Rhyle looked up at the fat, heavy storm clouds that had rolled in over Quarrymill. He’d been helping one of the hume residents repair a garden box in exchange for a few seedlings that he could practice his abilities on, and of course, now that the weatherproofing stain on the outside was curing, the sky threatened rain. Sighing, he joined the hume and helped her lift the thing without touching the outsides of the box so that they could carry it under the large awning at the side of the house.
“This weather’s been crazy the last few days, I tell ya,” she said, clucking her tongue with disappointment. “A bell ago? No sign of rain. Now? It’s almost spittin’ already! Good thing this thing’s at least halfway dry already; I’d have hated to still be staining it when the rain started.”
Rhyle’s ear closest to the hume swiveled toward her, and he must have been giving her a strange look, because she furrowed her brow in confusion after they set the box down on the ground.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Rhyle answered honestly giving her a little shrug as they began to walk back around the side of the house toward the front door. “I am just wondering whose spit you’re talking about.”
The hume blinked owlishly at him, and then snorted. “The sky, of course! When it’s just starting to rain, I call it spittin’! IT comes down a little at a time, in spurts, usually, like the sky’s goin’ PTOOEY!” She exaggerated a spitting motion, like she was aiming for a spitoon, and Rhyle just made a face.
“Ah. So as others say, sprinkling,” he clarified, and she bobbed her head in a nod, brown curls shifting over one shoulder.
“Sprinklin’. Spittin’. Same thing, justabouts.” After a moment’s pause, she opened the door to her garden shed and retrieved the three potted seedlings she’d promised him, all lined up on a little wooden tray for ease of carrying. “Well, here ya are, Rhyle. Payment as promised.”
He nodded and bade her a good evening, starting the walk back to his burrow with his prizes. He hadn’t made it a malm out of the village when the sky opened up and it started pouring, and he pulled the hood of his cloak up to cover his head and ears. He didn’t mind it, really; the smell was wonderful, and the sound of it hitting the leaves and the ground nearby was soothing. He’d never seen rain before he’d come here, and now he wondered how many words existed for it. Maybe he’d ask his friend next time he saw her.
It had been a while since Rhyle had visited Gridania, and as he stepped in through the gates, a familiar feeling of unease swept over him. It wasn’t as if he feared anyone here–not anymore, after having lived in the Shroud for some time–but rather that the things he did know about the place irked him more than they probably should. The prejudice here showed in the way its citizens regarded those of a certain persuasion, and though he was neither a forest-dwelling Mystel or the type of Elf known as a Duskwight, he was an outsider all the same, and that came with a fair few odd looks as he sidled down the path toward the Lancer’s guild.
He was used to being thought of as odd by now. Ever since he’d learned that he was from a different world altogether, he’d understood why he stuck out like a sore thumb, why he’d not been able to connect with the land like he’d been able to back home. He understood that he couldn’t form the closets of friendships, because he knew that eventually he would leave them behind when he figured out how to go back to his world.
Home. That place that was beginning to feel more and more foreign, even when he looked back upon his days as a protector of the forest. Though his worry for his homeland had never truly gone away, it had dissipated somewhat when he’d learned that a hero who had traveled there had dispersed the everlasting light and freed the whole of Norvrandt from its clutches. He had begun to forget the smaller details of the place and its people, though, and begun to forget what it felt like to belong to a place. It prickled his skin to think that perhaps this place was the place where he was supposed to be. But if that was so, why could he not connect to the land? Why was he so woefully out of place?
He’d wanted to meet this Warrior of Light that people had spoken about, but they were nowhere to be found. He’d tried to get into contact with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, only to learn that they had disbanded, and that anyone he’d have wanted to speak with was a continent and an ocean away. Given that most of them were native to this area, he suspected that all he had to do was wait for them to return. He could be patient when he wished, of course–any hunter worth their salt must be so–but waiting was a game that he did not like to play in situations like this.
Still, there were things that he needed to do before he left this world entirely, so waiting didn’t feel too bad. For starters, he needed to make sure that Little Flame was cared for. He had to ensure that the man who’d found him when he’d first arrived was compensated for his kindness. He had to defeat all of the burning foods in Radz-at-Han, like he had vowed to do, and return his den to its natural state.
When he walked into the Lancer’s Guild proper and saw a Raen man speaking with the Guildmaster, he stopped short, eyeing him up and down. He looked as out of place as Rhyle did, and the vii’s dark ears flicked, one after the other, as he considered the man. Ywain, the Hume Guildmaster, caught sight of Rhyle and smiled, beckoning him over. “Ah, Rhyle! I’ve that parcel you requested in my office. Let me go and get that for you.” The man turned and trotted off toward the back of the guildhouse, leaving Rhyle and the Raen alone.
“I do not see many Vieran men outside of the Wood,” the Raen said, and Rhyle looked him over once more.
“I do not see many of your kind here in Gridania,” Rhyle replied, careful to keep his expression deadpan.
The man grinned. “Oh, I am not here often, but I was looking for someone to spar while I was in the area.”
“Ah. And have you found a worthy partner?”
“I believe so,” the Raen said, giving Rhyle a critical eye that even he could not misunderstand as anything but appraising and inviting.
There was silence for a moment, and then Rhyle simply said, “You wish to spar with me.”
“If you would be amenable. I am told your kind are fierce warriors.” Raking his hands through his blonde hair, the Raen softened his smile into something a bit more hopeful.
He wore his desires on his face so clearly that it was refreshing to see; Rhyle was used to stoic warriors and Asana’s infuriating, confusing smiles. He considered for a moment before giving a light shrug and settling his pack against the wall.
“I see no reason why not.”
And so the two found space to square off, which became much larger once the recruits realized what was happening. The Raen came at him faster than expected, but Rhyle fended him off easily, and they began to go back and forth in earnest, Rhyle’s bladed staff meeting the other’s naginata with such speed that the weapons themselves blurred with each movement, and jarred painfully up the arms with each clash. Finally, Rhyle managed to disarm the Raen and toppled him onto his back, crouching over him with the tip of his staff pointed at his throat. The pair stared at each other for a good ten seconds before Rhyle spoke.
“Do you happen to like strong women? I know one who could claim victory over me in a fight.”
Asana was picky, but maybe he could fulfill that first task sooner rather than later.
Rhyle sat in a divot between two gigantic tree roots, leaning his shoulders back against one side of the little makeshift cavern as he watched the rain fall in gentle waves. He wasn’t too worried about getting wet; he’d had to climb to get here, and there wasn’t much more than a tickle of a breeze to blow the water around. His ears swiveled to face forward as he listened to the pitter-patter of raindrops on the leaves and branches and bushes. He hadn’t been particularly tired when he’d decided to take a bit of time to relax and listen to the rain, but as his eyelids drifted closed of their own accord, he thought that perhaps he’d underestimated the rain’s ability to soothe him, the gentle noises enough to lull him into a sort of calm that he’d never had back home.
It was there, in that strange space between dreams and reality, that he felt it.
The ancient beat of the heart of the forest, strong and enduring. It began as a faint compliment to his own heartbeat, slowly separating and becoming its own entity, growing louder and closer, until he felt as if by some small miracle he could reach out and trace his fingertips over its very essence. He wondered what it would feel like. Often, when he unfurled his power back home, it was akin to feeling the surface of the plant with which he communed–the knotted, gnarled bark of ancient trees, the velvety-soft petals of flowers and leaves. The prick of thorns, and the waxy smooth stems of other plants. Each one was unique, and each one sang to him its needs. It was why he had been allowed in his territory’s villages for reasons that had nothing to do with breeding. It had been so difficult, after all, to maintain food sources with the Sin Eaters at large, and more difficult still to grow their own in the everlasting Light that plagued them.
Thoughts of his old home left him as he felt something warm and rough and deeply grooved beneath his hand. It was almost startling, but he knew deep down that what he was feeling had reached for him as surely as he’d been trying to reach for it himself these past few days. He’d spent hours trying and trying, concentrating harder and harder as he’d done in the Greatwood. He hadn’t considered that to connect with the land here, he might have to let go.
What do you need? It was a question he typically forced into the space between himself and his plant companion. Now, he simply thought it, let it glide into the open space around him. The surface beneath his hand warmed a bit more in response, an echo of its voice curling around his chest like a contented cat in a warm lap.
Welcome, it said simply, as if he’d walked in through the front door of a house he’d been invited into.
Thank you, he responded, radiating his gratitude. That we can speak means more to me than you know.
We know, it echoed, and Rhyle’s fingertips twitched against the surface. We have heard you since you arrived. We have known your desires since they were born.
Rhyle took a deep, shaking breath as new sensations came. The leaves of a fern brushing against his wrists. Blades of grass tickling the soles of his feet. An old, knotted tree root slithering along his back, cradling him. Flower petals caressing his cheeks, and ivy crawling up his legs. And all the while, that old, rough tree-heart pressed lovingly into the palm of his hand, warm with the promise of summers long gone and summers to come. Of old growth and new, life and death and rebirth in an endless, beautiful cycle. And when he thought to laugh or cry for feeling this power all around him, he heard it speak again.
Heard them speak, in a cacophony of voices, some distant and some close enough to whisper in his ear.
We hear you.
We know you.
We welcome you.
We trust you.
Please play with us.
Please help us.
Please stay with us.
Please sing with us.
Rhyle startled awake with a gasp, surprised to find tears rolling down his cheeks. They fell from his chin, plopping wetly onto his lap. He dutifully wiped them away. The rain had stopped, and the sounds of forest life had returned in force, loud to his ears as he reacclimated to his surroundings. But there was no other voice to greet him, no warmth beneath his hand.
It had only been a dream.
Moving to stand, he planted a hand on the tree bark and got his feet beneath him. Standing was not possible in this tree bole, and he bumped his head near the top of it as he rose into a tall crouch, grunting grumpily. As he steadied himself against the side of the opening, preparing to climb back down, he felt something wriggle between his fingers and turned his silvery eyes toward that hand.
There, sprouting delicately from where he’d gripped the tree’s trunk, was a tiny bit of new growth. He let go of the tree, running his fingertips beneath the tiny leaf at the end of the stalk that had broken through the bark with a smile. “Well, hello, little one. I did not mean to nearly crush you.”
Hello, friend of the forest, it replied in a tiny voice.
Rhyle jerked back so hard he fell from the tree, landing squarely on his back. All of the air left his lungs, and as he gasped to recover it, he stared at the tiny thing on the side of the tree.
Are you hurt?
You’ve fallen on me! You are heavy!
Rhyle scrambled to his feet, and then crouched down to address a small fern he’d squished that was chastising him.
“I am sorry,” he said, and reached for it, offering his own essence as recompense. The fern rose from its flattened state, leaves rapidly repairing themselves. When it was done, it was just as it had been before, and he felt something else–an offering of essence from the tree he’d fallen from. An equal exchange. A gesture of thanks for offering of himself to repair his damage.
“Perhaps another time, my friend,” he answered aloud, giving the tree a friendly pat on one of its exposed roots before starting off toward his burrow. As he moved, he felt lighter than he’d ever felt in his life, as if a great weight that had been pinning him to the ground had been taken from him. He could have floated away right then and it would not have surprised him in the least.
Bringing a hand to his linkpearl, he activated it. It rang a few times in his ear before he heard a sleepy voice.
“Mmm… morning, Rhyle. It’s early…”
“Little Flame,” Rhyle replied, his voice edged with excitement. “I have something to show you.”
“Can it wait until I’ve woken up?” she asked, and Rhyle laughed softly at that.
“Of course, Asana. I have all the time in the world.”
The sun was setting in the Shroud, and Rhyle leaned against one of the roots of the monstrous tree he’d carved his burrow beneath, watching the shadows grow longer. It was his favorite time of day, and he’d taken to making it a habit of watching the forest go from day to night. It wasn’t a sight that he’d ever seen back home, and idly he wondered if his kin watched sunsets now, too. Were they as enamored with watching the darkness creep in on the Greatwood as he was in the Shroud? Did they gather together in the villages to watch the stars?
Sighing, he glanced down into the burrow, the encroaching darkness throwing everything within into shadow save for the lone lantern by his sleeping pallet. Asana had seen his little abode and commented that he had no proper bed, and no wonder he was cranky a lot because he probably slept very poorly. That thought brought a smile to his face. He was going to miss her when he was gone. He had been waffling between trying to get back home and simply making a new life here, and every day that he stayed was a day that he grew more reluctant to leave.
Movement in the undergrowth caught his eye, and he watched a squirrel burst from a bush, a fox in hot pursuit. The wildlife here was much less hostile than it had been back home, too, and he’d made a few friends here besides. It was more than he could say for the Greatwood, where his only purpose was to guard and to breed, and occasionally to grow things. He looked up to the sky again, contemplating, and then looked to the tree beside him.
Perhaps he would make a final decision based on the result of an experiment. Perhaps he would stay if he could feel something, anything, from this tree… If there was any inkling that he could recover his abilities here on this star.
Pulling off his gloves, he tucked them into his belt, and then laid a hand against the tree’s bark-encased root. Closing his silvery eyes, he tried to clear his mind of everything but the environment around him. He could feel the roughness of the bark beneath his palms, the slight breeze that tousled his hair and tickled the fur on his ears. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising with the incoming chill, and smelled the fresh night air. But try as he might, he couldn’t feel the life of this tree, or the power that thrummed through the land beneath his feet. He couldn’t feel the energy in the ivy that brushed against his shin. He stayed like that for a good ten minutes, just waiting and listening and feeling.
And there was nothing.
Finally, his eyes fluttered open. The sun had set, and the forest was quickly darkening, the trees becoming silhouettes that could easily be mistaken for treants swaying in the night. His heart sank as he turned to walk into his burrow.
Maybe he would give himself a moon to feel something. He couldn’t just make a final decision without trying a few things to reconnect with the land, right?
What the Wood wills, will be. It was a saying among the Viis that made their home in Rak’tika, and though Rhyle had long been separated from his home, something about this Black Shroud, as the local inhabitants called it, felt familiar. Oh, there were no ruins of an ancient Empire to protect, no serpent so great as to speak the will of the Wood, but there were ruins and people referred to elementals and bowed and scraped to them as if they were gods.
It felt familiar, and yet so foreign, and every new thing that Rhyle learned about this place had him wondering if he wanted to go home. He’d moved his burrow since the last time he’d seen poachers, moving further and further from their territory and closer to colder climes. He’d found a sizeable place beneath the roots of a massive tree to hole up in, and his collection of weapons had grown. He’d been observing the locals, too, and gleaning what he could of this world. Nobody seemed to know anything of Norvrandt, and it struck him as passing strange. They also called him something different—Viera. In fact, all of the races he’d heard spoken aloud were different. And with every passing difference he noted, with every storm he weathered or night sky he viewed, he had questions that troubled him.
What if I never find a way home? How did I end up here? Who can I trust?
The answer, of course, was always the same.
What the Wood wills, will be.
There was one person he’d met that had made an impression on him—an elf, dark with handsome features, who had hurt himself. Rhyle had treated him as best he knew how, but he had not seen hide nor hair of the man since. Unlike the folk he usually saw in the Shroud—simpler folk with simple minds—that elf seemed much more traveled. There was more potential for useful information.
Maybe I should find him again and pick his brain.
Well, it might be a good idea, if he could figure out where to look.
What the Wood wills, will be.
Rhyle bent over his map, finding the place where he’d last seen him. He would check this part of the Shroud first.
The dark-skinned Vii stumbled, disoriented and dizzy, from the mouth of the cave he’d just been hurled into. The harsh light that filtered through the trees had him squinting at first, long ears pricking warily. There was too much noise here. Too many cries of unfamiliar animals, too many foreign smells. Wriggling his nose, he slowly backed into the shadow of the cave, leaning against the wall for some measure of stability as his stomach made vague promises to empty its contents in the wrong direction.
Well, wasn’t this a predicament? All alone, not knowing where he was… or when he was going stumble into a Viis trap and make matters worse. He was, after all, largely unwelcome in those settlements; those were reserved for the women. Thinking about something else quelled the rising rebellion that his body was attempting to spark, and he slid down to sit, pressing his cheek to cool stone and breathing a soft sigh of relief. Where was he? One moment he’d been traveling through Il Mheg, and then...
Darkness. Some sort of blips of light whizzing by. Then he’d hit the ground and almost faceplanted in this dank, gloomy cave. Well, there were worse fates. He could have been a Sin Eater’s breakfast. He still might, if he wasn’t careful.
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the disparity between the light outside and the dimmer, shaded protection of the cave’s opening, he looked around again. Still too much sound; it was like the forest had come alive since his last foray beneath its boughs. And this did not look at a glance like any forest he knew. Quickly and quietly he stalked along the rocky wall outside the cave, reaching a hand down to his hip only to find that his belt knife was not there. Nor was the sharpened spike he kept nestled in his boot. He’d have to find something suitable to make a weapon with; it wouldn’t be the first time.
A voice that sounded too much like a woman’s sounded out just above the ambience of the forest and he froze, flattening himself against the nearest tree trunk. The bark bit into his back as he strained to listen, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then a second voice sounded, and that one sounded decidedly masculine. Curious, he leaned out from his spot to peer around the massive trunk and spotted a pair of elves conversing near a well-kept group of houses. One of them looked to be picking at a bush. He slipped closer, coming up flush against a low wall, crouching to remain hidden.
“… take ‘em to Gridania. Miounne will want one, for certain.”
What was a Gridania?
“Nobody says no to your pies, Amelie,” the male said. “I know I certainly wouldn’t. But it must be difficult to fulfill your orders this time of year, with the nights getting cooler. Pretty soon we’ll be seeing hoarfrost first thing and your berries’ll freeze.”
Nights? Cool? Hoarfrost?
The pair continued to converse about the temperature and seasons and how much time they lad left for a good harvest, and he couldn’t believe that the Sin Eaters weren’t the first thing on their minds. Maybe they just didn’t want to talk about it.
That was when the beast attacked. The sound pierced through the ambient noise like a cleaver through fresh meat. Kweh! The biggest bird thing he’d ever seen rounded the tree trunk, eyeing him like he was a particularly tasty-looking snack. He stared at it for a moment as it paced closer, forcing him back into the open. His attention shifted between the thing and the forest floor, silvery eyes darting this way and that in search of something to use as a makeshift weapon.
Kweh! Kweh! It reared upward, flapping wings that were too small for its body in a flurry of golden feathers.
“Dancer! What’s got you so riled up over there?” It was the male that had spoken, and though he heard footsteps coming his way he wasn’t going to make a gamble with any sudden movements in front of the man’s… companion? Guard bird? The beast settled, ruffling its coat of feathers for a moment before turning its head to regard the man… who in turn pulled an arrow from a quiver on his back and nocked it in the bow he’d been carrying. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more menacing. “You’re not here to steal my chocobo, I hope.”
“Chocobo?” The Vii looked confused. “No. No chocobo. Please do not shoot. I am lost.”
The elf raked his eyes up and down the Vii’s form, from the tips of his ears to his toes, and relaxed. “Your first time to the Shroud, I take it?”
“The Shroud?”
“Aye, the Black Shroud. That’s where we are.” The man put the arrow away, relaxing his stance. “Seen a lot of viera coming through here after the business with Ivalice,” the man continued. “You’re probably looking for Gridania. You need directions or an escort?”
Viera? Ivalice? The Vii ticked an ear before he sighed. “If Gridania has answers, then yes. I would like to go there.”
“Right. Well, I’m Vineroit. Your name is…?”
For a moment the Vii panicked. What did he tell him? He dared not speak his forest name, but he’d never taken another name before. “I, ahh…” What had he said earlier? What had his bird beast riled up? He glanced to the chocobo again. “Rile.”
“Good to meet you, Rile. Would you like a piece of rolanberry pie before we go?”
Late afternoon sunlight filtered down through the treetops of the Central Shroud. Though Rhyle had managed to secure himself a pair of short blades and a quarterstaff (which he’d promptly attached together), he still did not know how to get home, and every day he spent here was one fraught with danger, uncertainty, and loneliness. Oh, it wasn’t uncommon for him to be alone; in fact, it was something that he was well used to. Even that had its reprieves, though, usually in the form of an encounter with another male vii and the subsequent trading of information.
This, however, was the sort of alone that ate at a person. It was solitude in a strange, unknown place. Every stranger was a potential aggressor, every footfall one in a place he’d never been before. He was the one encroaching here. It was loneliness without the hope of reprieve. He wasn’t generally one to crave the attention of another, but right now he felt so vulnerable that he wished he had something to anchor him.
His ears swiveled upright when he heard a noise behind him and he stopped, tensing with his hand tight-knuckled around the staff. He listened, ready to whip around at a moment’s notice and skewer the threat, but when he turned his head and glanced sidelong to the trail behind him, he saw nothing. It had been like this all afternoon; jumping at strange noises, being more on edge than he might have been in familiar territory. Alone but not alone.
Once he was sure he was safe, he continued on his way. He had to find a place to bed down for the night. Tomorrow, he’d start his search in earnest for the way home... or at least more information about this strange place.
Rhyle had been skirting around them for days, and it was only a matter of time before the Redbelly poachers decided he was infringing upon their territory. He’d gotten his lance and his freedom days ago, and as reluctant as he’d been to do so, had established rapport with some of the Gridanians so that he could ply them for information when needed.
Tonight he sat in the small cave he’d found—barely more than a nook sheltered by the roots of a tree—and studied a large map by lantern-light. These were two things he’d picked up in the city just this afternoon, and as he traced his fingers along the border lines and geographical features he struggled to make sense of it all. Oh, he couldn’t read the script on the map, but it was clear just by the way things looked that these were not places he’d ever heard of. It was both puzzling and frustrating.
He found his mind wandering to other things as he looked the map over. He still wasn’t used to darkness ruling half the day, and people calling days, ‘suns’… it didn’t make sense where he was from. If he’d called a day a sun, he would never know when it rose or set because the Light had so suffused his home it was simply eternal. The way the bright orb in the sky was here… he’d never seen that at home.
It all happened so fast. His ears perked at the faintest sound of rustling inside, and he swiveled one toward the sound, freezing in place for the barest of moments before jumping backward just as a crossbow bolt flew right through the center of the map he’d been holding. Irritation lined his features as he glided alongside the wall of his makeshift burrow, grabbing up his bladed staff and quietly exiting through a secondary entrance. When he circled around, he saw that this particular poacher was alone, and it was all too easy to take him by surprise, disarm him, and wrestle his arms behind his back.
“That was a mistake,” he growled. “And now you will pay for it.”
When he made to approach the Redbelly camp, it was with the blade of his staff at his captive’s throat. “Who is your leader?” he called out, his teeth bared. The pair of lookouts jumped up and immediately rushed toward him, and he shoved his captive to the ground and planted his foot on top of him while he fought the others, one heel digging into the poor sod’s back. When he’d gotten the other two on the ground and groaning, he spoke again. “I do not want to hurt you, but if you keep attacking me I will. Now where is your leader?”
“Oy,” his captive grunted. “Go an’ get Splinter…”
One of the lookouts dragged himself to his feet and backed away. “I’m gettin’ ‘im.”
Rhyle didn’t let his captive up; in fact, he kept his staff point firmly pointed at the back of his neck, his eyes darting around as he tried to survey the darkness. They were not accustomed to such a lack of Light, but his ears had always been better. There were no others right now; he’d managed to find the pair furthest out from the camp.
When the lookout returned it was with six other leather-clad fighters, all looking as though they’d been roused from their sleep and they weren’t happy with it. Heading them up was a tall elf with a lance, clad almost entirely in chain mail. Rhyle pressed the tip of his staff into the back of his captive’s neck just to get the group to stop. “You’re outnumbered, bunny,” the elf said, his lips pressed into a firm line. “Give up your arm and surrender peacefully.”
“No,” Rhyle said. “Listen to me. This man came upon me in my camp and attempted to kill me. I have nothing of value to any of you. A map, which he ruined, a lantern, and this staff are my only possessions. I am not encroaching upon your business, I don’t care what you do, and I do not want to fight you, but I will if I must. I came here to tell you to leave me alone.”
One of the fighters, a Mystel girl with a bandana tucked around her ears, inched forward. The elf brought out a hand to stop her with a lazy smile on his lips. “We could kill you right now.”
“But you will not, because everyone out here has their own sense of honor, and the only harm I have done you and yours is a scuffle.” Rhyle kept his heel squarely on the man’s spine, the pressure on the man’s neck easing just a bit. “I am returning your man to you and kindly asking you to leave me alone while I figure out how to get myself home.”
The elf brought his hand to his chin and rubbed it as he thought on something or another. “All right. We will leave you be, but if we find you hunting for profit in our territory or otherwise interfering with our activity, we will not hesitate to bleed you dry.”
It was as much as Rhyle was hoping for. He took his foot off the man’s back and nudged him toward the rest of them, and one of the others came forward and started untying his hands. “Thank you. Rest assured, I do not plan on seeing you or any of yours again.”
“Watch your back,” the elf said, and then motioned to the others. “C’mon. Back we go; leave the bunny to her business.” Reluctantly, the group turned and walked off, his assailant in tow. He decided not to correct their misgendering, lest he push his luck.
After taking the long way to his temporary home, he picked up the crossbow that had been dropped outside and then descended into the burrow. “Hm. Compensation.”
