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.

“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.

Deep within the city of Nantambu, in the rain of the greatest school for the magically-inclined, ancient and impressive in its scope and structure, known everywhere as The Magaambya, a band of five brand new students met at a campfire in a pleasant glade. These five students, of wildly different backgrounds, homes, and personalities, were here to attend this magical school, all bound to be a Cohort, a group that would protect, help, and be there for each other.