Arrvern, the once bustling capital city of the Kingdom of Edessa, now stood silent. Gone were the bustling crowds, the harking merchants, the clanging blacksmiths, and singing bards. The early morning fog blanketed the city with a dreary shroud of silence, as the majority of the city had been evacuated. Caravans filled with women and children refugees had been pouring out of the city for the past day. The massive Varyan army was only days away, and the King knew that the city would be lost. With its depleted and defeated army, Edessa could no longer hope to defeat their powerful foe. Prepared to fight to the last, King Johannes sent away the city's youth, including his own daughter on caravans northbound, while the remaining soldiers set up within the city for a final stand to buy the fleeing caravans time.

---

The Erran estate was quiet, no servants ran around, nor could the sound of cooking or morning activities be heard. Like the rest of the city, it was nearly empty. At the estate's gate stood four figures, two on horseback. The couple standing on the ground were Lord Erran and his wife, both dressed in steel and leather, the lord holding a lance and a sword, while his lady bore a staff. On horseback, the two sons bade their parents farewell. Few words were exchanged, the family having already said their goodbyes to one another last night. Lady Erran handed her sons each a wrapped package for their knapsacks. Embracing one another for a moment longer, the Erran brothers slowly rode off, knowing they'd never see their parents again.

The brothers rode together in silence for a while, the silence only broken as a group of soldiers marched by every so often. The brothers eventually reached the north gate of the town, where the last of the caravans were preparing to leave.

"I guess this is where we part, little brother." said Edward, the older of the two Erran brothers, as he adjusted his brown-gold colored armor, signifying that he was one of King Johannes' elite personal guards. He placed his hand on Emil's shoulder and gave the younger brother a warm shake. "Come, don't look so down little brother. The others will notice if you're upset.

"Brother..." Emil said quietly.

"Don't act like that Emil, we're sons of the Erran family," Edward interrupted, puffing out his chest for emphasis. "We're knights by blood, defenders of the kingdom."

"I have my charge," Edward continued his tone softening, gesturing to the bronze-gold of his armor, "And you have yours." he added, gesturing towards the caravan loaded with children and supplies.

"I suppose so." Emil replied in a quiet voice.

"Now chin up Emil. We'll see each other soon, I swear it." Edward said proudly. The two brothers grasped eachothers' hands in a long, firm shake. Taking a deep breath, the older brother donned his helmet, and rode off, returning towards he palace. His bronzed armor glittering in the sunlight.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, brother." Emil murmured to himself. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and rode up to the caravan, who were loading the last of their supplies onto the caravan carts.

The caravan was made up of three carts. One was heavily laden with supplies, food, blankets, fuel, water, weapons, and whatever else the city could give. The each of the other carts were filled with 10 to 20 children and youths, anywhere from 10 to 18 years of age. Other than the children, the caravan had maybe 4 guards, one appeared to be a veteran of many battles, as his scars and scratched armor indicated, another appeared to be almost too old to wield his weapons and armor. The third guard was a wiry woman with a bow and sword, and the last was another younger looking man with a thin face, both of their features identified them as from northern Ardel. These guards were obviously mercenaries, as any able bodied Edessan man of military age had been pressed into military service to defend its people and lands.

"You look like you can handle yourself, boy." said the gruff, battle-scarred guard said as Emil approached, tossing him the haft of a common spear. Easily catching the weapon, Emil noticed that several other of the older youths who had been given a weapon or were already armed, likely to bolster the small numbers of the caravan guards. There weren't enough horses to go around however, so several of the youths that had been given weapons either rode on the outside of the caravan wagons, or walked. Emil noticed that aside from the guards, he was the one of the only ones that wore steel as well.

"With luck, you won't have to use those." the battle-scarred guard said gruffly, "But just in case, it never hurts to be armed."

"Alright!" the gruff guard barked, "Are we ready to head out?"

"Wolf's bane," the small woman mumbled as she rifled through the shelves. "Yes. Bogwart, yes. Firelash... Why in the name of all that's holy do I even have firelash?" Grimacing, she discarded it behind her, letting the bottle smash against the floor as she hastily went about gathering up essentials.

At a whopping five feet and one inch tall, Gabriela had to stand on a footstool to properly search through the highest shelves, and she was doing so busily. Bottled liquids and pouches of ground herbs were being thrust quickly into her bags. She was being very choosy about what to bring, not wanting to weigh herself down overmuch. At least, that was her intention. In reality she was snatching up anything remotely useful because she didn't have the time to weigh what would be useful and what would not. Almost everything in her laboratory had a use.

And of course it's going to be confiscated to make some midwife's hand grease, she thought bitterly as she stepped down from the shelf, or some idiot is going to try and make tea out of the basil and lavender.

Gabby sighed and looked around the room. It looked like looters had been through it already, which they hadn't. Gabby had found things she wouldn't be able to take with her - furniture, excess cutlery, those bottles of wine Marius had stashed in the broom closet - and sold as many of them as she could, knowing she'd need every last coin. It wasn't as much as she'd have liked; only a few people had the means of taking a lot of that extra baggage with them, and they knew the sellers were desperate. Still, it was enough to last her the journey at least, and she'd made sure to put the most valuable coins in the hidden compartments in her boots.

There weren't many preparations left to make. Gabby tugged her gambeson on - A great lot of harm this will stop, she thought pessimistically to herself - and tightened her belt a notch. She made sure her focus crystal was still where it ought to be, and it was: on a chain dangling from her wrist, hidden under the sleeve of her tunic. She felt the familiar, latent energies inside waiting for a strong mind to wield them, just as she always did. There were a few other things to bring: a snack for the road, her morningstar...

Gabby looked once more around the room as she headed for the door. She thought about her old mentor, how this was probably the last time she'd be in a familiar place for a long time, and how she hadn't visited his grave since last week. For a fleeting moment, she thought of going out to visit that place and give him one last farewell. He deserved that.

But then she thought about the coming armies of orcs and the grand Varyan legion, and she settled for a half-assed, two-fingered salute before rushing out onto the cobbled streets as quick as she could. Marius would understand.

The road was only somewhat busy, but that was probably normal for a city in the latter stages of an evacuation, Gabby figured. So was thievery. She kept a close eye on her things, carefully keeping a hand on her morningstar as a warning to anyone that wanted to try playing cutpurse. Someone, of course, did make such an attempt. A kid of around thirteen or so ran up to her and tried that pickpocketing trick Gabby had been victim to before: the bump-and-grab. So, when he got too close, Gabby jabbed her elbow into his side.

"Ow! Watch it, lady!" he rasped.

"Watch yourself," Gabby snapped back, picking up her pace. She didn't want to get caught in a conversation with a scamp. He slowed down and eventually turned back, apparently not ready to leave the city yet. Gabby left him to his business.

A few more minutes went by; Gabby managed to get out of the city gates. The caravan wasn't that far ahead, though the sight of it actually made her heart sink. It was nothing more than a few measly wagons and a handful of armed guards, a small group weighed down by supplies, easy pickings for even a small force of raiders or bandits. As if that weren't enough, those who were her age or even younger were hefting weapons around... which, to her, suggested the guards were expecting kids to join in any fight they got into.

Here lies Gabby Varanus, she thought bitterly to herself. She joined up with a small band of runaway nobodies and got murdered by her own people. The end! Nevertheless, she liked her chances more with a few more warm bodies holding sharp sticks nearby, so Gabby fell in with the others, overhearing what was probably some sergeant (judging by his scarred face and his armor) rambling at some young boy with blonde hair, probably a rich merchant's son lucky enough to have some real armor. Gabby's father had an old suit of armor back home, in fact...

But hey! The boy looked impressionable, roughly her age and well equipped. Gabby made a mental note to try and make a good first impression with him; knowing someone rich enough to have his own suit of armor, and perhaps someone skilled enough to use that sword in his scabbard, could be a good thing.

"Alright!" the maybe-a-sergeant barked, "Are we ready to head out?"

Gabby started to reply to that, but got the impression he was checking with someone else in the caravan - probably someone checking the supplies or the like. So, instead, she glanced up at the sky, trying to get a good idea of what the weather she was going to be like. Then, she realized something.

"Damn it," she grumbled. "I didn't bring a cloak."

Having said goodbye to her father several hours ago, and her mother before that, Elya walked alone for the last time, at least for a while. The throne room was grand, beautiful, the hall elegant and pristine. Usually, some gathering of people were there, a warm crowd of familiar faces. All were gone. Nobles and servants, soldiers and commoners, even the mice that sometimes scurried along the walls seemed to have vacated the premises. Passing next through the council chambers, she knelt by the fireplace, and grazed her fingers over the mantel face, tracing down to the hearth. Turning her palm over, gazing at her ash covered skin, she realized this was the first time a fire had not been blazing, warming the room. Without it, a harsh breeze found its way through bloated crack in the walls, stifling the room with a chill. Standing again, Elya hurried out, to her personal chambers.

As the kingdom had rushed evacuation, Elya knew it would be a long while before she could live in her accustomed luxury again. A clouded mirror, crooked now as it had fallen, reflected a foreign image back to her. A long cloak shrouded her figure, beneath which she wore a linen dress, surcoat, and chaperon. The dull, drab colors seemed to almost blend into her now dark brown hair, which laid in messy curls over her shoulders. Just a week ago, on her nameday, she had worn her then golden hair in braids snaking around her head, a long dress of twenty layers, the color of a blooming rose in the first days of spring. Now, the only tell of her noble birth was the retention of all her teeth.

A few minutes later, the case containing her musical instruments tucked under her arm, her other hand resting on a staff, Elya approached the stables. Beneath her skirt, pinned to her flimsy petticoat, she had smuggled her favorite golden tiara. Trying not to think about anything at all, as every possible thought was upsetting, she readied her horse's saddle. Nimerya felt a sympathetic bond to her rider, and so whinnied to convey her uneasiness. Elya responded with a gentle melody, vocalizing on a neutral syllable as she climbed onto the mare, who calmed after a moment of listening to the quiet song. After fastening her instrument case to the saddle, Elya rode Nimerya towards the caravan.

Upon arriving by the caravan, Elya spotted those who had already assembled, and took her position at the back of the caravan. Even though she knew that none of the common folk would recognize her face, that even the nobility she had faced daily might have issue unless they were quite perceptive, as it was without any cosmetic improvement, and looked so different framed by her now dark hair, she still felt the nauseous seed of anxiety blooming in her mind. Elya knew that upon someone recognizing her, word would escape one way or another, and any one of many enemy forces would attempt to take her as a hostage. If that were to happen, she was less worried of her own safety, and more concerned with what might happen to those whose lives were not worth any gold to those who had it. A shiver ran down her spine, as she lowered her chaperon, letting the hood shroud her face in shadow. Her song for her horse fell to silence.

Lea would be her name now, for at least as long as she could maintain her façade as just another citizen seeking refuge. Raising her hand to her chest, she felt the slight, imperceptible indentation of the scroll marked with her father's seal. A grim smile came to her face, as she realized she had only that to prove her identity. That tiny piece of parchment was the one thing the could save her upon reaching refuge, while at the same time, its contents could kill her. With a small glance over her shoulder, she wondered where her father was. Erasing the thought from her head after a moment's consideration, she turned back to face the caravan, still trying to remain inconspicuous to the others as they passed.

In the eyes of the law, would it be considered murder if one killed a traitor of the state? Askeladden had lost the energy to run, his feet bloodied and the bandages stuck to his feet. The scabs would break open again and he'd have to clean the wounds again every few miles, but the downtime between the running and the occasional maintenance gave the runaway slave time to think. Askeladden has always hated thinking. It mostly led to him being depressed about his position. A slave, a punching bag, and a tool to line his master's pocket. Now wasn't that much better. Homeless, penniless, and a murderer. His master wasn't the first person he had killed and, with what was to come, he wasn't expecting his master to be the last. Though it was still different. His master wasn't forcing him to defend himself, he was sleeping and Askeladden beat him over the head until his skull caved in. It was a lifetime of retribution in the making, but the thought of it still made his stomach feel as though it was turning itself over.

He shook his head, doing his best to will the thoughts away for a moment if he could. He continued to walk and occasionally run, stopping only once his breath went ragged and his clothes stuck to his skin. When he reached city with which the caravan was stationed outside of, Askeladden's pace finally slowed down to a staggered walk. He had been walking, running, and destroying his feet for the better part of three days, of which he managed no more than a few winks of sleep. The streets were near empty, leaving him nearly as alone as he had been this entire journey. At least on the road there were the occasional bands of soldiers passing by. Here, the city was just dead. At this point, he was fully lost. The soldier that mentioned the caravans only mentioned the city. Beyond that it was entirely up to him to find the caravan, so he'd have to rely on finding someone that fit the criteria.

"Between 10 and 18, right?" Askeladden muttered to himself, looking around for someone that looked young. Or short. Short would have done as well. A head of red hair caught his eyes, the owner of the hair a young girl with a bow that looked particularly valuable. He decided to follow her with some distance. Didn't want to scare her off, especially if she was heading to the caravans.

He stood a good distance away from the caravan when the redhead reached it, unsure of what to do. I don't need to show the guards anything do I? Askeladden grimaced, reaching for his cloak's hood and drawing it over his head. He was overly aware of how he looked like a vagrant and hardly fit in with the group of children. Having a full head of white hair certainly didn't help him blend in. The eye-patch did him no favors in the department either.

The runaway slave turned his head to the ground and marched forward, doing his best to conceal the staggered steps, gritting his teeth as he tried his best to hide any sounds of pain. He made his way past the redhead and another figure, too scrawny for a man, using the figure's horse to steady himself. The scent of the horse lingered on his palm when he went to readjust his eye-patch. The horse smelled like a horse, but unlike most people's mounts it smelled almost clean. Feh, guess there's a noble among us. Askeladden climbed into the first wagon he reached, one devoid of people, filled to the brim with supplies and did his best to wiggle in where there was any space before resting his head on his knees. Please, no one ask any questions.

Corra walked along the roof of an old stone building, gazing down at the city streets. It was strangely quiet, the lack of noise being something the young thief was not used to. Where were the shrieking children, the merchants trying to sell their wares, the fanatics preaching in the streets? Arrvern had always been a city filled to the brim with colorful life. Now it was all but empty, as if the city was struggling to take its last breaths before it died completely. The normally bustling streets were silent. The few figures that walked along them went with a hurried, anxious pace, heads down and huddled against the cold breeze. The air was filled with a sense of hopelessness, fear, and dread. It was bleak in a way it never had been.

With a sigh, Corra slid over the edge of the roof and began to climb down the side of the building. Her hands and feet easily found purchase in the cobbled siding, and she dropped gracefully to the ground. The soft padding of her feet as she walked down the street was the only sound to be heard. She was in a nicer district of the city, and anyone who lived in these buildings had left weeks ago. She was heading the wrong way if she wanted to get to the caravans, but she wasn’t ready to leave the city just yet, and she found her feet taking her into the poorer neighborhoods of Arrvern, an area she knew like the back of her hand. Here there were a few more people, mostly those too weak or too old to flee the city. They’d be left behind.

She looked around at the buildings lining the street, some of them had clearly been broken into. The careless damaged showed that the looting had already begun. The house to her right had a door hanging on only one hinge. The shutters were open and broken, with shards of cheap pottery scattered in the dust where items deemed worthless had been thrown. She stood for a moment, considering the building thoughtfully, when someone came through its door. Corra was about to turn away when she realized she knew the boy. He was just a few years older than her, of an average height with greasy blond hair and an eternally red complexion. He was also surprisingly fat for a thief, and a bit of a bastard in her opinion. He had a dirty potato sack thrown over his shoulder, filled with all manner of things, none of which were potatoes.

“Bann Erin,” she said in greeting looking at him with raised brows and a slight smirk from beneath her hood. “While it’s not surprising in the slightest that you’re out here looting, you won’t be able to fence any of those baubles if you end up dead in the city streets. Thought someone like you’d be long gone already.”

At first he looked surprised at being caught coming out of the house, though it wasn’t as if anyone would report him to the guards now. When he recognized her he visibly relaxed, giving her a sneer. “Well if it isn’t the little raven,” he said, nodding to her. Corra grimaced, she’d never understand how she earned that nickname around the city in the first place. “Now’s the best time to get things quick and cheap. A scavenger like you should be making use of it.” He looked her up and down, noticing the pack strapped to her shoulders and the heavy cloak. “But it makes sense that a little coward like you’d be running out at the first chance.”

Corra stared at the boy, clearly unimpressed. She wondered why she had even stopped to acknowledge Erin in the first place. He was an idiot, even more so than most of the common thieves from Blackdirt Alley, where he spent most of his time. However, she realized with a tight feeling in her stomach, he was also quite possibly the last familiar face she’d see from this city. Time to let go, she thought. Turning on her heel, she continued down the street.

“Have fun, Erin,” she said, not bothering to look back at the boy. She heard him scoff as he went on, presumably to the next abandoned house he could find.

She shifted her pack, walking by houses she’d seen hundreds of times before, now empty and deserted. She should’ve been heading out herself, however she couldn’t help but walk through the streets one last time. Corra wasn’t usually one for sentimental attachment. She knew that people came and left in life sooner or later, but the city had seemed to her something outside of it all, something eternal that always was and always would be. Her mother had left, her friends had left, her gang had left, but the city had never left, and she had never left the city. She hadn’t even known she felt that way about the place, but she could feel it clearly now, passing by all of her old haunts. There was the tavern where she’d sung with the barkeep and stolen the dagger now strapped to her hip. There was the abandoned warehouse where she’d planned jobs with the other kids in her gang. She walked through the streets without any notion of how much time was passing, until she found herself standing outside of an old wooden building. It was nondescript, two stories with rickety stairs, just like countless others in the city. This was the building she had lived in as a child. There was the apartment she had shared with her mother. She hadn’t even glanced at the place in years, hadn’t lived there in eight years exactly.

The place had been looted, that much was clear, but even if it hadn’t, it wouldn’t have looked anything like it had eight years ago were she to go inside. The furniture they’d had was probably sold, her mother’s sewing thrown away, the rag doll she had cherished as a child probably burned in the fireplace. She knew that and yet she almost wanted to go inside, walk up the creaking stairs, and let her fingers glide up the worn rail. Almost. But she didn’t. She turned and walked away, headed for the city gates. It was time to leave Arrvern behind. It had been hers, but it had been temporary, like all things. She’d move on, like she always did. She’d have memories, but maybe it would be better to forget... That was a lie, she thought, shaking her head lightly. She would never forget, and she wouldn’t want to. If nothing else, Corra’s memories were her own.

She walked through the streets, taking shortcuts through alleys and climbing over walls when necessary. She sang softly to herself, the words and melody no more than a whisper. It was some silly song about a girl who sold flowers, something her mother had sung to her long ago. With every step she felt both lighter, and more anxious. She was leaving behind the only place she’d ever known, but she was committed to doing so, and somehow that made it easier.

When she reached the caravans, the sudden noise and movement of refugees preparing to leave startled her out of her quiet contemplation. It seemed as if some had already gone, and she was glad she had not lingered any longer in the city streets. Being around so many people made her feel more awake and less doleful than she had felt all day. She spent a moment observing everyone, watching as they readied horses and hugged their kin. She walked over to a caravan that seemed to be comprised of a few worn-out sellswords and children with spears. Some of the others looked to be about her age, some much younger. One had shining armor, one bright red hair and a bow, another came in riding an expensive-looking horse. An interesting bunch, she thought to herself. Inspecting the kids around her let her take her mind off of her own feelings, something Corra was happy not to focus on. She waded into the group and leaned against the side of a wagon. After a moment she sighed, lowering her hood and roughly running her fingers through her short, waving hair. She wondered briefly where this new chapter in her life would take her. Hopefully it wouldn’t be to an early grave.

"Promise me this, Dal- beyond your preconceptions, beyond acquired dispositions, beyond how the others may treat you, you will help protect them with your life. You're an Eborum boy, you don't try, you do. You've a stable shield hand, I believe in you."

The balding man who sat across the table- his name was Dane- was giving the young man a piercing stare.

"I will tr-" Dal caught himself. Cleared his throat.

"I will, Dane. I promise you."

"Atta' boy." He tipped his head back, beads of sweat plopping onto the plate beneath him and mixing with the droplets of alcohol that had fallen off the cup. It was stuffy, as usual, in the tavern. Taking a long swig, Dane clamped the mug back down and found Dal's eyes again. The young man had never seen Dane so intense- the rosy-cheeked and pot-bellied man often simply exhumed an air of lightheartedness and compassion, traits not only Dal, but most who knew the man were quick to associate with him. That was a bonus of always throwing out quips and telling funny stories, when you wanted people to seriously listen to you, they would. Dal was so used to seeing the man's smile- to have Dane present anything less was almost unsettling. Dal had to consciously hold his gaze, else he would have broken and looked away.

"Look, Dane. Before I go, I just wanted to say thanks, for what you've done- takin' time out of your schedule to check up on my father. Means an awful lot you'd stick your neck out for a middle-class farmboy."

"Eh, don't mention it. Your father's a good man, behind all the gruff. You know, I never told you and I doubt your father did, either, but there were many a time that in the winter he'd purchase our firewood for us." Dal knew where this was going; Dane was probably trying to segue into a story, as he liked to try and "subtly" do.

"I mean no disrespect, Dane, but the caravan-"

"Easy, boy, there's a point to this. See, regardless of his attitude and mannerisms, those are the types of memories of him that'll stick with us. Think on that."

The two sat in silence as the conversations around them were dimming down to a low murmur; Dal's final breakfast in the walls of Arrvern was coming to a close. The tavern, Earl's Casque, had been depressingly empty the last week or so, but today Dal was happy to finally have some company with his breakfast- fried potatoes and pork sausage with a tomato, his staple since moving into the city. He dearly missed eating at home, on the farm, with their own ingredients, all gathered around their small table, but it was frankly pointless to dwell on those memories, especially now. Finally, Dane stood, retrieving Dal's saber and shield, silently clasping the wooden aegis to Dal's strap on his back and thrusting the sheathed blade into his hand.

"You say goodbye to your mother?"

"Of course. Just before I came here."

"Good. You'd best be goin'- you've never been one to be late, but that wouldn't be a hobby to start now."

Dal's heart swelled as he clasped the soldier's forearm as he did the same. With a smile and a knowing nod, Dalsarad pledged his thanks one final time before stepping out into the empty streets.

---

Dalsarad tugged on his travel cloak as he drew closer to the caravan. His cloak, which served little more than a glorified blanket or cape, as it had no hood, had once been a brilliant red color. Now, through age and general wear and tear, it was closer to a maroon. Dal thought of this as he glanced at a pleasant display of color among the different cloaks worn by the denizens of the caravan. They reminded him of the summer, when their farm was awash of different shades of red, green, brown, and orange.

Dal refocused himself, it seemed the caravan was reaching its ready point. Swallowing his anxiety and and reassuring himself by thinking of Dane's words, he positioned himself towards the back end of the caravan. Seemed he couldn't be afforded the luxury of a horse, as opposed to the young woman he stood next to- not that Dal particularly cared. He'd only ridden one a few times when he finished his work before his father, and was rewarded a moments rest atop a horse that hauled the bigger plow. Dal had never even touched one when they lived in Blue Lake or Rowanwood.

His gaze shifted from the horse to its rider- a girl likely younger than he, though Dal guessed he was probably one of the oldest to still be considered "youth". Her brown curls fell down to he shoulders and she wore a chaperon, shrouding most of her face. Dal gave a small smile and nodded, but said nothing. Wasn't even sure if she saw him, to be honest. The entire caravan was quieter than he expected, save for lowered chatter between small parties.

You will help protect them with your life. Dane's words resonated in his head.

Dal hefted his shield on his back and made sure his saber was secure against his hip; adjusted the small metal plates on the elbows of his jack.

"I will." Dal whispered to himself.

"Pardon me, did you say something?"

Elya turned her head slightly, to glance at Dalsarad. She had not noticed his earlier acknowledgment of her, as she was too busy brooding in her own way, too fixated on her own issues. His muttering whisper, however, incidentally caught her attention, no doubt due to her paranoid perspective. At first glance, the man looked only a few years older than she, but he carried himself as an adult might. Subconsciously, Elya took note of this, and straightened her posture a bit in response. One of her hands rested on the reins of her horse, the feel of worn leather comfortable in her hand, resting softly against her palm. The other hand tightly gripped the staff concealing Thorn, but the cool wood felt foreign in her clutch. She maintained a casual smile, though, as she tilted her head to see the man's face, while trying to keep her own as well concealed as possible.

The man seemed solemn to her, but then again, everyone now seemed to have a sober air about them. Saying goodbye, even temporarily, was enough to temper even the happiest spirit. Casting her gaze downward, she wondered why he did not have a horse, why he stood rather than rode, as to her, the concept of poverty limiting one's possessions did not even occur. Quite uneasy now, she let go of her staff and lowered her hood, and tossed her hair behind her. The thick brown curls, which were quickly becoming knotted and tangled, fell to her waist, as she adjusted herself to a more comfortable position.

"Were you addressing me, sir...? Please excuse my discourtesy, it has been a difficult day, I am a bit distracted."

Her smile turned apologetic, as she faced the man. She realized her speech patterns differed from most commoners, and made a mental note to make some effort to simplify her diction. Her mind wandered a bit, wondering who this man was, where he had come from. A commoner, clearly, based on his garb, but his profession was unclear to her. A stone mason, a bard, a drunkard, a farmer, all looked the same in her eyes- without the telltale signs of a sigil or the like, a marker of a distinct family and title, Elya realized she was absolutely clueless. Her smile fell slightly.

Her attention turned to a girl standing opposite her. Elya jumped slightly, having not noticed her approaching. Her grip on her reins tightened, as she realized that this girl was a southerner. Naturally, her gaze abruptly shifted to the girl's hair, which looked like fire in the light of the day. Realizing her mouth was slightly open, almost gaping rudely, she hesitantly offered the girl a small smile, still keeping an eye on the man in her peripheral vision.

"Y-yes, my lady, I prefer mares. I find they are much more reliable, even despite the occasional opposition or mood swing. You're from the wilds, aren't you!"

The last statement slipped out unintentionally, and Elya's hand flew up to cover her mouth, as she realized the rudeness of her tone and words alike. A flush came to her face, as she glanced back over to the man on the other side of her horse, then once more at the girl admiring the mare, unsure as to who she should apologize to first.

Some chattering started up around Gabby. It was the awkward sort you make with a stranger in a place you didn't precisely choose to be. Fitting, she thought to herself, glancing around the caravan. It's not where I want to be, either.

The young mage tugged some of her blonde hair away from her face, spotting an odd bit of movement out of the corner of her eye. A particularly shady looking individual with a shock of blonde hair so blonde it could have been white crawled into the back of the wagon full of... something. Great, she thought to herself. We've got thieves crawling into our luggage before we've even left home. My, how impressive our chances for survival are! With a heavy sigh, she hunched forward like a small, tired ape and marched around to the back of that cart, focus crystal clutched tightly in her left land. She'd at least make a good first impression on the caravan by stopping a bit of theft.

"Aaaalright," she began as she circled around to get a good look at the intruder. She struck the most intimidating figure someone her size could. "You're either not supposed to be here or you're supposed to be marching along with the rest oWHOA!" Gabby's eyes spread wide open as she saw the unlucky fellow. "Whoa. Someone really did not like your face, huh?"

Wow, so much for first impressions, Gabby, her brain snapped. You're great at this whole 'not making an ass out of yourself' thing. No, really!

Shutup, brain.

Gabby cleared her throat and gave the scarred, eyepatch wearing hooligan a more careful look. He definitely had that 'hardened criminal' sort of look about him, like he stabbed people for a living or enjoyed a casual knife-fight after a bad game of cards. His clothes hung loosely on him - Those weren't made for him, thought Gabriela - but his hands were very clean - Like he just washed the blood off them or something, she thought judgmentally. His face wasn't the sort that liked to smile, but Gabby understood that; what she was more concerned about at the moment was the prospect of this guy leaping off the cart to paint her face like Weld art: a bloody mess.

So, she had a spell ready to cover herself with a big, life-saving shield, just in case.

"So, uh, would you mind getting down from there?" she asked, clearing her throat again. "I have a club. Bang."

From beyond the wagon he could hear the beginnings of awkward conversations or, at the very least, attempts to make conversation. Askeladden had found a mildly comfortable place to sit. He now had almost enough room to wiggle his legs! Beneath him were the blankets, on one side some weapons, on the other food. Beneath the layers of clothing, the pelted cloak, the hood, the leather gloves and boots, something had to give or he'd have boiled alive. From the sounds of things, people were too distracted with what was going on outside of the wagons to notice their new stowaway, so he could probably get by without the hood. His fingers toyed with the string keeping the cloak tight enough around him the hood would not simply roll right off of him. It was made for broader men than him, but did a good job concealing just who or what exactly was beneath it. He liked that part of it a lot.

He froze at the sound of a voice that seemed to be directed toward him from the edge of the wagon, the blood immediately draining from his face. "Uh," he choked out, shivering like he once did when Thors entered the room with whatever he was going to be struck with today. She faltered when the hood fell from his face, giving her a display of his face in all of its glory. He also finally had a clear view of the owner of the voice. Once he looked down a bit. Is she supposed to be a child? No, much too rude... No. Not rude enough.

"Many people did not like it. You do not either," he said flatly, now staring at her, having difficulty disguising his fascination with her size. Askeladden instinctively reached up and adjusted his eye-patch, the rough leather edges of rubbing against his skin as it settled over his glassy eye. He tried to sit up more, wiggling his leg and scowling, before giving it a hard jerk, being greeted by the sound of tearing fabric and a dull pain in his calve. "I should be here, I think." He spoke slowly, unsure of every word he said, even the last two. He climbed out toward her and dropped down on his ass at the edge of the wagon, eyes fixated on her, watching her carefully, cautiously. His hands went to the strings of his cloak and fully undid them, the piece dropping onto the bed of the wagon. "I, uh.." He started, then stopped. You'll what? He thought to himself, suddenly grabbing his cloak and thrusting it out toward the tiny girl with eyes that oozed suspicion. "You don't have one. I can give you this if you let me stay."

He held the cloak out to her with trembling hands, his gaze lowering. "There is nowhere else to go," he muttered, "I don't want to leave."

Vitoria woke early that morning, wanting to say farewell to everyone before setting off for the city gates. She spoke with the patients one by one, trading advice and stories before she approached her family. Her younger brother would be going with her on the caravan, and he had already said his goodbyes to thier family the night before, he was still asleep by the time she'd have to wake him to leave on time.

Her parents kept their farewells short, they were busy with the patients, but that didn't keep her two older brothers from getting emotional and taking much longer to say goodbye. The eldest brother kept hugging her, not crying but showing such sadness that she thought him heartbroken, while the other occupied himself with shooting off memories that he hoped to never forget, and surprising her by giving her the bow they had made together for her all those years ago, so they could play games of marksmanship together.

I never could beat them for long... Vitoria held the hunting bow delicately as she had years ago. She had not used or even held the bow in years, preferring to learn how to wield a scalpel than to hit a far-off target. The whole ordeal had made Vitoria feel like she'd suddenly been forced underwater, and while neither of her brothers had cried she couldn't stop her tears. She cried and hugged them both tightly, unable to cease until she and her younger brother had finally set out, and in a bet to help her regain her composure her brother told jokes along the way.

By the time the two had reached the caravan they were laughing; she was no longer worried for those they were leaving behind but rather held a hope deep in her heart that she might see them again. It seemed that most everyone was already there that was going to be, so Vitoria settled her brother in one of the wagons that seemed to be holding most of the other children his age, and decided that she would walk alongside that wagon most of the way. There was quite the mix of interesting persons in the group, but what intrigued Vitoria the most was that there were only what seemed to be four real adults with them, and many of the older children have brought or been given weapons.

One of the adults, a seasoned fighter by his appearance, called out to someone after speaking to a youth dressed in armor. It seemed that the caravan was ready to move, and Vitoria found herself regretting her earlier decision to stay near the wagon that her brother was on. The children around her were mostly much younger than she was, not really great partners for conversation. There seemed to a group closer to her age talking near the back, and even though Vitoria wasn't very interested in talking to many people at once, she did consider going over to talk to them.

As she listened though, it didn't seem they were having a conversation as much add they were nervously trying to pick a topic. No, it's best to let that group sort itself out before adding another person to the mix. She would simply listen for now, and if she could not join their conversation them she may be able to speak to some one else once they were out of the city, that is assuming they'd have the time to talk then.

Emil watched as several others arrived- the majority of them young children, who were promptly loaded onto the refugee caravans. A number among them though were young adults, around his age, mostly gathering in the back, by a young woman riding a horse. Emil felt some sort of familiarity with the girl, though with her hood down Emil couldn't see much. Aside from that group, there were another few girls by the wagons- one leaned against it seemingly lost in her thoughts, while another was with what was probably a younger sibling. Emil's attention shifted as he noticed another rider approaching the caravan. The rider was an older man, wrapped in a deep blue cloak. Like the Sergeant, his face was gruff and his hair was gray.

"Sorry I'm late." The older rider called to the sergeant. The Sergeant gave a sigh that was either in exasperation, or relief.

Returning to the front of the Caravan, the gruff sergeant called out. "Alright, we're moving out!" and with that, the caravan carts started rolling.

Emil recalled seeing other youths and refugees scrambling to gather their belongings when he and his brother rode by earlier that day. Several of them were definitely not among the refugees that were currently loaded among the caravans. Looking around, Emil saw no other caravans preparing to be loaded either- the rest of the horses and supplies were travelling with this convoy. "What about stragglers?" Emil called out, projecting his voice so it would reach the front of the caravan. "I remember seeing other children on my way here."

"Leave them." the guard barked, his voice reaching the rest of the caravan. "Unless you want to get caught by the Varyans as well."

Emil frowned, reluctantly spurring his horse forward to keep up with the caravan carts. Because many of the guards and youths were walking, the pace of the caravan was fairly slow, to allow those on the ground to keep up with the Caravan- provided they were moving at a fairly brisk walk.

The older, gruff rider rode up to the group in the back. "Don't straggle. This is a refugee caravan, not a social club." Odran said with a rough growl. "If you haven't got a real weapon, make sure you get one of the guards to sort you out."

"You don't have one," the thuggish looking boy muttered, shoving his oversized cloak at the dwarfish young mage. His voice was shaky with nervousness - or fear? "I can give you this if you let me stay. There is nowhere else to go. I don't want to leave."

Sigh. Gabby didn't actually sigh, but her brain made that sound in her head. She eyed the offered cloak for a moment, then reached out to take it, feeling it over. It had certainly seen better days, and it would probably drag behind her unless she cut it... so she gave it back.

"Let's say you owe me a favor instead, hm?" Gabby said with a quirked eyebrow. "A favor is worth a bit of silence, I think. Of course, I doubt anyone will ask questions at all once we're on the road. Just try to be less..."

Less what? she wondered. Less frightening? Less shady? Less like a killer on the run? In truth, she wasn't sure what to make of the boy now. He still seemed the very picture of a criminal, but he was very afraid - and probably desperate - of that she was sure. Of course, such fright could make someone kill another...

"Less of a mess," the mage settled for, throwing her hand up into the air as she couldn't find the right phrase. "Look: if you pop out of the wagon now they'll assume you're a stowaway. If you jump out later, they might assume you're a thief, bandit or worse. You should walk alongside the caravan with everyone el--"

"Alright, we're moving out!" shouted the sergeant-or-whatever with the scruffy face. Gabby named him Grouch. The wagons started moving immediately.

"They certainly don't waste any time," Gabby grumbled, stepping away from the wagon. "Don't do anything stupid, alright? If anyone in this motley bunch of nobodies is going to be handy in a scuffle, you're likely to be one."

Mostly because you're probably a killer on the run, she thought to herself.

With the wagons moving, Gabby had to pick up her pace. It wasn't the sort of pace she liked; her short legs weren't built for striding. Still, it was better than being left behind...

She noticed another caravan guard - he seemed Grouch's equal in grouchiness - riding up to a trio of chatty individuals, snapping something to them about "not a social club." She took that as her cue to look very busy walking and glancing at the countryside. Yes, she was so busy and so very alert. Yes.

It was going to be a long day.

Corra straightened from her post against the wagons moments before they began to move. With a few shouts from the guards it seemed that they were now on their way. “And so it begins,” she muttered under her breath. She shook her head lightly, trying to clear it of her earlier thoughts, and began to walk alongside the caravan. Corra did not look back at the city they were leaving behind. Memories, she told herself. It’s all nothing but memories now.

She could tell that this was going to be a slow journey. Their entire company was comprised mostly of small children with a few old guards to look after them. She could already hear one of the younger ones sniffling quietly within the wagon she was next to. She spent the first few minutes thinking to herself, pondering the current situation, not that it did her any good. All she had was questions. She wondered how long this whole affair would last, if they had enough supplies for everyone there, how many of them would actually stand a chance of making it through a fight.

Corra had heard one of the guards talking of getting “real weapons” for anyone who could use one, but she thought it may be better to simply ignore it. She’d never held a spear in her life, and she doubted that she’d be of any real use with one. She had her dagger, and that would have to suffice. Anything else would just slow her down. At least the iron blade was in decent condition. She’d sharpened it just the day before.

She could hear the others striking up small, awkward sounding conversations around her. There seemed to be a few more refugees around her age than she had first expected. She glanced at each of them in turn. Talking wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Under normal circumstances she loved meeting strangers; they were always so interesting. Today however, she’d been feeling a bit depressed. The kind of morose feelings that you can’t help but express on the outside, and that wasn’t like her. Perhaps a conversation with an amusing person would put her back into her normal state, and all people were amusing in one way or another. She loved more than anything hearing about the places they’d come from, and the adventures they’d had. In the capital, one came across people from every corner of the world, and to a young girl who’d never been outside of the city’s limits, Corra grew to like the stories she found strangers willing to tell her very much.

Looking to her left, she found a good target. The blond young man rode a rather expensive looking horse, wearing rather expensive looking armor. He looked to be about her age, if perhaps a year or two older. He obviously came from some kind of money. Anyone who owned a horse and their own suit of armor had money to spare. Were they anywhere else Corra probably would’ve picked the boy’s pocket and made a few easy gold coins. Here, though, she wouldn’t. What Corra found so interesting was that despite their clearly different upbringings, in this caravan they were just two refugees. With that thought, she sidled up to his horse, easily maintaining the slow pace they all kept. Astride the beast he seemed to tower over her, and Corra was not extremely tall to begin with. However, if she let every single person who stood above her intimidate her, she’d never have lasted a single day in Arrvern. Besides, this one didn’t seem particularly intimidating. The boy looked young, and nervous.

“You don’t look like most common refugees,” she said, an easy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Pardon me, did you say something?"

A voice brought Dal out of his fatigued haze of thought- not that he was thinking of anything in particular. Dal got good at immersing himself in a sort of soupy haze just before travel, almost like a meditation, and it generally tended to make long trips a little easier, though it left Dalsarad anything but alert as to what was going around him.

Meeting the rider's gaze, he could only respond with a similar "What?" It was then that he realized the young rider looked slightly familiar; he had no idea why, just had one of those faces to Dal.

"Were you addressing me, sir...? Please excuse my discourtesy, it has been a difficult day, I am a bit distracted."

Before the young man could reply, the rider's head turned as she spoke to someone standing on the other side of the horse.

"Y-yes, my lady, I prefer mares. I find they are much more reliable, even despite the occasional opposition or mood swing. You're from the wilds, aren't you!"

"Aye – and you're Edessan, at least I think so. Never know these days."

Looking up and over the horse Dal caught sight of red hair and a pair of eyes that were looking back. Startled, Dal cast his gaze back at the horse.

"Name's Mhairi."

At first Dalsarad thought the reply came from the rider, but she had her hands over her mouth. Must be the name of the Weld, then.

"Dalsarad- feel free to call me Dal." He exclaimed, raising one arm as if Mhairi didn't already know he was there.

"Alright, we're moving out!" The order was distant, but clear and lough enough to hear. Dal's gaze was straight ahead of him as the carts started rolling. He ran a hand through his hair as he tried his best to zone out into the syrupy haze state of mind he was in moments ago. There was a Weld in the caravan? For some reason Dalsarad hadn't expected that. There was probably dozens, to be honest. Thankfully, Dal wasn't like his uncle- the way Dal saw it, people were people and unless he had a rational reason to dislike them, he didn't care where someone was from, what titles someone had, or the bloodline someone was birthed in. Not to say he didn't understand why his uncle was so paranoid of them- to be honest, Dal would probably be suspect if throngs of strangers had suddenly shown up at their farm and walked all over their land.

"Don't straggle. This is a refugee caravan, not a social club. If you haven't got a real weapon, make sure you get one of the guards to sort you out."

A gruff-looking man with an equally gruff voice was riding up towards Dal and the others. Must be one of the guards. He frowned at the veteran but understood the haste. The last thing they'd want would be to run into the Varyan army on the way out as they encircled the capital, as Dal figured they would try to do.

"I'm alright." replied Dalsarad, placing a hand on the hilt of his saber.

Dalsarad returned to looking straight ahead of him but didn't allow himself to zone out again; he wanted to socialize, regardless of what the guard said. He glanced back up and smiled at the rider-

"Said you'd had a difficult day- anything you'd wanna share with a simple farmboy?"

As they began moving at the command of the older man, Elya realized he must be the guard assigned to protect her. Much to her chagrin, the specified knight was not one of her favorites, as he was such an odd and gruff man. The sight of him brought a slight pout to her face, as she cast her gaze downward, to look at the worn leather saddle on which she sat. Odran was a very protective man, a very loyal man, but a very tiring man to be around for more than a few minutes at a time.

Giving Nimerya a soft nudge, the horse began to move, matching the pace of the rest of the caravan easily. Elya did not respond to either for a moment, trying to formulate a set of responses to both the farmboy and the southerner. After a bit of thought, she finally spoke, first addressing Mhairi. Her voice was soft and slow, as if she was building the sentence around and after each individual word- an architect with an obsession for perfectionism, despite the fact that she was unable to actually form a decent sentence.

"Yes, I- I'm from here. Edessan, yeah. Lea."

Trying to emulate their more casual speech patterns, she turned to her other side to glance back at Dalsarad. The pout on her face turned to a soft smile, though she did not quite meet his eyes, as if shy.

"Just Lea. I..."

Thoughts ran through her head, wondering what to say to the man. Boy? She could not decide- he was clearly a youth, but not a child, nor an adult, otherwise he would be off fighting. He seemed honest enough, but she never could tell with common folk, where their true intentions lay. She could not be honest to him, that was for sure, but she could not say nothing in response, for fear of inspiring further curiosity and therefore additional interrogation. Elya realized she had been silent for a moment too long, so she suddenly spoke, as if accidentally letting the words vomit out of her mouth.

"I'm just going to miss it here. I said a lot of- a lot of goodbyes today, and I'm afraid it's the last time I'll... You know."

Elya felt her smile trembling, so she relaxed the edges of her mouth into a more neutral expression. She looked up, straight ahead, at the rest of the caravan. Horses and carriages, adults and children alike, walked ahead of their little group in lines and clusters, disappearing into nothingness along the horizon. They seemed to her almost an illusion, a mirage- the last time she had seen so many people in the same place was several years ago, at the wedding of a great lord to the daughter of another. Citizens of noble and common birth both wandered ahead, seeking refuge in the same place, and that was both odd and amazing. The groups of people, clumped together in familiar sections, seemed to blur together like an artist's paint.

After a moment, she realized that the blurs were due to the tears welling up in her eyes. Nothing had yet fallen, so she tilted her head backwards a bit, and stared up at the sky. Once her eyes cleared, she managed a smile again, and looked ahead of herself again, to guide Nimerya a bit more accurately.

"So, where are you from, farmboy? What region?"

She sighed at his offer and immediately Askeladd began to question his offer. Was it not good enough? Would she turn him into the guards? Would she ask for him to become her slave? His mind raced with possibilities, his face likely turning palre by the moment, if that were even possible. He was so deprived of sunlight his entire life a few minutes in the sun usually was enough to give him a maddening sun burn. "Let's say you owe me a favor instead, hm?" The girl said, raising an eyebrow in a way that meant she had something in mind. He nodded, understanding the deal. It'd have to do the trick, though that favour could be absolutely anything. Anything was bad. But what other option did he have?

"A favor is worth a bit of silence, I think. Of course, I doubt anyone will ask questions at all once we're on the road. Just try to be less..." She went on, pausing. He stared at her, waiting for her to finish. He wasn't quite sure what she meant. Less like a slave? Damned if he tried to be anything else. He had no idea how to be a person whose existence wasn't dominated by another's. "Less of a mess," she concluded, throwing a hand as if she were sick of trying to find what to say. Askeladd didn't complain. "I'll try," he offered weakly. He would try, even if he had no idea what exactly she meant by that.

"What do I-" he tried to ask, getting cut off by her. "Look: if you pop out of the wagon now they'll assume you're a stowaway. If you jump out later, they might assume you're a thief, bandit or worse. You should walk alongside the caravan with everyone el--" She couldn't finish her own thought as the guard began to speak up and announce that they were going to move out. The corners of his lips rose by a hair at the news. At least they'd be less likely to throw him away now. At least, he hoped that'd be the case.

"Don't do anything stupid, alright? If anyone in this motley bunch of nobodies is going to be handy in a scuffle, you're likely to be one." the short one said before leaving the back of the wagon to walk along side it. His eyes turned to the now moving ground, a long sigh slipping out from between his pale cracked lips. Well, even if he didn't understand what she meant by being less of a mess, he understood what she meant when she said he'd be useful in a fight. It was probably the scars that made her see him that way. Whenever anyone saw them, they assumed he was either a criminal from birth or someone looking for a fight. That typically led to either people avoiding him or wanting to get into a brawl with him for the hell of it. Especially the drunkards at the Drunken Mare. One look at his face and half the inn wanted to throw a hairy fist his way.

Askeladden didn't bother to gather up his cloak and tucked it into the corner of the wagon mounting the edge of the it. He was hesitant to drop to the ground and walk along like the rest of the refugees. If I walk, the short one said they'd think I'm a run-away like them. She wouldn't lie to me for no reason, would she? Askeladd glanced around the caravan, trying to spot any guards that might be moving toward him. Beyond the girl that he was now in debt to, there was only a small group of three that he noticed near the back. They seemed far to invested in chatting to notice him.

"Here go," he muttered, closing his eyes as he hopped out of the back of the wagon, expecting the worst from his feet. Like landing on hot coals, the soles of his feet immediately burned with agony and he dropped to his knees. "Pigs tits," he hissed, clenching two handfuls of dirt before shoving himself up to his feet. He stood on shaky legs and the pain in his feet had only grown worse after he gave them a chance to rest. He grit his teeth and turned to jog after the wagon and catch up with the one who had talked to him. "Thank you," he managed out as he caught up to her, his breathing already heavy, though steadily slowing and becoming less strained.

"Askeladden," he said, as if she had asked for his name. "You can call me Askeladd, Ash, or Ladd for short. Others do. Easier that way. Thought you'd want to know since I'm in your debt now." He looked away from her, back toward the others who were talking amongst one another, hoping that they hadn't caught his fall. He stumbled and caught himself again, clenching his fist for a moment. It wasn't going to be easy to hide that he was in a dodgy state for the whole day. If he was lucky, maybe he could sneak into the supplies wagon again. He'd have to eventually to clean out his wounds and change the bandages. If this was what she meant by him looking like a mess, he was failing miserably at looking any better.

“You don’t look like most common refugees,”

Emil was drawn from his thoughts at the sound of the voice. Taking a quick check of his surroundings, he soon after realized that he had to look downwards to find the person who was speaking to him. It was a young woman, around his age with a rather pale complexion and dark brown hair. She was commenting on how abnormal he looked when compared to the others- which was admittedly true. He bore more arms than the average refugee, he probably knew how to use a weapon better than the average refugee, and he wore armor- which while not a full set of plate armor, was still more than the average child fleeing for his life.

At the same time, a quick look at the individual speaking to him marked her as something different from the assumed idea of a "common refugee". The confidence and ease in which she walked and the manner in which she spoke, to the dagger prominently shown sheathed to her hip. Nothing about this woman screamed "fleeing maid" or "former shopkeeper". No, she looked easily more traveled and used to hardship than the average citizen, but she was clearly not a soldier or a laborer. Which meant she had to be something else.

Her weapon was worn, but not heavily used, her stride was quick and easy, but not heavy like his or his brothers. Her dark clothes were well worn in, but functional and out of the way, and didn't match the regular clothes of any regular trade or profession- chef's wore aprons, and artists wore smocks, but this woman wore a dagger.

"I suppose you're right." Emil replied with a shrug, his armor making a small clink as the metal plates shifted against themselves. "I doubt I appear like the average refugee."

"But then again, neither do you." Emil countered, gesturing to her manner of dress and dagger. "Few refugees walk with such confidence and a blade strapped to their hip."

"I'm just going to miss it here. I said a lot of- a lot of goodbyes today, and I'm afraid it's the last time I'll... You know."

That's an understatement, thought the young farmer. Dal had thought himself hardened and ready earlier that morning after saying goodbyes to his father months ago, but thinking of his mother or even Dane right now made his heart pound a throng of sorrow, to say nothing of the tears that begat he and his mother before he left their capital home. And the goodbyes to his father weren't exactly "genuine", come to think of it. Thanks to guardsman Dane keeping a close eye on him and relaying the information to Dalsarad, it was almost like his father was still in his life; Dal at least knew he was still alive, at the very least. Then again, Dane could've been lying to spare the boy of any more anxiety.

But those thoughts were best saved for later; or even better, not at all.

Glancing back up at Lea, Dal found her staring up at the sky. Her eyes looked wet. It may have been from the early morning sun, but Dal figured it best not to prod any more. At least, not right now, when they were hardly away from the city.

"So, where are you from, farmboy? What region?"

Dal smiled and chuckled, "Believe it or not it's a bit of a complex answer for me." Dal paused a moment to pick a long grass stalk from the side of the road and started chewing on one end. A habit from his father, though he had done it to help him stop biting his lips. Dalsarad picked it up just because his father did it- stuck ever since.

"Most recently, just outside Arrvern. Before that, lived in central Edessa in a little place called Blue Lake- bet you can't guess why its called that. I fished there- haven't always been a farmhand. Before that, though, we lived in southern Edessa, in a tiny woodcutter village called Rowanwood. Closer to the Wilds, really."

He looked back up towards Lea.

"What about you? I mean, you said you're Edessan, but you an Arrvern native?"