The soldier survived the night.

Refugees greeted the fifth day of their journey much like the ones before, wearied, and tired. However, a seed of hope had been planted the night before by a young lad, barely seventeen, who pulled off a feat many thought impossible.

After their journey of losses and misfortune, Exill’s actions became a sorely needed victory. The amputee was still at deaths door, but as long as he drew breath, whispers abounded within the caravan that the young lad had been blessed by the Spirit.

“Bloody fine job you did last night.” a gruff man patted his shoulder.

“Where in the World did you learn to do that?” another asked.

Soldiers came up to shake Exill’s hand and thanked him for his work. More important than that, he sensed pride bleed through his party connection with Verill. Feeling happy for perhaps the first time since entering the world, he silently prayed that the soldier would survive as he fell in line with the departing caravan.

***

The refugees made good speed that day.

The people were buoyed as road traffic increased and the density of settlements became evident. They encountered more traffic on the road, scouts and merchants who carried information on how the war was progressing in the east and southern fronts.

“We need to get you a clinic when we reach Ark.” Verill commented out of the blue, walking steadily beside him. Exill didn’t know how to reply to that statement. In fact, he had been so busy living in the now, stressed with survival, that he hadn’t given the future any thought.

‘Do I want to be a healer?’ he wondered.

Sure, healing people was satisfying, but that was only after the fact. Even now, remembering the amputation he had done last night made him want to throw up part of his breakfast.

“How about you. What do you want to do when you reach Ark?” Exill changed the topic.

“Ah… I’m not fortunate as you. It would be very difficult for a hunter/forager like me to make a living in Ark. No, if there was a way, it would be by joining the Mercenary Guild and hunting in the Labyrinth.” There was a flicker in Verill’s eyes as he mentioned the Guild.

“Labyrinth?” Exill asked, confused.

Verill tousled the boy’s hair affectionately, reminded again how little he had experienced of the vast world, “They say it is a Tower visible from all parts of the city. You enter to fight monsters and harvest their parts, and turning it into the Guild. My Pa used to have friends who were Mercs, said it paid really well for only a few hours work a day.”

Exill continued walking, lost in thought. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to face any monsters after his brief combat against the wolves. Distracted, his eyes caught movement to the south among the overgrown fields. A flock of birds cawed in outrage as they suddenly took to the air and a tumult of yelps could be heard approaching them.

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“Grass hounds!” The Navigator abruptly yanked his reigns, pulling the cart to a stop and stood up.

Upon hearing this, Exill and Verill dropped their heavy luggage, mostly composed of water and sprinted towards the carts that had halted in a long line. Their drivers had been caught off guard and didn’t have the opportunity to circle them in an improvised barricade.

They arrived at the rearmost cart not a moment too soon before a pack of dozen hounds leapt out of the tall grass upon the refugees. On initial glance, they resembled the hyenas of Earth from their hunched appearance, sporting mottled olive/brown hides and gaping pink maws.

Several slow men and women were pinned down and ripped apart by the ferocious dogs. The remaining refugees raised their spears in a bristling defensive formation, startled by the sudden ambush and the sight of their fallen comrades. The mules were still hitched to their carts and the drivers were doing all they could to calm the panicking animals and stop them kicking free.

As quickly as they had appeared, the hounds dragged off the four fallen refugees into the tall grass and the sound of crackling bones rang out from the dense underbrush.

“Mama!” a girl could be heard crying within the tense formation,

“They are already lost! I can’t hold the damn mules any longer. We must flee!” the Navigator yelled, motioning the other drivers to follow his lead. The caravan reformed in a tight formation as the carts began to jolt forward. Exill looked back one last time at the shaking brush as he jogged to keep pace with the others.

***

That evening the traumatized group of survivors were muted as they set up camp. Most, but not all of the refugees gathered around the campfire to hold an impromptu ceremony for those deceased. It was led by an elder of Hillsmead who held the hands of the sniffling girl who had lost her mother.

“Today we are gathered in memory of those that have departed the Last Bridge, and into the infinite silence that lies beyond. Their dream is over… and may the Spirit guide them safely to the next one.”

Turning away after the prayer, Exill went to check up on the soldier he had treated the night before. The man appeared more lucid than before but was struggling to remain awake. Exill may have saved one life, and that was still a very tenuous assumption… but four more had been cut brutally short today.

‘It could have been me if I had run any slower.’ He thought glumly.

Exill helped set up the stakes forming the barricade and finally sat back to enjoy some rest. He opened his Card and inspected the progress made in his jobs. [Crafter] was lvl 3 and [Forager] was lvl 2. [Tailor] was still greyed out but an unfamiliar skill greeted his eyes. This job was also greyed out and appeared to be a Tier 2 progression of the [Herbalist] job. The requirements were displayed below:

[Witchdoctor] ‘Required: [Herbalist] lvl 20, [Tailor] lvl 5, [Carpenter] lvl 5.’

[Tailor] and [Carpenter] were both Tier 2 progressions of the [Crafter] skill and could be obtained after lvl 20.

‘I wonder why anyone would bother remaining a [Crafter] for any longer than necessary. While the bonus to crafting speed is nice, there must be a point of diminishing returns.’ Exill expressed his thoughts and doubts to Verill who sighed before replying.

“I honestly don’t know Exill. The elders like to chastise the young’uns that a good foundation must be established. They believe a strong low-level job leads to a stronger progression down the line.” He hesitated before adding, “I’ve heard of master carpenters who demand apprentices stick to their [Crafter] job for at least 10 years before progressing. There might be a method to their madness considering they are masters of their craft, huh?”

The two sat in companionable silence as each reflected on their own jobs and path of progression.