The first week of setting up camp was coming to an end. Moira rested in her tent, her thoughts drifting once again to Ashan. She sincerely hoped that the gray nomad from the hillside would find not only his way home but, above all, a sense of peace. After all, he’d awakened in a time of peace, straight from the depths of a grueling, endless war. It struck her that this must be a shock to him—yet perhaps it was better than the alternative, one where the war still raged on. “I hope he writes once he settles into the city,” she murmured to herself, almost as if voicing the wish might somehow guide him there.
She stepped out of her tent, looking around for something warm to eat. She passed Jorgen, who was sitting by a barrel that served as his makeshift desk. He was scrawling something in his ledger with a furrowed brow. Food can wait; better check on him, she thought, and went back to the forester.
"Is something off with the accounts?" she asked with concern.
"Oh, Miss Moira. No, not exactly," he chuckled awkwardly. "It’s just that one of the boys hasn’t shown up to collect his pay yet. I get it if someone skips a day of work—these things happen—but to skip pay?" He scratched his head, continuing, "It’s Leif, that young lad from out of town. Didn’t strike me as the type to just up and abandon a contract."
"Maybe he took a break somewhere out of sight and fell asleep?" Moira wondered aloud. "I was planning to take a walk through the woods before dusk; I could keep an eye out," she offered.
"Would you mind? I don’t want to start a panic over someone going missing. If he’s not back by nightfall, then we’ll see. For now, I’d rather not halt the work. Besides, if he just dozed off somewhere and a whole crew goes looking for him, he’ll never live it down," he cleared his throat, then added more formally, "I’d really appreciate it, miss."
"No problem," Moira replied. "I’ll take a good look around, but if I don’t find him before dark, we’ll need to organize a search party," she said, raising a finger to emphasize her conditions.
"Fair enough, miss, fair enough. Thank you again!" Jorgen closed the ledger, tucked it under his arm, patted Moira’s shoulder gratefully, put on a stern face, and walked over to a group of lumberjacks who seemed to have been lingering by the light ale barrel a bit too long.
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Before heading into the forest, she ladled some of the day's warm soup into her large mug. It was a bit too bland for her taste, but filling. She felt content with the harvest so far. Along with replenishing her usual stock of herbs needed for popular remedies, she had gathered a whole basket of eaglewood nuts that would fetch a few gold coins when transported to the capital. The city's master chefs loved to enhance their dishes with the nuts’ rich, full flavor. She’d sold most of her basic remedies to the lumberjacks, and even with the agreed discount, it had been a fair and solid profit. She planned to return to the town with the first load of wood, as they were sourcing a hard variety ideal for furniture, which didn’t grow in the closer parts of the forest.
Sipping from her mug, she strolled deeper into the woods toward the direction where work was not underway, assuming this would be where the young man might have gone to nap. For a long time, she saw no signs of anyone having been there, and as the soup was nearly finished, she was about to give up when a thought occurred to her. *Everyone else is busy in the opposite direction, and the lad is clearly nowhere around here; one or two of my “crows” shouldn’t draw any attention.* She set her mug down on the ground, took her time, and wove the summoning spell carefully.
She thought of them as crows, though they were more shadowy, nightmarish phantoms. They might have had the form of a bird, but aside from sharp beaks and talons, they were mostly shadows, with purplish smoke trailing from them. All three fixed their gazes on her, waiting for her command. She gave them instructions, then sat down under a tree, stretching her legs. The crows could scout the area within a range of up to an hour, or even two hours’ flight, before they would reach the limits of her spell.
Children adored the imperial mages' displays at festivals, conjuring pleasant water or fire sprites. Moira’s repertoire, however, had nothing of the sort. Then there was the taboo of dead bodies. Necromancy took a very utilitarian approach to death and what remains after it. Hardly anyone condemned nature mages for using living plants, subjecting them to violent, unnatural changes in their spells, but try the same with a dead body, and the locals would reach for pitchforks and torches in an instant. She understood why, of course, and tried to practice her art out of sight whenever possible, yet it remained a source of nagging frustration.
Her thoughts were interrupted by one of the crows; it had evidently found something and, proud of itself, landed right by her foot, waiting for its reward. Moira stroked its beak and allowed it to pass its vision to her. She furrowed her brow, sighed, and, nodding her head, murmured, “It’s definitely not been a good day for Leif.”