Rajul collects the empty bowls and insists that you each pay only what you can afford. You know you have to stretch your available money as much as you can, but you still feel a little guilty offering him so little… until you see how generous Aeron and Qinris are being. As the three laugh boisterously, you realize his outgoing personality is likely tailored to get him extra income from those who can afford it, and your guilt quickly subsides.
By the time your newly formed quartet begins walking, Albern has disappeared ahead beyond one of the many hills that plan to add texture to your upcoming journey. You take up the rear position of the group with no debate. Even with one eye covered, your time in the Sea has given you a pretty good ability to keep your head on a swivel and your awareness behind you even when moving forward. Plus, it gives you the ability to keep an eye on your new traveling company. Not too far in front of you, Kastran has quickly resumed displaying his miraculous ability to bury his nose in a book the size of his torso without missing a single step of footing. Meanwhile, Aeron and Qinris walk in tandem in the front, talking loud enough for you to clearly hear both voices but not quite loud enough to make out the topic.
You take a moment to wonder if the unaligned scout who walks ahead will prove to be an advantage or not. If there are any traps or dangers, he’s sure to encounter them first. Then again, he seemed the roguish type, so maybe he’d just sneak past any problems and leave them to become yours. Either way, hopefully it won’t become your problem any time soon. Still though, with so little to occupy your mind on the long road, you can’t help but imagine what such a shadowy and solitary man is thinking right now…
—————
“If the gods truly are dead, I hope whichever one decided the sun should be this damn bright is having the worst possible time in the afterlife,” you grumble to yourself, blinking the sharp amber light out of your eyes.
The sun sits directly overhead, leaving you frustratingly few shadows to find comfort in along the road. You drift naturally between two less than ideal options; habit takes you under the leaf-line to avoid the beating sun and keep yourself obscured from potential prying eyes, but the uneven terrain forces you to occasionally walk the main road to protect your feet and preserve endurance for the journey ahead.
You aimlessly tug at the mask sitting on your nose; you know that the obstruction to your breath is a small price to pay for the obstruction of your identity, but it doesn’t make it any more comfortable to endure.
The map of the Holy Lands traces itself across your consciousness; dozens of towns convincing themselves that the names of those they call divine can somehow bring order to a lawless land. At least where you came from had the dignity to be proud of its lawlessness.
The memory of that place tickles the side of your mouth with something resembling a fond smile. The constantly flying blades and bottles, the clinking of coins, the strange safety in knowing exactly who everyone was looking out for. You shake your head and let out a soft chuckle to no one but yourself; leaving almost cost you your life, you must be seriously scuffed in the head to actually miss it. And yet, deep down, you know you might never stop.
A rapid pattering of footsteps approaching from your right rips your mind back to reality. Years of training instantly attune your ears to the sound; the steps carry little weight to them, and each footstep takes place quickly after the other, telling you this is a rather small person. Another Mikr, perhaps?
Processing the best way to handle this situation feels like second nature to you, as every possibility flutters through your perception. Standing your ground seems like the smartest move; your identity is obscured by your garb, and storing your weapons in the Mindscape means you’re always armed, so you do not entirely lose the element of surprise by remaining outside of the shadows.
The footsteps grow ever closer before bursting out of the tree line with immense urgency, and you blink in surprise. The small and quick stature of these footsteps did not belong to a Mikr, but to a child. A deep red stains the front of their leather hunters garb, and the slightly lighter red that slicks their palms implies the blood is fresh.
His words barely squeak out around throat-choking sobs. “Oh thank the Green, someone is here. My mom, she— I mean, there was a Sanglier, and— we were hunting, and a baby, and a cliff, we—”
“Beat it, kid.”
“I— what?”
You kneel down to meet him at eye level. “Stop crying. Hear my words. I’m giving you some free advice here. No one is out here to help you.” You pull out a waterskin and begin cleaning the boy’s hands, who appears too stunned to oppose this action. “Sanglier can track blood. You need to wash up and create some distance, preferably cross a body of water.”
He barely stammers out a response. “B-but… my mom—”
“Do you want the people who love you both to lose one person today, or two?” You stand upright, ensure your mask and hood are both affixed properly, and leave the stunned child in the middle of the road, watered down crimson still dripping from his fingertips.
You only make it a couple hundred feet before a familiar little voice in your head tries to take over. “We’re really not going to make sure he’s okay?”
You try to shake the voice away. You know you did everything you could for him. Even if you wanted to, you can’t take on a Sanglier by yourself. And who’s to say the kid was even telling the truth? For all you know, could all be an elaborate trap to draw in naive travelers.
“That’s what we’re sticking with? That prepubescent little squirt was actually a grand mastermind roadsman?”
Why not? You started that young, and doing far worse things than roadside robbery.
“So… we’re satisfied with putting him on the same path as us, then?”
That thought freezes you in place, one foot still hovering off the ground as your mind’s eye removes you from reality. A purple vignette encroaches your vision as the acrid smell of smoke enters your nose. An angry mob batters your ears, screaming for their perverted interpretation of justice. The road directly in front of you is suddenly marred with the impacts of small feet kicking as they are dragged away, and as you allow your eyeline to follow them to their destination, the memory fully takes hold.
You see a boy, just about the same age as the one you left behind, scanning in panic as a torch gets closer to the kindling as his feet. Hot tears stream down a face you still see in your reflection every day, screaming after you, “Please! Don’t leave! Say something! HELP ME!!”
That memory gets consumed by the image of the very fire that took his life in the first place, and you feel yourself unfreeze, catching your breath as your weight rebalances on your forward foot. You look over your shoulder with clenched teeth.
“Yknow, those other folks at that noodle stand were heading the same direction. Maybe we don’t have to take on a Sanglier by ourselves. Hell, the blue ones were covered in Thusdes symbols, I bet there might even be a healer between the two of them. What do you say?”
“I say I hate you.”
“I am you.”
“I know.”