Caliz sat on the log beside the fire while one of the Nojern he’d forgotten the name of wound bandages around his shoulder. His armor and shirt were cast aside, leaving him in nothing but the tightly-wound cloth around his chest. Everyone at the camp was polite enough to not ask about it. “I told you it wouldn’t work.”

Our Cohort awoke upon their first Moonday in the Magaambya, safe within the thick stone walls of the Spire Dormitory, with the pattering rain against their windows and ceiling, and all met in the common area, decorated with colored tessellated tiles, comfy couches, and tapestries.

The carriage rumbled down the path past our party of three, the driver headed to drop their belongings at the guild hall and ask for backup, while the rest walked to Akala’s camp. It was small, a collection of tents with a fire in the trees, and a Nojern woman stood to watch them approach.

A long day at work. A hard day. Sohn was up her ass. A promotion was brewing, so things were getting uncomfortable between the two. One of them would be a Team Manager soon, and Londyn was getting desperate. She was sick of merc wrangling. Thankless work that didn’t pay well enough. But hey, she got a house out of it. A nicer one than most of the merc wranglers, on account of her brother Lito.

“Lost.” Caliz tore his eyes from the scenery to look at his companion pointedly. He hadn’t been in Vol’Tyr since he was quite young, and had never been on this side of the continent. The trees and fresh growth had captured his many eyes for quite a while before Osa distracted him. “We’re not lost. We’re on a bleeding path.”

Some call me Kannoran. Others, Dral’gathach. Others still, Bassant. I don’t belong here. That statement sticks with me wherever I go. No matter my place of rest, I don’t belong. I never have. I never will. I’ve come to terms with this. I don’t belong here.