stoic, locking his gaze on her like a predator. “Not like the ones back home…” He points out, noticing a striking difference.

Thomas steps forward, sword raised, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Hey, who the fuck are you, love?” His voice is rough, aggressive, and a clear challenge. He doesn’t take his eyes off her.

The Elf moves into the full light of the campfire. Her face is calm and composed, but there’s something behind her eyes—calculation. She assesses each man in turn, her body language careful and controlled. Without a word, she shrugs off the pack from her shoulders, laying it gently on the ground. She kneels to open it, her movements deliberate, ignoring the heat of their suspicion.

Sorin steps forward with quiet grace, his stance fluid, every muscle poised for action. He tightens the wraps around his hands, and his blade is already in clear view—a silent warning. “You don’t just walk into a camp unannounced, Elf,” he says, his voice low and edged with distrust. “Especially not this far from your kind.”

The Elf doesn’t flinch, maintaining her calm. Her gaze flickers briefly over Sorin’s stance—the subtle tension in his muscles, the readiness in his posture. He’s trained, skilled for a fistfight.

"You’re from the Empire?" she asks, offering a friendly smile, hoping to start a conversation.

She pulls a few items from her pack—small pouches, a wrapped bundle. “I’ve been travelling for a while, and I’m just looking for a place to stay for a day or two.” She places a wrapped pouch on the floor in front of her. “Here, I can trade,” She offers. Thomas snorts as he takes a step closer, his eyes flicking over the goods like it’s worthless crap. “Trade?” he spits, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck makes you think we’d trust a random elf wandering in here like this?” He kicks at one of the pouches, scattering its contents across the dirt. “Get the fuck out of here, mate. We don’t want your shit.”

The Elf’s expression tightens, but she remains composed. Her hands are still as they hover over the scattered goods. “I’m not looking for trouble,” she says, her voice measured, calm despite the rising hostility. “I was just hoping to stay for a night.”

Idris, who’s been quietly observing, steps forward. His movements are slow but deliberate, as if weighing every action. “Yeah, where are you from?” He says, a question laced with challenge. “It’s not the Empire, I know that,” he states as if removing an option of convenience for her. “You alone here?”

Her eyes flick to Idris, cold but not hostile. Her gaze scans his stance—the readiness in his posture, the deliberate phrasing of his words. “No, there’s no others,” she replies simply, her tone clipped. “I’m alone.”

Sorin glances at Idris, sharing a look. The tension between them eases slightly. They’ve both been out here long enough to know when something is more than it seems, but they’re also practical. She’s not a threat they can’t handle if she's alone. He shifts his stance, his hand loosening on the hilt of his machete.

“Alright,” Sorin says, the edge of suspicion softening just a fraction. “Why don’t—”

“No, fuck that!” Thomas cuts in, stepping forward again. His voice rises with fresh anger as his boot slams into the Elf’s pack, scattering more of her things. “I don’t fucking care where she’s from. She doesn’t belong here—she belongs out there, sleeping in a fucking tree.” He sneers, pointing his sword at her chest. “Creeping in here like a ghost? Get out!”

The elf’s eyes flick to the blade aimed at her chest, but she remains still, composed. Her body subtly shifts—just barely. She’s already assessed how quickly she can move, how close they are, and which one would strike first. Her hands are empty, her weapons hidden. Her eyes flick between the mercenaries as she calculates her next move. “I can leave,” she says, her voice calm, almost too calm given the rising aggression from Thomas. “If that’s what you want?” Sorin, his expression unchanging, steps closer. His presence is imposing despite his calm exterior. “Maybe you should,” he says, his voice carrying a warning. “We don’t trust outsiders. Especially ones who we don’t know.”

Thomas chuckles, his tone full of mockery. “Now you want to run, eh? What are you hiding, Elf?” His hand clenches around the hilt of his blade, muscles tensing as he takes a threatening step closer. His gaze flicks between her scattered belongings and her face, his grip tightening as though ready to strike. “Nah, don’t think we can—”

“Stop!”

Bo’s voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and commanding.

She steps forward from the shadows, her gaze steady as it sweeps over the scene. The mercenaries step back instinctively, creating space as she approaches the Elf, but the tension doesn’t ease. The Elf’s eyes flick to Bo, calm but alert, every muscle in her body still coiled as if ready for whatever might come.

“What’s going on here?” Bo demands, her tone sharp as she looks between the mercenaries and the intruder. She steps closer to the Elf, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the pointed ears and raven-black hair.

Her breath catches. She freezes for a fraction of a second, the understanding crashing over her. “It's impossible… They're all extinct," she thinks. "The Great Elven War claimed them all. Never in all my long years did I ever think I would see...”

A Shadow Elf.