As the twilight hues of dusk melted into the deep blues of the evening, the members of Erik's troop gathered around the campfire, the flickering flames casting a warm glow on their weary faces. With dinner preparations underway, the savory scent of roasting meat and earthy herbs filled the air. Erik settled down amongst his comrades, his paperwork set aside for the moment, as the time for sharing stories took hold.
Berretta, her eyes still alert even in relaxation, started the tales. "I never planned to become a Tidewalker. Though I don’t think anyone plans on their abilities," she said, drawing a circle in the soil with a stick as she spoke. Her voice was steady, but her comrades could hear the distant echo of the tragedy that had shaped her.
Smith, who was turning a skewer of meat over the fire, glanced up at her. "What's a Tidewalker?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
"It’s someone whose soul is bound to the tides, to the water," Berretta explained, meeting his gaze. "For us, the sea and the rain speak more clearly than words. I don’t know what we were called before the Eternal King embraced the term.” She moved her hand and water formed from the atmosphere into a small disk that enveloped her hand. “Unlike most other elemental-like powers though, there are no spirits that can help teach us.”
As Berretta manipulated the droplets with a Tidewalker's grace, a mischievous glint sparked in her eye. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a small orb of water arcing over the fire. It landed atop Smith's head with a playful splash, eliciting a surprised yelp from him as droplets scattered across the flames, causing them to hiss and sputter.
Smith, sputtering a bit himself, shook his head with mock indignation, beads of water flinging from his hair. "Oh, very funny, Tidebringer," he said, the nickname for Berretta carrying a note of fond teasing. He rummaged through his belongings with exaggerated annoyance, drawing a cloth to dry his damp locks, all while casting an amused side-eye at Berretta. The rest of the troop chuckled, the tension of the day easing with the shared humor.
Once his hair was less drenched, Smith stood, capturing their attention with a clearing of his throat. "Being a Grounder... it's about understanding the very bones of Arvendon," he began, his voice carrying the reverberations of the deep tunnels from which he came. His eyes glowed with the remembrance of discovery as he recounted his first encounter with the raw, pulsing power of the earth beneath the city. "It's beneath the streets where I found my purpose, in the embrace of stone and dirt. Down there, power isn't just about strength—it's about sustaining life, supporting the weight of a city, and the hearts of its people."
The troop nodded, their respect for Smith's deep connection to Arvendon's foundations palpable in the attentive silence that followed. Then, in the softening light, Sam took her turn, her fingers deftly weaving magic as a vine twisted and twined at her command. "Nature," she mused, "is not a thing to be bent to our will—not really. In Arvendon, the plants bow to our needs, the trees grow to our designs. But out here, in the wilds of the Wylde Wood..." She trailed off, letting her gaze wander into the forest that encroached upon their circle of light. "Out here, we must listen. We must adapt. And perhaps, if we are wise, we grow."
Her words seemed to resonate with the very essence of the forest around them, as if the trees themselves were leaning in to listen, to approve. Erik nodded in appreciation of his troop's openness, their voices adding layers to the tapestry of their united purpose. "We all carry the marks of our past," he reflected, his gaze lingering on each of his comrades. “You, Sam, tend to sing about it...horribly.”
“I’ll be sure to sing extra loud next time just for you, Ser,” Sam pouted, crossing her arms in jest, her vine mimicking her actions.
The firelight flickered across Jorge's face, casting deep shadows as he listened to Sam’s tale. Her words about nature's indomitable will resonated with him, reminding him that although he had been shaped by the military's structure, he too was subject to the wild forces of his own nature.
"As a kid in the barracks, my days were marked by drills and ceremonies," Jorge began, his voice steady and even. "My parents, they served with honor, you know? It was expected I'd do the same. But it was more than expectation—it was about living up to a legacy." He paused, looking into the flames as if they held the reflections of his memories.
"I didn't awaken as a Grounder until I was sixteen. Most have their awakening much earlier." He flexed his fingers, and the earth beside the fire stirred, a small demonstration of his affinity. "It felt like I was late to the party, like I had to catch up."
Berretta nudged him playfully. "But catch up you did, didn't you? Always the one to raise the bar."
Jorge chuckled. "Maybe so. But it wasn't about showing off. It was about proving to myself that I could carry the weight they did—the weight of responsibility, of protecting something far greater than myself."
He leaned back, looking up at the stars visible through the canopy's gaps. "Growing up with structure, with certainty, it has its perks. But it also means you're shielded from the harsher truths of the world. Out here, with you all, I've seen a different kind of strength. It's raw, it's real. It's fighting not because it's expected, but because it's necessary."
A hush fell over the group as they considered his words, each of them carrying their own reasons for joining the fight, their own burdens of duty.
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"Erik's been a good leader for us," Jorge continued, nodding toward their lieutenant. "He understands what it means to serve. To lead. To be part of something bigger. And in the end, that's what being a Grounder is about. Not just moving the earth but understanding your place in it—and acting to ensure that place remains solid for others, too."
With that, he fell silent, allowing his story to blend with the others, a mosaic of lives woven together by fate and the shared flames of the campfire. The night deepened around them, but the fire burned on, a testament to their resilience and the enduring spirit of the troop united under Erik's command.
The stories of the troop seemed to linger in the night air, mingling with the scent of the damp earth and pine, when a new presence approached. The campfire’s light glinted off Amiya’s face as she stepped into the circle, her arrival as silent as the moon's light filtering through the fragmented sky above.
"There’s a dance in the sky every night," Amiya said as she joined the group, her gaze lifted to where the remnants of the moon continued their celestial dance, the eternal reminder of her home’s once divine guardian. "It's both beautiful and sorrowful."
Sam's eyes sparkled with the reflection of the fire and the fragmented moon. "Amiya, the Tidewalker from Nyxia," she introduced her to the group, her tone warm and proud.
Erik motioned to a space next to him, inviting Amiya to sit. "Tell us about Nyxia," he prompted, sensing the depth of the tale she carried.
Amiya settled by the fire, her cloak falling around her like a curtain of night. "The moon's fracture was our city's greatest loss," she began, her hands clasped in her lap as though holding the memory close. "Nyxia prospered in the moon's whole glow, but now, with its shattered state, we feel the absence of the spirit acutely."
“I feel as though the whole world felt that loss, tides receded enough for harbor towns to disappear or move significantly.” Jorge mumbled. “A piece fell and formed a crater where a mountain once stood near Nyxia right?
“True,” Her voice wove the picture of a city that celebrated the moon’s light, even in its brokenness, and held hope for a return of its spirit. “We Tidewalkers were venerated, thought to be the conduit for a new protector’s birth. But as the crater lake swelled, the spirit remained absent, and hope turned to disillusion.”
The troop listened, engrossed by her tale that resonated with the visible scars in the night sky. “Being chosen for the military,” Amiya continued, “was the city's way of seeking favor, a chance for Tidewalkers to find a new purpose when the old ways dimmed.”
As Amiya's tale merged with the others', her presence brought a new texture to the tapestry of their shared histories. The fractured moon above served as a silent witness to their stories, a reminder of the past's hold and the potential for rebirth in every ending.
"In the military, under a broken moon, we serve, we protect, and perhaps in our own way, we mend," Amiya concluded, her eyes now reflecting the campfire's steadfast flame.
Erik nodded thoughtfully. "We're all mending something," he murmured, a statement that encapsulated the essence of their gathering. The fire continued to burn, the heart of their circle, as they shared in the comfort of companionship and the enduring hope that, like the moon above, they too could find beauty in brokenness and strength in unity.
Erik watched his troop, pride and something akin to paternal care etched in his features. "Tonight, we share more than a meal," he said, his voice carrying over the crackle of the fire. "We share the stories that shape us, the truths that bond us, and the spirits that guide us."
"Eat well," Erik said, gesturing to the feast, "for after this, it’s my turn to share. And mine is a tale of where our paths began, and where they may yet lead us."
The stories wove together, painting a picture of the troop's diverse backgrounds and the forces that brought them to this point, to this mission. As each tale concluded, a comfortable silence settled over the group, an unspoken acknowledgment of shared struggles and triumphs.
As they ate, the energy shifted in anticipation of the story that Erik promised—a tale about his sister, Abby, and the circumstances that had bound her fate to his. With bellies full and hearts open, they readied themselves to listen to the history of one of their own, a story that promised to be as captivating as the enigmatic world they were determined to protect.
Erik stirred the embers of the campfire, sending a cascade of sparks into the night sky before settling back into his seat. The troop, full of dinner and wrapped in the comfort of shared stories, turned their attention to him, the firelight casting shadows across their faces.
“As you all are wondering, yes, Abby is an Auctian,” Erik began, his voice carrying a mix of pride and wistfulness. “The only one in Arvendon. Her journey here was as unusual as her presence is unique.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts, his gaze distant as he recalled the past. “But let me start from the middle, in the crown slums of the hive city—where all new citizens are placed, you see my family and I moved there when I was eight. It's a world away from the Points, from the grandeur you see in the spires above.”
Erik described the crown slums with vivid detail: the outdated technology that barely kept the lights on, the reliance on bronze kings—a currency so old and devalued that it was practically worthless elsewhere in Arvendon. “Down there,” he said, “the streets are a maze of mixed metal and earthen tunnels, half-collapsed, sectioning off whole areas. Crime is as common as the dirt beneath your feet, and hope is a rare commodity.”
Yet, amid this grim backdrop, Erik brought to life the vibrant existence he shared with Abby. “Despite everything, it was our playground. Abby and I, we made the best of what we had. We played in those tunnels, imagined them as vast kingdoms or mysterious labyrinths. Abby always had stories about Auctia—tales of underwater life and technological advancement beyond ours. She taught me words in Auctian, songs that she heard on their broadcasts.”
The fire crackled as Erik leaned forward, his demeanor changing as he delved into more personal memories. “It wasn’t easy, growing up in the slums, but My Ma, Pa, and Abby... they had a way of seeing beauty in the grime, of finding magic in the mundane. We'd sit on rooftops imagine watching the stars along the metallic ceilings, Abby and I making plans to one day move to the Points, to escape the confines of the oppressed slums.”
Smith was nodding in agreement, he too knew of those tunnels below the points.
Erik’s voice grew soft, his usual stoicism giving way to a rare vulnerability. “Joining the military was my decision, driven by a need to protect something important, my family. It wasn’t just about escaping the slums; it was about providing a better life for them. But my sister, she deserved more than broken streets and shattered dreams.”
The troop listened, rapt, as Erik described their transition from the depths of the city to the Points, a section reserved for those who served the crown. “It was a new beginning,” he continued. “For Abby, it was a chance to be closer to the skies she loved, to the stars that seemed less distant from the heights of the Points.”
“As for me, the military taught me more than just how to fight; it taught me about duty, about sacrifice. It brought me all of you,” he said, gesturing to the circle around the fire. “And in a way, it brought me closer to achieving my dream, to take revenge on my hometown that was sacked during the onset of the war.” His tone went deep as the memories flooded in.
Erik settled after a moment, the fire illuminating his thoughtful expression. “Abby’s somewhere out there right now, probably looking at the same stars we are. And while she’s not with us tonight, she’s never truly far I feel. No that my parents have passed, she’s the reason I’m here, the reason I fight—not just for Arvendon, but for the family we choose, for the family we make.”