[Tethers] Danger's Meeting

[dracoqueen22]

Title: Danger’s Meeting
Universe: DnD Adjacent, Meetings Series
Characters: Easton
Rated: T (for fantasy typical violence and character death)
Description: Be careful, little one, for fire burns. Easton has never forgotten his mother’s words, but it doesn’t prepare him for meeting the eclectric crew of Tyrael and his friends.

Fire.

His eyes snap open. His nostrils flare. He smells ash and smoke and charred flesh and cloth burned to cinders. Stone resists the heat. Wood crackles and pops as it's consumed.

It licks at his heels.

Fire.

He rolls out of bed, hits the stone floor with a jarring thud, one elbow scraping, the other landing on the bearskin rug. Mother. Father. The house is on fire. The manor is aflame.

It nips at his toes. He scrambles to his feet.

The ceiling gives a warning, creaking groan as red-orange death eats into the beams. He looks up and throws himself back down as it caves in, landing with a crash and a bounce on his bed. Debris smacks into his shoulder, searing his flesh.

He grits his teeth, but the pained whine escapes.

Escape. Yes. He has to escape.

He drags himself to his feet. Slow, too slow. Why do his limbs feel so heavy? Why does he wade through molasses?

Everywhere is flame. The door is afire. There's wood in front of the door. A beam? No. A wardrobe. Someone's pulled a wardrobe in front of his door. He can't move it. It's on fire.

Everything is on fire.

No time for shoes. No time for anything. He's in his nightdress, and the hem is on fire, and he frantically bats at it with his palms, charring his skin.

Smoke. So much smoke. He knows this room. He was born and raised here. He knows every inch of it, every hidden avenue, every stone in the floor, in the walls, every pane of glass in the window.

The window.

A flaming piece of furniture -- once a rocking chair -- blocks his way. He leaps over it, and the fire nips at his buttocks, his back, leaves a mark for him to remember. Fire burns, Mama warned him. Fire burns the hottest when it touches our flesh. Be careful, little one, for fire burns.

The shutters are closed, locked. The latch burns when he touches it, but he grits his teeth, flings them open. The glass is run through with cracks, the pane dividers mocking him. It's a window that can't be opened.

There's a footstool at his feet.

Mother. Father. Forgive me.

He hefts it up and swings.

The glass shatters outward, taking the footstool with it. Wind rushes in, a briefly sweet breeze before it carries the stench of burning with it.

He coughs, his lungs burning, and more fire licks at his heels. No time to wait. He clambers through the broken window, cutting his palms, his legs, his knees. He's two stories up, but death is only certain behind him.

Mama help me.

He closes his eyes and jumps.

For a fraction of a second, he's flying. He's free, and he's escaped, and he doesn't worry about his mother or his father.

He lands. His ankle gives way with a sickening snap, turning beneath him. It hurts, lightning jagged up and down the limb. He drops to hands and knees, whimpers as he crawls. It hurts. Mama, it hurts.

There's screaming. Shouting.

"Fire, fire. Let it burn!" A chorus of voices rising up, accents thick. The sky is so full of smoke, he can't see the stars. Doesn't know if it's ash or cloud.

He crawls. Smells blood. It's his own. He recognizes the bitter tang of it. He's bitten his lip. He tastes blood and smoke. His ankle hurts.

Something grabs him by the shoulder. He gasps, looks up, and a face looms over him, too dark to read. Eyes glitter in the darkness, and the hand squeezes.

Easton's eyes snap open. He startles, and if he weren't so wedged into the branches, he'd have fallen out of the tree serving as his bed for the night. His heart pounds. He's coated in sweat. He swears he can still taste the ash on his tongue.

He closes his eyes and knocks the back of his head against the rough tree trunk. It's a quiet night. Wind whistles through browning leaves. An owl hoots in the distance. There's a damp smell in the air -- approaching dawn.

He supposes there's no use in trying to sleep further.

Easton gathers up his belongings and scales down the tree, landing with a quiet crunch of dead leaves. He freezes, pressing against the trunk, listening.

A moment passes. Two.

Nothing comes at him from the dawn mist. He's safe, as far as he can tell. So he slings his pack over his shoulder, adjusts his quiver, and keeps his longbow at hand.

It's three days to Coralina, or a half-day's walk to Northcrest Ridge. He's not particularly inclined to either, though Coralina has the promise of a warm bath.

Coralina it is.

Easton follows the shadows of the forest and heads east, towards the thickest of the Selwyn Wood, where foul beasts are known to tread on the unwary. Easton doesn't count himself among those. He's been in these woods often enough to know his way around.

He walks for a good hour, skirting around a couple wild boars snuffling in the underbrush, and a dense thicket of web-choked ferns. The sun rises higher, though it's hard to see through the thick canopy, and the morning dew starts to evaporate into a fine, low-hanging mist.

Birds twitter and sing. Insects skitter about. Squirrels dart up and down the trees, gathering for the winter to come.

A different sound catches his attention, one that doesn't fit the song of the forest. Easton freezes and listens intently.

Footsteps. Voices. The clatter of armor. Whistling.

It's coming from his left, in the direction of the path anyone who's ever traveled the Selwyn knows better than to follow. In the Selwyn, it's the road less traveled which is far safer. Fools.

Curious, Easton follows the noises, catching up to them within a few minutes. He keeps to the shadows of the trees, watching from a distance. When they die, their belongings will be up for grabs, and Easton needs to both restock, and see what he can sell at the market.

They're certainly a colorful bunch. He counts four -- no, five. He'd missed the halfling, overshadowed as she is by the orc at her side, though he's a bit small compared to orcs Easton has seen. Half-orc maybe? They've two humans as well, and a being Easton has only ever heard of but never actually seen in person -- a genasi. Fire, he guesses, given her coloration. She's also missing an arm.

"--telling you, we're lost," the orc rumbles at his companions, sounding annoyed and as if he's said this many times before. "The forest should have been a day's journey at most."

"The map is old and out of date," the dark-skinned human leading the party responds, and he sounds tired, as if he's also said this many times before. "The forest has likely expanded since then."

"There are supposed to be ghosts," offers up the halfling with an eager cant to her step. "Why haven't I seen any ghosts? I want to try hitting a ghost."

"You can't hit ghosts, Tempest," says the curly-haired woman. "You need magic."

"Well, I can punch the person controlling the ghosts, can't I?" Tempest asks.

"You're thinking of wraiths. They aren't the same thing," the orc rumbles, but it's so quiet Easton nearly misses it. Clearly, he means only to speak to the halfling.

"There is something odd about these woods, I have to admit," comments the genasi as she trails along somewhere in the middle, leaving scorched bootprints when she lingers too long in a step. "Or maybe that's because Cinderkeep isn't known for forests so they are unfamiliar to me."

"We're lost," the orc repeats, louder this time.

Yes, they are, Easton privately agrees as he trails along after them because he finds them curious and interesting, and perhaps heavy with coin, judging by the pouch swinging from the belt of the armor-plated human. They’re quite armed, and Easton spies a few magical armaments among them.

Perhaps they’ll survive after all. If not, well, the beasts here have no use for magical things, and will wander away when their bellies are full.

Easton hasn't been a thief in a good long while, but old habits die hard, and his fingers are twitchy. Besides, they almost deserve it, as loud as they are, crashing through the dangerous Selwyn without a care.

He follows, trailing far enough back to hopefully not be noticed. Not that any of them are paying attention to their surroundings. They're too busy bickering.

He learns that their leader is a human named Tyrael. He spies a symbol hanging from Tyrael's belt -- he's a cleric or paladin or perhaps just a devout follower -- but he can't discern the deity it belongs to. Mama had taught him the more well-known gods, so this one must be one of the Forgotten or the Fallen.

The genasi is Rathi, and she seems to serve as a mediator of sorts, often trying to sooth tensions among the other members. She's easygoing, perhaps the easiest to befriend if it comes to it.

Dakota is the orc, and Celeste the female human, a cleric judging by her robes and the symbol of Berenthas she wears proudly on her shoulder. She touts a mace over her other shoulder, proving she is something to be wary of.

Still. They are obviously not prepared for the Selwyn. They're going in circles, getting no closer to wherever their target might be.

He realizes they've strayed too close to an etterling nest before it's too late to consider warning them. Easton clambers up a nearby tree, giving himself the perfect vantage point in time to see Tyrael step in a clump of neatly disguised silkweb, sticking him in place.

A string of curses float up into the air. He tries to yank himself free, but the web extends with the motion, as etterling web is known to do. Clearly, these aren't well-seasoned travelers. It's a miracle they've survived in the Selwyn this long.

"Stop struggling," Celeste snaps as she strides forward and fire springs from her fingers, aimed directly at the mass of webbing.

Well, fire is one way to do it. The webbing burns, curling away from Tyrael’s foot with a hissing sound, releasing a thin curl of pungent smoke into the air. It reeks strongly enough to float Easton’s way, and make the entire party down there cough and wrinkle their noses.

Idiots.

“It’s not an effective trap,” Rathi says as she spins in a slow circle, probably looking for more of the silkweb clump.

It’s pointless. The clumps aren’t meant to trap and keep prey. Or at least, not the more dangerous prey. It traps small mammals just fine.

However, they are also used an early warning system for more, shall he say, intelligent prey. And that stench of burned web has sent a sign to every etterling in the vicinity that someone stupid and edible is nearby.

Easton pulls out his bow, just in case. Maybe he’ll let the fools die. Maybe he’ll help them.

“It stinks,” Tempest says with her fingers pinched over her nose, her voice emerging with a nasal overtone.

“Let’s get out of here,” Rathi says.

Celeste holds up a hand and she whirls to their left, where Easton has already seen shapes moving in the wood. “We’re not alone anymore.”

The entire group tenses, and a smile curls at Easton’s lips. Fools they might be, but inexperienced fighters they obviously are not.

There’s a space of a heartbeat before three etterlings leap out of the forest, two at the front of the party and one approaching from behind. They’re chittering angrily, mandibles clicking together, their eyes glassy and hungry.

They are eerie creatures, four-legged bipedal spiders, with a bloated pale belly and elongated arms. A pair of talons cap their hands and their feet, and Easton knows they’re capable of rending flesh from bone in a single swipe. He’s seen their victims, seen the dessicated husks they leave behind.

“Shit,” says Rathi.

Tyrael is the first to react, drawing forth a two-handed sword and rushing the nearest etterling with a fierce upward slash, cutting through the tender flesh. The etterling shrieks a cry of pain and snaps at him with claws and teeth, only for both to catch on Tyrael’s armor with a resounding screech.

The second etterling rushes past Tyrael and makes a beeline for Rathi, its jaw clamping down on her shoulder before she can react. She grits her teeth, grunting with pain, blood spurting down her arm as it claws at her abdomen, but unable to get through her leather armor.

Rathi screams again, and Easton’s eyes widen as a burst of flame spills out from her clothes and sweeps across the etterling, searing its skin. It warbles a cry of pain and releases her shoulder, its mandibles glistening with poison.

A dagger goes flying by, missing the etterling by inches, clattering off into the forest. Easton supposes it came from the orc, who’s currently cursing, while the halfling charges the third etterling and cuts a harsh slash into its shoulder. Purplish blood seeps free, and the etterling howls at her. It stumbles forward, aiming with mouth and claws, but mandibles clang against Tempest’s bladed spear, and it can’t reach with its claws.

Rathi reels, her shoulder freely bleeding, and her without an arm to slap over it. She stumbles backward, deftly avoiding the etterling’s slash at her belly. Celeste grabs her shoulders, pulls her against the cleric’s chest, and a burst of pale blue light spills over Rathi’s body, the stream of blood slowing to a dribble.

Huh. They seem to be holding their own so far.

Tyrael slashes at his opponent again, cleaving into the hip, making it stagger. It tries to surge back, launching itself at Tyrael with a bestial snarl, but he bats the etterling aside as if he’s toying with the creature. But there’s a look of intense concentration on his face. He takes no pleasure in this battle.

The etterling nearly collides with his compatriot, who’s leaping at Rathi, attempting to finish what it started, only to rear back at the last second to avoid a collision. Rathi lifts her hand, fingers shaking, and a surge of red-orange crackling energy slams into the etterling’s belly, the stench of burned flesh filling the air. Celeste darts in front of Rathi, mace raised, and it slams against the scorch mark, driving it back another few steps.

Dakota and Tempest attack their own foe, the orc knifing it in an arm as it latches onto Tempest, getting a mouthful of shoulder and clawing through the leather armor at her side. Blood splashes down on her boots and she snarls, her face flushing with fury. She batters at the etterling with the shaft of her weapon, but it holds tight, blood staining its mandibles.

Hm.

Perhaps he should help.

Though Tyrael seems to have this well in hand. He turns and slashes a etterling, nearly bisecting its torso. With a gurgle, it collapses in a heap, body twitching.

Celeste and Rathi have the second etterling surrounded, and it foregoes the harder target of Celeste, throwing itself again at Rathi. She moves too slowly, perhaps affected by the poison in their bite, and it clamps its mandibles down on her opposite shoulder, sinking in.

Fuck.

Easton looses an arrow but the etterling jerks on Rathi at the last moment, and the projectile sinks into the etterling’s thigh rather than its softer belly. Rathi’s eyes roll back, blood spilling down her arm, and Celeste batters at the etterling’s back with her mace, clanging against the hard shell of its carapace.

“Release her!” Dakota’s bellow echoes through the forest, disturbing a bird. He’s stabbing at the etterling gnawing on Tempest’s shoulder, struggling to find purchase around the thick skin of its carapace. Daggers aren’t very useful against etterlings.

Neither are arrows for that matter, but they are too close for Easton to draw on his magic, and too far for him to do anything with his blade. He nocks another arrow as Tempest gurgles and batters at the etterling with her spear to no effect, its claws driving into her belly, tearing through her leathers.

Easton fires and the etterling whirls at the last moment, his arrow skidding off the top edge of its back carapace.

“Move!” Tyrael shouts, and Celeste ducks around the etterling, wrapping her arms around Rathi’s mid-section, trying to yank her away as Tyrael slashes the etterling’s back, heavy sword managing to pierce the thick shell.

The etterling howls in outrage and rears back, releasing Rathi’s unconscious body into Celeste’s arms, where a spill of sparkling blue energy races from her fingers, pouring over Rathi’s wounds. She comes to with a gasp, her blood staining Celeste’s robes, and they try to stumble backward as the etterling rounds on Tyrael, blood dripping from its mandibles.

Fire sparks from Celeste’s fingertips, aiming over Rathi’s wounded shoulder, and slams into the etterling’s back, searing the thin spill of blood from Tyrael’s attack.

“Let her go!” Dakota growls, a bestial sound and jabs a dagger in and up, catching across the etterling’s neck with a spray of blood.

It shrieks and releases Tempest, clawing randomly, striking a slashing blow across her collarbone.

“Fuck you!” Tempest reacts blindly, stabbing with her bladed spear, and missing entirely. She’s heaving for breath, coated in blood, moving as sluggish as Rathi.

That etterling poison is powerful stuff. It’s short lasting, but it hits immediately.

Easton knocks another arrow as Rathi aims her hand at their opponent, and a stream of fiery orange energy crackles from her palm, striking the etterling in the back of the neck. It moans and stumbles forward, right onto Tyrael’s blade, a gurgle of pain rising from its throat.

Tempest stumbles, swiping blood from her eyes, and the remaining etterling charges her. Easton nocks an arrow and fires before he thinks twice about it, his arrow piercing the etterling’s neck with a spray of blood. It moans, stumbles, but momentum carries it forward, until Dakota slams his shoulder into the etterling’s, throwing it to the side.

Its feet tangle, it hits the ground, and Tempest yells a battle cry as she brings the blade-end of her staff down on its head with a sickening crunch. The body twitches and then goes still, blood pooling around the corpse in a sludgy, purple spill.

Tempest’s shoulders heave, and she leans heavy on her weapon. “Ow,” she says with a wince, blood still streaking down her arm.

“I’ll get to you in a second,” Celeste says as more energy pours out of her hands, sliding like a blue mist over Rathi’s body, soothing her injuries.

Dakota moves to Tempest’s side, pulling her away from the corpse and lifting her spear to his shoulder. “Nice blow,” he grunts.

She grins up at him, blood speckling her cheek. “Too bad it’s the only one that really hit. Think I’m out of practice.” She turns her head and spits up a chunk of blood, only to tilt over and lean heavily against him. “Or maybe this thing is like a spider because I don't feel so good.”

“None of us have a bow and arrow,” Tyrael says from where he’s crouching by the corpse of the last etterling killed.

Time go to.

Easton swings his bow over his shoulder and scales down from the tree, trying to be as quiet as he possibly can. Some leaves rustle, but it could be easily attributed to the wind.

“We’re not alone,” Dakota growls, and the menace in his deep voice is enough to make Easton’s spine shiver.

“An enemy wouldn’t help us,” Celeste points out, logically, and Easton has to give her a few points of intelligence as he drops from the tree, landing silently. He can still hear the party, see their bright colors through bits of foliage.

Announce himself or sneak away? There’s still coin to be made, he thinks.

“I’m suspicious of an ally who won’t show their face,” Tyrael says, contemplating.

“Oy! Come on out!” That is definitely Rathi’s voice, hollering in Easton’s vague direction, perhaps by guessing the trajectory of the arrow.

“Tempest is still bleeding,” Dakota reminds them.

“I’ll find them!” Tempest says cheerfully, and there’s a rise in protesting voices before a small body goes crashing through the forest, right in Easton’s direction.

“You fool! You’re bleeding!”

He has a split-second to make a decision. Rather than run, he draws his bow, loosely nocks an arrow, and waits, just as Tempest bursts out of a clump of fern, barreling toward him. She has her weapon raised, but she skids to a halt as she sees Easton, her eyes darting from his bow to his face and back again.

“Don’t shoot!”

Easton arches an eyebrow. “Don’t slash me with that thing, and I won’t.”

Tempest grins, and this close, it’s more charming than it has right to be. She’s a halfling, and probably an adult, but there’s something child-like about her.

“That’s fair,” she says as Dakota bursts out of the forest behind her, his face a storm of emotion, one hand immediately snapping down on Tempest’s shoulder and hauling her backward, like an overprotective parent.

“Get away from her,” Dakota snarls, and his tusks are even more prominent in his anger, eyes flashing with it, and he’s puffing up like a defensive waterfowl.

Easton keeps his bow lowered. “I wouldn’t think to do anything. She was the one who engaged me.”

“And you fired that arrow,” Dakota says, shoving a surprisingly elegant finger in Easton’s direction, his talons not as travel-worn and chipped as Easton would have expected.

“This is true, I did.” Easton lifts both his eyebrows. “You’re welcome.”

“I had it handled,” Tempest says, and she swipes at her face again, where blood continues to dribble from her nose. She looks pale under her brown skin, and she sways alarmingly.

“My apologies then.” Easton dips his head a shallow bow, and if Tempest can tell its insincere, he has no idea. She doesn’t seem the insightful sort. “I’ll just be on my way.”

“Why did you help?” Dakota asks before Easton can so much as shift his weight. The question is slightly less aggressive this time. Or maybe it’s the orc’s size and tone which makes him sound far more aggressive than he actually is.

Easton rolls his shoulders, aims for casual. “You looked like you needed it, and I happened to be passing by.”

“Hm.” Dakota’s eyes narrow.

“You should meet the rest of us,” Tempest says, perhaps heedless of the tension simmering in the air, or a more wilier approach, recognizing it and choosing to ignore it.

Dakota sighs, and his shoulders sink, and some of the aggression in his posture bleeds away. “Tempest,” he says, and pinches his nose with his free hand before he pats her shoulder. “Come on. Have Celeste look at you.”

“Honestly, I’m fine,” Tempest grumbles, but she turns under Dakota’s hand and pushes past him toward the direction they had come. “You’re welcome to come with us, Mr. Elf.”

“My name is Easton,” he replies, but he doesn’t move, at least, not until Dakota gives him another hard look before moving to follow Tempest. He’s hyper-aware, however, as if he knows Easton is no mere wandering do-gooder.

Smart of him.

Easton follows them through the brush, but listens for signs of other etterlings. They have some time to mend their wounds, but they shouldn’t linger any longer than a half hour. There will be more etterlings, despite the fact they are on the fringe of their territory.

Dakota frogmarches Tempest to Celeste’s side, she who’s waiting with a bundle of bandages and some kind of capped bottle, while a wrapped Rathi sits nearby, idly picking at the bloodstains on her pants. Tyrael stands over them, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, like there’s a stick shoved up his ass.

Easton stops at the edge of the forest, where the path edge begins, keeping enough of a distance between himself and the strange group.

“Who’s this?” Tyrael asks.

“Easton,” Tempest chirps as she drops down in front of Celeste with an ungainly clatter. “He shot the arrows.”

“Did you now.” It’s less of a question than a statement, and now it’s Tyrael’s turn to scrape his gaze over Easton from head to toe as though he can discern Easton’s true intentions with a mere look.

Easton carefully conceals a grin. “So it might seem,” he says, and looks up and down the path in both directions, so clear and unimpeded, a promise of safety that’s an outright lie. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“None of your business,” Dakota snaps, bristling all over again, arms crossed over his chest, straining the limits of the poor tunic. He’s not a small being, full orc or not.

Easton’s eyebrows dart upward. “The question was literal but by all means, continue walking in circles if you prefer.”

“You were following us?” Tyrael demands as Tempest twitches away from whatever Celeste splashes on her wounds with a hiss.

“We’re lost,” she admits, and Dakota pinches the bridge of his nose again.

Rathi, however, looks up at Easton with a keen squint. “We’re trying to get to Rumsfell.” She pushes herself to her feet with a grunt, brushing off her pants with her one hand. “Are we heading the right way?”

Easton stows his bow. Dakota and Tyrael don’t trust him, but they don’t look like they’re going to turn violent. “What you’re doing is heading in circles. Everyone knows the worst path to take in the Selwyn is the one you can see.”

“That’s ridiculous. How’re we supposed to find our way through if we don’t follow the path?” Dakota demands, and he’s back to narrow eyes and a flush of anger in his blue-toned skin. Easton’s never seen a blue orc. Round here, they’re more likely to be shades of green or ochre.

“Can you guide us out?” Celeste asks as she pulls Tempest back into reach to start wrapping bandages around her shoulder. She must have tapped out her magical reserves.

Easton offers his most sincere smile. “I can. For a price.”

“There’s always a catch,” Dakota growls, and he’s staring Easton down as though he can force behavior with intimidation alone.

Easton folds his arms. “Do I look like a man who helps people out of the kindness of my heart? I need coin, too.”

“How much?” Rathi asks.

He gives them a good glance. He’s sure they can afford a lot. Tyrael’s armor is expensive, and Rathi’s clothes -- while blood-stained and a bit worn in places, are made of a fine material. Dakota and Tempest aren’t wealthy by any means, but the other three? He’s sure they have good coin.

“Thirty gold,” Easton says.

“That’s ridiculous!” the orc sputters and lurches forward, like he means to attack, until Tempest tries to stand up and catches his attention, immediately diverting it toward her.

Tyrael holds up a hand, and though he hasn’t said much, he seems the type for listening. He has a slow, ponderous approach apparently. “We’ve wasted a day wandering these woods.”

“More, by my guess,” Easton offers, though it’s more of an intuition than any real knowledge. He hasn’t been following them that long.

Tyrael tosses him a sour, impatient look, like one might a scolded child. “I, for one, don’t want to waste anymore time.” He reaches for his pouch, visibly displaying its location, and Easton bumps up his assumptions to ‘new to traveling period’ and withdraws a handful of coin. “I’ll cover the cost, though if you try to trick us, we will respond with extreme violence.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will.” Easton eyes their weapons, remembering their skills. Fools they might be, but they are not without their talents. They would have survived the etterling attack without his aid, he’s sure, but it seemed an appropriate way to introduce himself.

After all, what better way for strangers meeting than to help one another?

“So long as we understand each other.” Tyrael tosses the coin purse at Easton, and he tries to catch it, but it misses the ends of his fingertips and hits the ground.

Tempest giggles.

“I can see we’re going to get along.” Easton bends down, swipes up the coin purse. “I feel welcome already.” He tosses the purse in his hands, estimates the weight. It’s close to thirty gold, he assumes. He chooses to offer a show of trust and tucks it away, to be counted later.

Rathi strides up to him and claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome will happen eventually, new friend,” she says, and there’s a blatant way she looks him over. “For now, we follow you. So lead the way.” She gestures for him to precede her.

“With pleasure.” Easton moves to the head of the party and then points at the forest, off-path. “First things first, the Selwyn is the one place in the world you don’t want to follow the path. It’s the most dangerous route to take.”

“Should we have wandered through the forest then?” Dakota asks, and well, he’s going to be a fun one to travel with. Has an attitude, that one.

Easton grins at him and taps his forehead. “You should have hired a guide, but better late than never, yes?”

He steps into the forest, and doesn’t wait for them to follow. Either they can come with him and their thirty gold, or they can continue to wander the Selwyn until something more dangerous than the etterlings devour them.

He looks up, through the canopy of trees, puts the sun at his left, and plunges into the wood. There’s a moment of pause before the group scurries to follow him, Tempest the first to throw her bag over her shoulder and crash through the underbrush.

“My name’s Tempest!” she repeats without knowing he knows it already. “Do you live in the Selwyn?”

Oh, goodness.

Well, a chatterer is better than a silent glare between his shoulderblades. As traveling companions, they’ll do.

After all, in the Selwyn, tis far safer to travel in a group than alone. It needn’t last any further than Rumsfell.

***