[Wanderers Journey]
The atmosphere is taut, a bowstring drawn to its limit. The Elf notices how the mercenaries’ hands rest on their weapons, the glint of metal in the dim light, but she still holds herself. Her gaze shifts to Bo, who steps into the centre of the tension with a command that fills the air. Bo’s direct, ordered voice quiets the mercenaries, even Thomas, who begrudgingly takes a step back.
Bo looks directly at her, “What’s your name?”
The elf weighs her options, noting the purple stains clinging to Bo’s nails and fingertips—a mark of someone accustomed to working with potent substances. She catches a glimpse of the worn leather pouches on Bo’s belt, bulging slightly as if holding a collection of tools and rare ingredients. Around her lingers the faint but distinct aroma of rare pollens, roots, and distilled fluids. “Potion maker,” Serine thinks, recognising the subtle signs. It’s clear Bo is well-versed in the art. Her confident stance and the respectful way the mercenaries look at her confirm she’s in charge here. Her eyes meet Bo’s steadily as she answers, “Serine.”
A slight murmur ripples through the on-looking camp members, but they stay back, watching the exchange closely. Serine quickly scans the camp; discontent settles within her. “Another encampment, more men.” She sighs. “They stink, and they’re always so noisy,” Serine thinks, her gaze sweeping over the uneasy mercenaries. “Always so troubled, paranoid. Good. I will use it.” Their restlessness makes them easier targets, caught in their own tangled fears. “Men, their existence is so fragile, yet they’re so eager to die.”
Idris studies Serine for a moment, his voice careful, probing. “Why do you want to know if we’re from the Empire?” There’s a cunning in his tone, a question that carries layers Serine recognises well. Serine meets his gaze. “Everybody north of here knows these lands fall under the Empire’s eye,” she says, her tone is friendly but concealing advantage. She notices how Bo absorbs this information, the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way her stance shifts just slightly as if weighing the implications.
Serine senses the flicker of recognition in Bo’s expression, the unspoken understanding of her origins. Bo is educated, perceptive: "She knows of my race.” Serine can see Bo’s softening beneath her hardened exterior, a glimmer of insight and something almost like kindness, though tempered by experience.
Bo’s gaze doesn’t waver as she responds, “Yes, we are part of the Empire. An extension from Backwater.” Serine scans the camp again, noting the lack of Imperial guards, flags, or sigils. It’s clear these mercenaries are here by hire, likely a private arrangement for protection. She deduces that the Empire probably doesn’t even know of their presence here—an unregistered encampment operating in secrecy. Bo’s reference to Backwater is merely a shield, a way to establish legitimacy in the face of Serine’s scrutiny. “This camp is on edge,” Serine feels it. She can sense their paranoid mistrust, sizing her up.
Thomas takes a step forward, directing a sidelong look at Bo. “Nah, tell this fucker to leave,” he mutters, his tone dripping with distrust. Bo’s glance acknowledges him; however, she turns back to Serine. “You’re just here for one night?” she asks, her voice steady, though Serine can sense the calculated weighing of risks in her tone. Serine measures her response, offering a nod of agreement. “I’ll move on in the morning. You won’t even notice I was here.” Thomas shifts, his unease showing as he glares, but Bo has already made her decision. She turns to Sorin. “Find her a place near the edge, close to the camp walls,” Bo says with authority. “Oh, and Sorin…” She says as Sorin’s eyes flicker toward Bo. " Keep an eye on her.”
A subtle relief washes over Serine. She hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the eclipse, and her body aches for rest. “Follow me,” Sorin says, his tone clipped as he gestures for Serine to accompany him. He signals for Idris to join them as they head toward a cluster of tents on the camp’s perimeter. Lanterns cast pools of dim light across the path, illuminating the thin mist settling in the cool night air. As they walk, Serine feels the weight of the camp’s attention upon her. Wary eyes follow her every step. She senses the ripple of tension that grips the encampment, likely a reaction to the eclipse and whatever lingering fears it’s awakened. But there’s something else too—a quiet unease that seems to hover just beyond the edge of her awareness, something she can’t quite define.
As Serine walks, she takes in Idris, noticing how his wooden beads click together with each step. The reds and yellows of his beaded bracelet stand out against his dark complexion. He isn’t native to the Empire—probably from the western lands, by the coast. She observes how he carries himself: light on his feet, every movement deliberate like he’s unconsciously avoiding the snap of twigs or the rustle of leaves. He shifts his position as they pass a smoky fire, instinctively avoiding the smoke’s path. “Not just for your eyes,” Serine thinks, “he's concealing his scent. He knows how the wind carries.” Her gaze travels to his belt, where a small collection of tools hangs: an angled knife, a twisted wire, a piece of worn leather—tools of utility, not combat. “A man who dresses his kills in the field,” she notes. “A hunter,” she concludes, watching his sharp eyes and ears sweep their surroundings, reading the landscape as if each patch of ground tells a story. Her eyes catch on a small pendant around his neck, hand-carved and rough-edged, likely a gift from a child. “Payment here provides for his family.” He’s tall, proud, and looks like someone with more than just his own life on the line.
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Then, her attention shifts to Sorin, walking just ahead. His skin is lighter, his hands callused, and his ears slightly deformed—marks of someone skilled in hand-to-hand combat. His posture is perfectly aligned, shoulders squared, and he moves with a controlled balance as if his body is always prepared to react. She listens to his quiet, measured footsteps, each one careful, his breathing steady and deliberate. His steady, constant rhythm reminds her of fighters trained to regulate every breath, conserving energy for the moment they need it most. His dark hair is tied into a top knot, sides shaved clean. “Disciplined,” she thinks. Focused. There are faint scars along his knuckles and forearms, small but telling marks that hint at real battles fought. “He’s probably a student of a greater master, out here seeking experience. Or maybe a way to put his violent skills to some moral use.” He’s dressed casually, the black outfit seemingly unremarkable at first. But she can tell it’s a disguised gi, loosely fitted for flexibility, allowing him a range of motion if things were to turn physical.
They stop in front of a small, unoccupied tent slightly removed from the others. Sorin gestures toward it. “You’re in here,” he says, his tone neutral. Serine assesses the tent. It’s not much, but offers more comfort than she’s felt in weeks. She gives Sorin a nod. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Sorin’s gaze is steady, holding a hint of warning. “Don’t step out of line tonight,” he advises, crossing his arms as if to emphasise his point. “I will be watching you.”
Idris stands a step behind, his stance more relaxed but no less attentive. “I’ll be back later to check up,” he adds, and there’s no mistaking the subtext—it’s more surveillance than hospitality.
Serine watches as they turn and head back toward the heart of the camp, leaving her alone. She takes a deep breath, savouring the brief safety and solitude, aware that her every move will be monitored. She needs the rest, even for only one night. She slips inside her tent, allowing herself a moment of stillness.
She drops her travel pack to the ground, the dull thud breaking the silence of the small tent. She sets aside her unnecessary weapons, stashing them carefully within reach. Rubbing the back of her neck, she tries to ease the tension that has settled deep in her muscles. The journey has been long, winding through dangerous paths, and she can feel the weight of each step still pressing on her bones. She craves rest—the kind she hasn’t known in what feels like lifetimes.
She sits on the edge of the crude bed, its uneven surface a far cry from the comforts she once knew. Her mind, though, is anything but still. Flashes of her past come uninvited, memories sharpening and fading like blades in the dark. She recalls her narrow escape, the clash of steel, the hollow echo of betrayal. She can still feel the hurt of failing her king, the one duty she’d sworn to protect above all else. His face lingers in her mind, and she can almost hear his voice, though it’s drowned out by all the other noise of that fatal night.
Serine sighs, forcing herself to shake off the memories. They cling to her, heavy and unyielding. “Violence,” she thinks. It’s all she’s ever known. She’s been the one wielding it, sometimes with purpose, other times with reckless abandon. “They deserved it,” she tells herself, her thoughts circling back to old battles, old enemies, old scars. But others—others linger in her memory, unresolved. She knows she’s always tried to be more than a blade, but there are days she isn’t sure she succeeded. She’s fought evil, “but have I become it?” The question feels like a stone in her gut, weighing her down even as she tries to escape it.
She leans forward, running a hand over her face. She yearns to break free, to step away from the blood and the ruin she’s seen and caused. She’s always been a weapon, the most skilled, the one to make it out alive, but the cost of it bothers her. Years of violence have worn down her spirit, and now she feels hollowed out, the toll of her life stretching endlessly behind her.
She’s travelled far enough that her past should feel like nothing more than a distant echo. And yet, here in the stillness, it finds her. The weight of it presses at her mind, stirring up images of those she couldn’t save, reminders of why she had to leave. She lets out a breath, slow and steady, reminding herself that she has a plan. She’ll head South in the morning, far from these lands and their tangled histories. She’ll follow the coast, as she’s always planned, and she won’t stop until the whispers of her past are little more than memories worn thin by time. Only then, she tells herself, will she find true rest.
Serine settles back onto the bed, letting her tired body sink into its rough comfort. She closes her eyes, though sleep feels like a distant luxury. But she knows this much: tomorrow, she’ll move again. She closes her eyes and lets the faint scratchings of the tent’s fabric settle around her. She wants nothing more than to drift into sleep, but something holds her back, an unease that clings to the edges of her consciousness. It’s that feeling again—the subtle dread that has been haunting her since the eclipse. She tries to shake it off, but within the camp’s boundaries, it feels closer, almost tangible. The air is thick with it, a weight pressing down, making it hard to breathe.
She listens, she notices how the usual sounds of the forest are muted. The hum of insects, the soft rustling of nocturnal creatures—it’s as if the whole forest is holding its breath. She’s used to the life of the woods, the chorus of noises that mark each night, but this silence is unnatural, unsettling. It’s as if everything is hiding, afraid to make a sound, afraid to be found.
An unease builds in her chest. She opens her eyes, the dim light in the tent giving way to darkness, and rises to her feet. Outside, the night is almost too still, as if waiting for something to break the silence. She steps out into the open, feeling the cool air settle on her skin, the quiet almost deafening. She scans the treeline, her instincts sharp, senses heightened despite the weariness gripping her bones.
It’s there, just beyond the reach of the lantern light—a presence. She can’t see it, but she can feel it, something lurking just out of sight, watching, waiting. The camp is unaware, but she knows this tension is not lost on them. It’s the same unease that hangs over the mercenaries, the same tension that prickles at the back of their necks, whether they admit it or not. She stands, unmoving, eyes locked on the darkness ahead. She knows well enough to trust her instincts, and they are screaming at her now. Whatever it is out there, it’s building, readying to strike. The camp may be ignoring it for now, but Serine can feel its approach, the silent stalk of something that doesn’t belong in this world.
As the silence deepens, she finds herself gripping the hilt of her blade, her fingers tightening as she narrows her gaze. This dread is no ordinary fear. It’s the kind that precedes violence, the calm before a storm.
Something is coming. She knows it. And it’s only a matter of time before it arrives.