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Landera stares at you wide eyed, stunned at the news she received.
“A mutiny?” she asks, baffled. “But, why?”
“They believe he’s leading us to our deaths,” you reply, just as startled about this development as she is. “Gartzen tried to defend Captain Lema, but we both know how he struggles with interacting with people.”
“That’s an understatement,” Landera remark. You chuckle half-heartedly in solemn agreement.
“The others weren’t having it, and the pushback was immediate,” you continue. “Captain Lema tried to dismiss their concerns as being exhausted from a trying day, but I don’t think that’s the reason they’re upset.”
Concern consumes Landera, biting her nails and fixing her gaze to the ground while she thinks. As she does this, you notice that several of her nails are ragged and uneven, the edges chewed down to the quick. At first, you assume the dried, reddish marks around her cuticles are from the rough work of sailing or intense manual labored at Aitzabal. But on closer inspection, it’s clear her raw and tender fingertips are the result of excessive nail biting.
She grimaces, sucking air through her teeth. “We can’t just sit back and do nothing,” she determines. “But if we go straight to Captain Lema, the others might target us too.”
You feel the pit forming in your stomach. Though you haven’t expressed your undying loyalty to Captain Lema, it’s possible that any attempt at alerting him to the unrest that boils beneath the surface could be misconstrued. And not just by the mutineers; while they could see you as an informer and ally to their perceived enemy, Captain Lema could believe you’re just stirring up trouble. It’s dancing on a knife’s edge, and you don’t like the feeling of impending disaster that threatens to send everything crashing down.
“We need to be smart about this,” you say, thinking quickly. “We can try to gather more information and maybe warn some of the more loyal officers once we determine who’s involved.”
Landera nods. “Agreed. We’ll have to be subtle. Let’s start by talking to Gartzen. He’s loyal to Lema and might know who we can trust.”
The settlers somberly move about the campsite. Fires are snuffed out, tents are taken down and rolled up, and tools and cooking utensils are hastily cleaned and stowed away. Everyone wordlessly gathers their belongings, while those with horses, like Captain Lema, pack their supplies onto the animals and prepare for the journey ahead.
Wet conditions remain from the previous day’s rain. One of the few positives is that it has turned the vegetation a lush, vibrant green, as if you’re swimming in an emerald sea. Much like the mood of the settlers, the sky overhead is gloomy and gray, and you sense a chill in the air. Whether that’s from the weather or the state of everyone’s morale, you can’t determine.
The settlers move with an excessive, yet understandable, amount of caution. The memory of the recent rockslide lingers in the forefront of everyone’s minds, grimly reminding you of nature’s unforgiving wrath. Each step is taken with care as you all navigate the rough and rugged terrain of this strange, new land. The ground beneath your feet is uneven, strewn with jagged rocks and hidden crevices that threaten to ensnare the unwary. Every rustle of the wind or distant call of a bird or unfamiliar creature causes heads to turn sharply, eyes seeking any sign of danger.
The path ahead winds upward, a blend of steep inclines and narrow passes that compel the group to move in single file. Each step requires careful attention as the ground beneath shifts and crumbles, sending the occasional stone skittering down the slope. The dense foliage and rocky outcrops provide little visibility, adding to the sense of unease that permeates the group. Despite the slow pace, the steady rise of the sun guides you onward.
Amidst the sounds of their journey—the crunch of gravel, the scrape of boots against stone, the labored breaths of the weary—there are quieter, more insidious noises. Murmurs and whispers drift through the ranks, barely audible over the din of travel. Snatches of conversation reach your ears. Fragments of discontent and conspiracy set your nerves on edge. “…can’t keep going like this…” “…Lema doesn’t know what he’s doing…” “…time for a change…” The words are like a persistent itch at the back of your mind, impossible to ignore.
You quicken your pace, weaving through the line of settlers until you reach Gartzen atop his horse. He’s in deep concentration, his eyes sweeping the terrain ahead, as he directs the movement of the group.
“Gartzen, we need to talk,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady in case anyone overhears you.
“Not now,” he replies curtly, not even glancing your way. “We need to keep moving. We can’t afford any delays.”
“But it’s important,” you insist, your voice dropping to a whisper, yet you try to convey the urgency of the matter. “I’ve been hearing the mutterings of a mutiny.”
Gartzen finally looks at you, his brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a tight line. “We’ll discuss it later,” he says through his snarled teeth, leaving no room for argument. “Right now, my priority is getting everyone through this safely. Keep your eyes open and stay vigilant.”
With that, he turns his attention back to the group, barking orders and urging the settlers forward. You step back, frustration eating away at your patience, but understanding the necessity of keeping everyone moving. The sense of urgency and unease remains—a constant companion on this perilous journey.
The further you travel, the more frayed the settlers’ nerves become. The tension that has been building quietly now starts to bubble to the surface. It begins with a small argument over the distribution of water rations. One of the settlers, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual scowl, accuses another of taking more than their fair share. His voice is loud enough to draw the attention of others, and soon a small crowd gathers, their faces etched with the same weariness and frustration.
“This is the third time I’ve caught you taking more than your share, Rotrigo!” the man shouts, reaching his hand to the hilt of his knife. “We’re all suffering out here, and you think you’re entitled to more because you’re a little thirstier than the rest of us?”
Rotrigo, a wiry man with darting eyes, sneers in response. “I don’t need to be lectured by you, Aberte. I take what I need to survive, just like everyone else. If you have a problem with it, then maybe you should take it up with Captain Lema. Oh, that’s right—he’s too busy leading us into disaster to care.”
The crowd murmurs in agreement, the unease escalating as more settlers join the fray. Aberte’s face reddens with anger, and for a moment, it seems like the argument might explode into violence. Before it can, one of Captain Lema’s officers, a stern-faced woman with with sharp, angular features and a gaze that could cut through steel, steps in.
“That’s enough!” her voice cuts through the chaos. Her hair is tightly braided and streaked with silver, and her posture is as rigid as the sword strapped to her side. “Save your energy for the journey. We still have a ways to go before nightfall.”
Her words quell the current conflict, but the mutterings don’t stop. As the group resumes its march, you catch snippets of conversation—grumbling about Lema’s leadership, whispers of taking matters into their own hands. Distrust coils around the group like a tightening noose, making each step forward feel more precarious, as if the ground itself might give way at any moment.
Captain Lema’s eyes flit across the crowd, catching the uneasy shift in their movements, the mutterings of unrest. Without a word, he begins directing the most vocal settlers to tasks that stretch their endurance like taut strings, pushing them to their limits under the guise of maintaining order. His steps are unhurried, deliberate, as he pulls aside a few of the louder voices, speaking to them in low tones that seem to blend with the rustling wind. His gaze sharpens, cutting through their words, weighing each one with the precision of a seasoned commander. By the time he finishes, the immediate confrontation has been diffused, but an undercurrent of tension hardens like a knot that won’t loosen.
By now, the sun begins its descent, and the forest air cools, bringing a welcome respite from the day’s heat. Sensing the approach of nightfall, the settlers start looking for a suitable place to break camp. They move with a mix of relief and wariness, grateful that the day has passed without any life-threatening incidents.
Finally, they find a small clearing surrounded by tall trees, offering a semblance of shelter. Fires are quickly built, tents erected, and supplies unpacked. The smell of cooked food begins to mingle with the earthy scent of the forest, creating a temporary haven amidst the wilderness. By the time they set up camp, the group is weary, but intact. However, the murmurings of discontent and mutiny continue to linger. It’s a dark undercurrent to their hard-earned respite. Illuminated by the flickering flames, the settler’s faces reveal a mix of exhaustion and unease. Some huddle in small groups, whispering conspiratorially among themselves, while others stare into the flames, lost in their thoughts.
There’s a lingering sense of fear and doubt among the settlers, visible in their tense shoulders and the way their eyes dart nervously to the shadows beyond the firelight. Their movements are quick and jerky, as if any sudden noise might send them fleeing. Even in the quiet moments, hands tremble as they reach for food or adjust bedrolls, and soft murmurs of conversation carry a hint of unease, like they’re afraid of being overheard by the darkness itself.
Despite the relative calm of the evening, a sense of foreboding lingers like a mist, curling around the camp and seeping into every crevice. You feel it pressing in on you, drawing you instinctively toward the warmth of a campfire. The flames offer a fragile comfort, and you settle near it, seeking solace in its glow.
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You happen upon Landera, who sits by the fire. Somehow, her face reflects both the glow of the flames and the weariness of the journey. She looks up as you approach, offering a small, tired smile. Her voice slices through the twilight, and you can her her telling a story that is a brief reprieve from the journey’s events. Yet even as you listen, your mind remains alert, ever watchful for the signs of the unrest that threatens to boil over. The need to speak with Gartzen grows more urgent with each passing moment, but for now, you bide your time, waiting for the right opportunity to act.
You sit by Landera at the campfire, and the warmth of the flames are a welcome respite from the cool jungle night. The rest of the group is scattered around, some resting, others preparing for the next day’s journey. With her easy smile and bright eyes, Landera recounts a story from the voyage, her voice animated and full of life despite being clearly exhausted.
“…and then the wave hit so hard, it knocked Benicto flat on his back,” she laughs, her laughter infectious. You find yourself laughing too, and you find the tension of the past few days melting away in this brief—and rare—moment of levity.
“That must have been quite the sight,” you say, shaking your head. “I wish I had been there to see his face.”
Landera grins, her eyes twinkling in the firelight. “You should’ve seen it! He was so mad, but the rest of us couldn’t stop laughing. It was the first time anyone saw him so flustered.”
As you share this light-hearted moment, Iker approaches stoically. He stands just at the edge of the firelight, watching you and Landera with an intensity that feels almost out of place.
“Iker, come join us!” you call out, gesturing for your friend to sit. “Lander was just telling a story about the ship voyage.”
Iker hesitates, then steps forward. But his smile is forced, and his eyes shift between you and Landera with an emotion you can’t quite place. “Sounds like fun,” he says flatly.
Ever perceptive, Landera notices his discomfort. “You okay, Iker?” she asks gently.
He nods quickly, almost too quickly. “Yeah, just tired. It’s been a long day.” He lowers himself onto the ground, but leaves a noticeable gap between himself and the group, his hands fidgeting in his lap as his gaze occasionally darts back to you as if looking for an escape.
“Well, maybe we should turn in instead,” you suggest, trying to ease the awkwardness. “We could all use some rest, and we’ve got another long day ahead of us.”
Landera catches his eye, offering him a small, steadying smile. “Don’t worry,” she says softly, her voice like a warm breeze in the cooling night. “We’re all in this together. We’ll make it through.”
Iker’s lips twitch into a brief smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, of course. Together.”
As the conversation drifts back to lighter topics while those gathered begin to head into camp, Iker silently steps away. His shoulders slump as he walks, each step slower than the last, as if he’s dragging more than just his feet. You make a mental note to check in with him later, thinking it’s just the exhaustion talking.
The morning mist clings to the forest like a wet garment as the settlers pack up camp. Along with the mist, tension permeates throughout, the kind that makes your skin prickle. You can sense it in the way people move—quick, furtive glances exchanged when they think no one is looking, the hushed conversations that cease the moment an officer walks by. The mutiny is coming. You can feel it in your bones.
You and Landera exchange a worried glance as you both prepare to resume the journey. The whispers from the night before still echo in your mind, the dark promises of rebellion. Gartzen has been keeping a closer watch on the group, but even he seems wary, like he’s waiting for the first crack to appear.
The group sets off in silence, the narrow path forcing you to march in single file. The forest is dense, the canopy overhead blocking out much of the morning light, casting everything in a muted gray. The only sounds are the crunch of boots on the forest floor and the occasional snap of a twig. But beneath it all, there’s an undercurrent of something darker, a rumbling tension that grows with each step.
Your gaze follows the settlers ahead, tracing their every move, and attuned to the slightest shift in their rhythm. The steady thrum of your heart pulses in your ears, as each beat is like a quiet echo of the tension threading through the stillness.
It happens quickly. Too quickly.
A shout rings out from the front of the line, sharp and full of anger. The group halts, confused, but before anyone can react, several settlers break ranks. They rush forward, weapons drawn, and everything descends into calamity.
“Down with Lema!” someone yells, their voice raw with fury.
You see Captain Lema at the front, turning just in time to catch sight of the attackers. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t falter. “Stand your ground!” he bellows, drawing his sword. Who this order is for, you cannot tell.
The mutineers close in, their faces twisted with rage. You and Landera are shoved aside in the melee. The force of bodies crash into you like a wave. You scramble to your feet, searching desperately for Gartzen. He’s in the thick of it, fending off two attackers at once, his sword flashing in the dim light. You shout his name, but your voice is drowned out by the chaos around you.
A mutineer breaks through the line, heading straight for Captain Lema. There’s a moment, a brief, terrifying moment, when you think Lema is going to fall. But then Gartzen is there, his sword cutting a deadly arc through the air. The mutineer crumples to the ground, clutching his side, and Gartzen doesn’t miss a beat, turning to take on the next attacker.
You and Landera find yourselves near the edge of the battle, caught between the urge to run and the need to help. Your heart hammers in your chest, fear and adrenaline warring within you.
“We need to do something!” Landera yells over the din, her voice strained with desperation.
But what? You look around, searching for a way to help, but the scene before you is chaos, pure and simple. The mutineers are pressing forward, their numbers swelling as more settlers join the fray. For a moment, it looks like they might succeed, that they might actually overthrow Captain Lema and take control.
But then Lema’s loyalists rally. Gartzen is at the center of it, a rock amidst the storm, and his presence turns the tide. Slowly, painfully, the mutineers are pushed back, their momentum faltering as they realize they’re outmatched.
You see one of Lema’s officers grappling with a mutineer who’s twice her size. She’s holding her own, but barely. Without thinking, you grab a nearby branch and swing it at the mutineer’s head. It’s not enough to knock him out, but it distracts him long enough for the officer to regain the upper hand. She nods at you in grim acknowledgment before diving back into the fight.
The battle rages on, a brutal, bloody affair that seems to stretch on forever. But slowly, the mutineers begin to falter. One by one, they’re brought down, disarmed, or forced to surrender. The forest floor is littered with the fallen, and the scent of blood and sweat clings to each breath like a heavy mist.
When the last mutineer is subdued, a heavy silence falls over the group. The survivors stand there, panting, bloodied, and exhausted. The mutiny has left a mark—a deep, ugly scar that will take time to heal, if it will at all.
With his sword still drawn, Captain Lema grimly surveys the aftermath. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you can see and feel the burden he carries. He turns to address the group, his voice carrying over the hushed whispers.
“This is what happens when we let fear and distrust take hold,” he says sharply, and almost desperately. “We are a unit, a family. We cannot afford to be divided, not when our survival depends on it.”
His words are heavy and somber. The group listens in silence, the reality of what just happened sinking in. The mutiny has failed, but the damage is done. There’s no telling how deep the fractures run.
As the group regains its composure and begins to tend to the wounded, you catch sight of Gartzen. He’s kneeling by the body of a fallen settler, his expression unreadable. You want to go to him, to offer some kind of comfort, but the feeling of overwhelming sorrow from the day’s events holds you back.
Landera stands beside you with a pale face and eyes wide. She doesn’t speak, but her look says it all. The shared despair and the sense of what could have been seem to bind you together in that gut-wrenching moment.
The remnants of the mutiny sticks with you all as the group resumes their journey. The forest seems darker today, the sky more dreadful. Now subdued, the mutineers walk with their heads lowered, their energy sapped not just by the trek, but by their failure. The group is quieter now, as the whispers are replaced by the dull thud of boots on the forest floor.
Gartzen leads the way, his expression a mask of grim determination. You walk near the back, alongside Landera, who hasn’t spoken much since the fight. The day drags on, the sun climbing higher in the sky, but the forest is so thick that it only filters through in patches, leaving much of the path in a fitting shadow.
As the time passes, you start to notice a change in the mood of the settlers. The silence is gradually replaced by a low hum of excitement, whispers of hope passing from person to person. You all must be close now, and the thought of reaching the settlement, of finally arriving at the place they’ve been promised, fills the air with a tentative optimism. The memory of the mutiny starts to fade as the anticipation builds. The idea of a safe haven, a paradise at the end of this grueling journey, takes hold of their thoughts.
But you can’t feel the same flicker of hope. A small voice in the back of your mind says that this nightmare is far from over.
The forest begins to thin out, and the trees grow sparser. The path widens, and for the first time in what feels like days, you can see the sky clearly. The settlers quicken their pace. The promise of their long-awaited destination pulls them forward, and their exhaustion i momentarily forgotten.
And then, you see it.
Xiatlidar.
The settlers around you begin to cheer, the sound swelling as more and more of the settlement comes into view. From a distance, it looks like the paradise they’ve been dreaming of—a sprawling collection of structures nestled in a clearing, surrounded by the thick forest. There’s a moment, a brief, shining moment, where hope seems to bloom in their chest, where they think that this is the sanctuary you’ve all been searching for.
But as you draw closer, that hope begins to wither.
The cheers falter, then fade into uneasy silence. The settlement that seemed so inviting from a distance now reveals itself in stark, disappointing detail. Instead of being the sturdy, well-maintained structures you’d imagined, the buildings are poorly constructed and crumbling. The roofs sag, and the walls are swollen and waterlogged. The paths between the buildings are little more than muddy ruts, and the smell—the thick, cloying scent of rot and stagnant water—is everywhere.
You glance at Landera, whose wide-eyed expression mirrors your own sinking dread. Standing a few paces away, Iker looks equally disturbed as he takes in the scene before you. While just moments ago they were filled with joy and relief, the settlers now stand frozen in place, their faces twisted with shock and disbelief.
“This… this can’t be right,” someone mutters, reflecting the thoughts racing through your mind.
Though he had been marching at the front, Captain Lema stops dead in his tracks. He surveys the settlement with a cold, hard gaze, and his jaw is set in a tight line. Gartzen comes to stand beside him with barely concealed disgust.
“What is this?” Captain Lema’s statement disrupts the silence. But no one answers. The settlers look to him for guidance, for some kind of explanation, but all he can offer is a steely glare and a terse order to keep moving.
The group trudges forward. The excitement that had buoyed them all this way is now replaced by a heavy sense of foreboding. The closer you get to Xiatlidar, the worse it appears. You catch sight of a few settlers peering out from the shadowed doorways of their homes. Their faces are gaunt, their eyes hollow. This is not the paradise you all were promised. This is a place where hope comes to die.
You find yourself walking slower, each step weighed down by the oppressive atmosphere. Landera stays close, her eyes searching about the settlement with growing concern. Iker walks in silence, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The three of you exchange worried glances, but no one says a word. What is there to say?
As you cross the threshold into the heart of Xiatlidar, you feel that you’ve stepped into a nightmare, one that you might never wake from.