The forest was a tapestry of shadows and whispers, the trees standing like silent sentinels under the cloak of night. The only light came from a flickering campfire, its flames dancing and casting eerie shapes on the surrounding foliage. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the distant call of nocturnal creatures, creating a symphony of the wild.

Seated by the fire was an old man, his long grey beard flowing down to his chest, and his features obscured by the hood of a weathered cloak. His eyes, sharp and glinting with the wisdom of many winters, peered out from beneath the hood. In these lands, strangers were often met with suspicion, and the woods were no place for trust. Yet, tonight was different. The chill in the air was biting, and the warmth of the fire was a rare comfort.

The old man stirred a pot of soup heating over the fire, the aroma of herbs and vegetables mingling with the smoke, creating a tantalizing promise of warmth and sustenance. His hands, gnarled and weathered by time, moved with a practiced ease, revealing a life spent in the wilderness. The pot itself was a relic, blackened by countless meals prepared over open flames, each one a testament to survival and resilience.

As you approach, he looks up, his eyes reflecting the firelight. His voice, raspy and wheezy from age, carries the weight of countless journeys and untold stories.

“Welcome,” he says, his tone both inviting and cautious. “Come, sit by the fire. It’s colder than usual tonight, and better to share the warmth and some hot soup than face the darkness alone.”

The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks into the night sky, as the old man ladles some soup into a wooden bowl and offers it to you. The steam rises, carrying the rich scent of the broth, a small gesture of hospitality in a world where such kindness is rare. The forest around you seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for the stories that are about to unfold. The old man’s eyes, now softened by the fire’s glow, hint at a past filled with adventures and secrets, waiting to be shared with a willing listener.

It was a faint spark, at first, flickering in the distance. Bane did not trust his eyes, then, head lolling this way and that as he ambled his way through the woods, numb from drink. The night had found him in bad company - a woman with sweet eyes, swift hands and a venomous smile had made off with his last coin as he slumbered with her beneath a tree. Perhaps, the only reason his armor and sword remained was that it was difficult to run off with them, without making too much noise.

Eventually, as he drew closer, his nose told him that the light was fire, and with this fire came sustenance. The half-elf licked his lips in anticipation and pulled his hat down closer over his ears. Then, he made sure to approach loudly, to show that he was not approaching with ill intent. As the smell of food filled the air, Bane felt his stomach flip, still sour from liquor.

"Won't be here long," he began, his lips slow and cumbersome. "Just here to catch my breath." Not wishing to appear a worthless vagrant, Bane rooted about his pack and grimaced when he realized he had naught to offer. Even in his fatigue, he refrained from sitting upon the grass, and chose instead, to stand. Something about the old man reminded him about his father, and Bane despised how that made his chest tighten. He would have been about the same age, now. "I'll keep watch. You have... some nerve. Cooking up a storm, alone... when the wolves are howling for dinner."

Kneeling in a small dip created by tree roots was a silvery statue of a humanoid figure. It had to have been there for quite a while based off the feathers and sticks atop its head and the slightly dull sheen to the armor it wore, but upon closer inspection, this form was no mere statue. Instead, this was a stilled warrior, one at peace with the surroundings about her. That pile of sticks and feathers was no mere bird's nest, but a carefully crafted tapestry with cascading patterns and securing twine, interwoven natural art with a few small animal furs as the base. Her face was exposed, though she looked not upon the forest around her as the sun set. This somewhat wizened woman appeared to be meditating, or was a champion at sleeping while sitting up. Before her, lying in the patchy grass, was a sword and shield, similarly silver like her armor. However, the faded away markings of what appeared to be falling water was etched into the shield, and coiling strands of leaves on a wiry branch decorated the scabbard of her blade. They also seemed at peace with the forest, as if nature itself had given its permission for them to exist. Underneath those was a traveling pack, sheltered as if it needed protection from beyond its metallic guardians.

Nothing had disturbed this statuesque woman or her gear, or at least nothing of real consequence. The air grew colder as time passed, and the woman began to feel the sting of the chill inside her nostrils. There was something else there though, a different tickle to her senses as it was carried on the wind. At first it was hard to discern, the faint whispers almost hallucination, but the repetition of it broke the woman free from her state.

Her nose scrunched up a little, and she cleared her throat. Eyelids fluttered like awakened from a dream and crystalline blue eyes took in the night. She glanced about ahead of her, noting how different the trees seemed in this lighting. A roll of her shoulders helped awaken her body as she further took in her surroundings. That particular scent wasn't going away. With a stiff heave, the woman propped herself up and dusted her knees off. A quick stretch to the sky and a gathering of her items followed, then she stepped up and out of her small shelter.

Another scan of her surroundings finally pinpointed that source of the smell: a fire illuminated a small patch through the trees, and the scent of food began to accompany it. Verðandi's face slightly frowned. Who had the gall to announce their position so boldly? Whether this would be an experienced or amateur camp, it deserved investigation. In no particular rush, she picked her way towards the camp, her eyes battling the sudden changes of light and constantly adjusting from light to darkness. Even in her heavier gear, Verðandi was at home in her silver fortress, and barely made noise as she trekked towards the treeline. As she got closer, it was obvious this was no enemy, at least not yet, and a bumbling fool stood awkwardly with a bowl in hand just across the way.

"Stay your hand, stranger," She gave as a greeting and a warning, crossing into the borders of the camp with her hands resting upon the pommel of her blade on her right hip. Her voice was deeper than most, but calm and comforting, like the beloved village elder or baker. "I am no wolf."

The old man in the cloak gave his welcome, and she dipped her head in thanks. "My thanks, good sir." She accepted that offered bowl with her off hand and stepped aside, taking a position between the two men of the camp and sitting upon an old stump. She didn't remove that headdress as she brought that bowl to her senses, breathing in that meal. Her gut told her there was nothing to fear here, even among strangers found in the forest.

For many moons now Vale had found himself traveling without direction, his path unknown. The world had become a very dangerous and unkind place in recent times, and for a man such as himself it was already fairly dangerous. The new disturbance had made an already difficult life that much harder. Places where he’d usually gotten away with his usual tricks were experiencing heightened levels of scrutiny and vigilance that had made his attempts beyond risky. His last act had ended with him narrowly avoiding capture at the hands of a mob, regardless he’d had to leave the small hamlet behind him, likely for good.

Ever since he’d found himself endlessly on the move with no provisions, no home, and no real plan on what to do next. It was difficult enough, life as a dark elf, and his was a touch harder with no community to call his own. Briefly his heart panged for Glorenthil, or at least the memory of Glorenthil. The endless black of night gave way to low voices and the barest hint of light up ahead. Vale’s first instinct was to avoid it, turn slightly southward and circle about, but a low grumble and a sharp pain in his gut forced him to stay his initial instincts. Desperation drove him forward, but years of experience ensured that he still approached quietly, observing the occupants before deciding to approach further.

---

Only the most observant of the group might have noticed the signs that another presence was near. Silence reigned amongst the forest sentinels that stood in solemn watch around the flickering campfire where weary travelers had slowly begun to congregate. The creatures of the night had grown still, a sign that something was likely prowling nearby.

A voice, low and smooth, called out from somewhere amongst the shadows surrounding the camp, “Wolves are not the only undesirables one runs the risk of attracting on nights like these. The affairs of the world breed desperation in times like these.”

Slowly a masked and hooded figure materialized from the shadows with a practiced deliberation born from over half a century of slinking about the underworld. Every rustle of fabric, armor, and weaponry that announced his presence was purposeful, intentional, a way to make his presence known as he neared the edge of the firelight. Kneeling down with a bowed head he slowly lowered his hood and raised his eyes to those who had gathered. A fierce pride burned behind the eyes of the dark elf who knelt in the fires of the campfire. He would have this situation play out any other way if he could, that much might be noticed by the perceptive. But as he’d said before, desperation forced him to swallow that pride.

“Would you allow one such as myself to seek succor amongst the light of your fire?” the figure asked, betraying nothing of its inner turmoil other than the look one might catch in his eyes.

The forest was a sea of shadows, trees dancing with the wind beneath the pale moonlight.

Humming a faint tune, Cora moved steadily through the woodlands, pulling her fur lined cloak tighter as the cold snapped at her fingers. Leather gloves did little to lessen the unwelcome chill. Her expedition had been difficult. Her companions had abandoned her. Their courage had lasted only to the entryway of the passage leading to the third chamber of the crumbling ruin.

Little inside had survived the inevitable passage of time. She had recovered only one tome, an ancient treatise on herbal medicine written by the great sage, Hawise the Kind. To the right buyer, it would be worth a generous weight of coin. The book now traveled safely, wrapped in a waterproofed leather, and tucked safely in the hidden pocket of Cora’s traveling pack.

Cora’s pace had slowed with darkness. She had many leagues left to travel. Weariness had taken hold in her muscles. She had not expected the freezing cold. The eternal autumn seldom brought such weather. An hour, perhaps two, she had promised herself, and then she would rest for the night. She felt the cold iron of the wind biting every measure of her exposed skin, gnawing tirelessly at her bones.

She stumbled. She stumbled and then firelight caught her eyes. She heard voices and smelled food, simmering welcomingly over bright flames. Words reached Cora as she walked closer. Dark shadows became people. Four strangers sat around the fire. A graybeard, commanding over the food and fire. An imposing man, a sentry sat watchfully, clad in armor, and bearing a sword. A silvery woman, no less proud, adorned for battle, and wearing a forested crown. And a final stranger, cloaked in layers of fabric, and wearing a mask that brought to mind some beast of the wilds.

“Kindness on the road, is a light in places dark, and places cold,” Cora said, approaching unafraid. The lilt of her voice, soft and floating, was filled with warmth, dignified in the way that the nobility from Mythralis or Odoncester often spoke. Her hood fell back as she strode into the full light of the campfire, revealing a welcoming smile and long hair tousled and touched by the freshly disturbed dust gathered over the centuries.

Showing a carefully cultivated sense of restraint, Cora moved slowly, kindly curtsying as she took the bowl of steaming soup that the old man offered her. Taking a seat close to the fire, she retrieved a small vial from her traveling pack. Uncorking the vial, Cora sprinkled a splash of dried powder onto her soup.

“Many thanks, good sir, it shames me that I have no great gift to give in return. However, these spices are yours to use, if you please.”

“And yours as well,” Cora added, nodding in turn at the gathered strangers. She placed the re-corked vial further away from her, making her intentions plain.

“Vayl, a spice from the far kingdom of Lerone. Alas, it is a rarity in our realm in this age. It is sweet, with a smokey flavor. Learned masters of medicine say that it is an aid to the process of digestion. However, I must confess, I simply find the taste pleasing,” she explained with a small laugh.

Sipping politely at her soup with a spoon hastily withdrawn from her pocket, the young woman sighed happily. She felt restored. New warmth coursed through her, soothing the dull aches that she felt in her limbs. Curiosity played at her thoughts, tugging gently at her desire to know, always to know more.

“Forgive me, for I have neglected to observe the old rites and rituals expected of a trustworthy traveler. You must have my name. You must know my profession. I am Cora, Cora Bennett. Cora the Scholar they call me. I am a purveyor of books, particularly rare books, and a provider of all services related to the written word should you require it. Well met!”

The old man observed each traveler as they gathered around his modest campfire, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on their faces. Though it wasn’t much, he made a concerted effort to ensure that everyone, save those who declined, received some nourishment. The aroma of a simple stew wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of burning wood. He couldn’t help but notice the peculiar assembly that had formed. The trader appeared to be of little concern to him, at least in the eyes of the others. The presence of a Dark Elf and a woman clearly hailing from the North was something that might have raised his eyebrow, had it not been precisely what he anticipated on this particular night.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Please, feel free to stay here for as long as you require,” the old man rasped, his voice strained as if the mere act of speaking demanded more effort than he could muster. “It’s been a long while since I’ve had such an unusual company in my midst, but you are all welcome.” His smile was subtle, discernible only by the slight lift at the corners of his beard.

He tilted his head back, allowing the campfire’s glow to illuminate more of his weathered face as he gazed up at the night sky. The stars twinkled like distant memories, and the moon cast a silvery light over the clearing. The surrounding forest was a dark silhouette, the trees standing like silent sentinels. “This night is only just beginning, it seems. Pray tell, who are you all and what brings you to my fire this eve?” He looked around, nodding gently at each of them.

“Now,” the old man spoke as he leaned forward, adding another log to the fire, which crackled and sent sparks dancing into the night sky. “Let us share our stories. For it is through our tales that we find common ground and perhaps, a way forward.” The warmth of the fire contrasted with the cool night air, creating a cocoon of comfort around the group.

He settled back into his seat, his eyes reflecting the firelight. The night deepened, and as the fire burned brighter, the old man’s heart warmed not just by the fire, but by the forming among these unlikely companions. The sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, distant owl calls, and the occasional snap of a twig—provided a natural symphony that underscored their gathering.

Bane watched the newcomers with bleary eyes. There was nothing more they could take from him aside from his life; there was no village near that would accept his cursed armor for trade, either. It was safe, here, in the bleakest way. Somehow, that filled the guard with comfort, enough to share of himself, first. Not all of himself, but just enough.

"I was stolen from," said Bane. He stared at the spice offered and decided to go without, feeling unworthy of such finery. Then, his eyes met the young scholar's gaze, meaningful in its sternness. She ought to keep her valuables and her primness to herself, unless she was certain she was among friends. There were those who would cut her down for less. Unable to stop the old habits of a nobleman's guard, he continued, still keeping his focus on her. "Ma'am... you must be cautious. Generosity does not always bode well." He refrained from the finer details on his thief, however. It was a bawdy tale, though the marks on his neck left an unspoken explanation. Unsolicited advice given, he then continued with some reluctance, particularly as he felt the hooded figure's eyes on him. Bane felt his ears burn with shame from beneath his helm as he realized how relieved he was to be able to hide his own true nature.

"I am nobody," said the man, his voice as worn as his greaves. "But you may call me Bane." While Cora might have had to explain her skills and knowledge to a potentially ignorant and illiterate crowd, the guard's armor and arms spoke for him. "Mercenary for hire, on most days. Tonight, just a vagrant, sharing a kind stranger's fire."

His head turned to watch the warrior opposite him, her features and her headdress betraying experience and wisdom with both the fight and the wilds. There was a peace about her that he envied, one that he chased after, but could never find. The closest he could get was the bottom of the bottle, but it never lasted, and it always led him to trouble. Would tonight be different?

"I hail from Riffolk. But like many others... it is long gone, now."

To this end, no further details were offered, and once more, the guard's face returned to its stolid, thoughtful state.

Verđandi watched as the others approached, taking in their presence with a neutral and perhaps slightly curious eye. The dark elf was not as she expected, and indeed out of the ordinary for the reputation his kind had, but she could respect his forwardness. The woman, Cora as she introduced herself, was a refreshing contrast to the reserved demeanor of the others. Verđandi found herself cracking a slight smile at the woman, the corner of her mouth turning up a bit. She saw something within Cora, a reminder of times of old...

When Bane spoke, her eyes drifted to him, his warning of generosity negating that smile into that slight frown once more. Verđandi held her tongue for now, allowing Bane to tell his short but straightforward tale. Those worn eyes took a lock to her, and Verđandi felt the invisible passing of the torch as he finished up.

"Even vagrants need respite. In a time so dark, I am warmed to see such generosity offered." Verđandi had no bite to her tone, no nitpicking regarding Bane's advice. She took a few steps to bring her bowl to the offered vial, similarly depositing some vayl to her soup. "My name is Verđandi. I serve no master or patron, and hail from the northlands." She stepped back from the vial, stirring the spice into her meal. "I fight for my stolen land, for my people, and for a life taken by the darkness." She paused for a moment, a sadness creasing her face for a moment, as if in a memory. That low emotion didn't last long though, and that resounding peace surrounding her returned as she glanced about the others. "That is a goal we all share, no? A path to ensure our future is intact, wherever it may lead?" Her gentle eyes lingered upon the dark elf a little longer than the others, noting the order of which they arrived, but she soon stepped back to her place at the stump, that calm aura still lingering about her.

The smile and cheerful continence that Cora held dimmed as her new companions shared their tales of loss. She was pleased that the serene swordswoman had accepted her gift. The finer things in life, the small pleasures such as rare spices, brought far greater joy when shared well with others. She had not lost her home. She had not lost her family. But she had seen enough in her travels. She had heard the mourning cries. The growing darkness was unmistakable. And suffering was never far away.

"Verđandi", Cora said, testing the name judiciously with her tongue. She had always had a gift for languages. For maps and names. The northern tongues had always been of great interest to her. "Your words are wise…and good! I am no fighter, this all can plainly see, but I seek to preserve this world. I save what was, not mere words or writings, but knowledge, so that someone can perhaps live to see what will be. What can be."

Harmless as he was, as she spoke about her lofty ambitions, of the knowledge she sought to recover, Cora seemed suddenly shrouded in flames. A roaring conflagration fueled by her fervor, that burned brighter than the modest fire in front of her. For a moment, she seemed to tower far above her modest form. And then she laughed, at herself more than any other, dispelling the illusion…leaving only a young woman huddling in the cold.

Putting down her now empty bowl of soup, Cora nodded to the fearsome mercenary with a gracious look of amusement that betrayed no notice of the amorous marks adorning his neck, "And your words, Bane, your words are wise as well. Forgive me for my lack of caution. My teachers always said that the passions of my heart too often outpaced the deliberations of my mind. Unfortunately, it would seem that I have not yet managed to break this unwelcome habit."

"I am brought here, to this place and this moment, by my own rashness, perhaps," Cora said, a flush of embarrassment, subtle red, apparent on her cheeks. "I came searching for an old ruin, a famed monastery, rich in history, and once a place of great learning. I found it, of course, but my escorts proved to be the unreliable sort, and abandoned me early in our explorations muttering something about curses. Having no wish to depart empty handed I delayed my departure for some days until my work could be completed. Unprepared as I was for this sudden spell of cold weather, I was most grateful to stumble upon all of you and this most welcome fire!"

Pausing to draw a deep breath, Cora buried a nervous laugh in her hands, shifting uncomfortably to readjust her traveling pack with sudden urgency, Forgive me...I fear I have may have said too much...

Finding her own nervousness impossible to avoid and wishing for no awkward silence, Cora desperately searched to shift the conversation. Unconvinced on the merits of pestering a masked man with pointed questions, she turned instead to their host, the old grizzled man who had doled out soup with endless generosity.

"Who are you kind, sir? To greet strangers with such kindness on a chill night such as this? Surely, you too must have a name and a story of your own?" Cora said, a charitable smile playing over her lips.

The old man glanced up from the fire, his amber eyes reflecting the flickering flames. He offered a gentle smile, his voice soft yet full of warmth.

"Ah, my dear, I am but a humble wanderer, much like yourselves." He paused, his brow furrowing in thought. For a moment, his eyes seemed distant, lost in the echoes of countless years.

"My name... my name is Edrion," he said slowly, as if the word had taken a moment to resurface from the depths of his memory. "Yes, Edrion." A smile crept across his face, the memory of his name bringing a small, quiet joy.

"But truly, I am just a man who has wandered these woods for longer than I care to remember. The trees and stars have been my only companions for many a year." He waved a hand dismissively, as if his own story were of little importance compared to those gathered around the fire.

The night deepened, wrapping the group in a cocoon of darkness and the warmth of the campfire. The forest around them was alive with nocturnal sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant calls of owls, and the occasional snap of a twig. The firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the travelers’ faces, creating a sense of intimacy and shared purpose. The scent of burning wood and the subtle aroma of the simple stew simmering over the fire combined to create a comforting atmosphere amidst the dense, shadowy trees.

Edrion cleared his throat gently. "You know, my home lies just beyond these woods, on the edge of a tranquil meadow. It is a humble place, but it has served me well for many years. If you would accompany me, I would be honored to offer you shelter and perhaps a more comfortable rest. The journey is not far."

He looked around the group, his amber eyes warm and inviting, the firelight dancing in their depths. The offer was extended with genuine kindness, and a hint of eagerness at the prospect of sharing his sanctuary with new companions. The firelight illuminated the lines etched into his weathered face, telling silent tales of a life filled with countless journeys and unseen battles. The warmth of the campfire contrasted with the cool night air, making the gathering feel like a protected enclave amidst the vast, shadowy forest.