Iron hung in the air like fog, clouding their vision, lungs, and hearts. Caliz was slumped against a wall, bleeding from his ribs and arm, his hand twitching in pain. He winced, grabbing at a bundle of herbs from a pouch in his pack, trying to remember the words of Itzel.

The party sidled carefully against the rock, Osa doing her damndest despite her long, snaky form not allowing for much in the way of sidling. Caliz motioned for them to hold off, snuck ahead, cracked the smaller double-doors, and peered inside. Inside the doors were, as the rough map stated, stables. Piles of hay flanked them, steeds rested in their little homes, and a large cage sat empty. Caliz assumed it used to contain guard animals of some kind. Dogs or something.

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.”

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.

“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.”